Miki Kiyoshi 1897–1945 Brill’S Japanese Studies Library

Miki Kiyoshi 1897–1945 Brill’s Japanese Studies Library

Edited by Joshua Mostow (Managing Editor) Chris Goto-Jones Caroline Rose Kate Wildman-Nakai

VOLUME 32 Miki Kiyoshi 1897–1945

Japan’s Itinerant Philosopher

By Susan C. Townsend

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009 Cover illustration: bronze plaque on Miki Kiyoshi’s memorial monument in Tatsuno Park, Tatsuno, Hyogo Prefecture, Japan. Photo taken by Paul Bracken.

Th is book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Townsend, Susan C. Miki Kiyoshi, 1897–1945 : Japan’s itinerant philosopher / by Susan C. Townsend. p. cm. — (Brill’s Japanese studies library, ISSN 0925-6512 ; v. 32) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17582-2 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Miki, Kiyoshi, 1897–1945. 2. Philosophers—Japan—Biography. I. Title. II. Series.

B5244.M544T68 2009 181’.12—dc22 2009009618

ISSN 0925-6512 ISBN 978 90 04 17582 2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to Th e Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands For Paul, gift ed pianist, singer and scholar, with love

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ...... ix

Introduction Notes on a life ...... 1

PART ONE

WANDERINGS THROUGH THE WORLD OF BOOKS

Chapter One Given up to Nature and to books ...... 21

Chapter Two Wanderings in the wood of human knowledge ...... 49

Chapter Th ree Wanderings in the springtime of life ...... 79

Chapter Four Miki’s Wanderjahre ...... 115

PART TWO

WANDERINGS THROUGH THE WORLD OF THOUGHT

Chapter Five A study of man: Late 1925 to Early 1932 ...... 143

Chapter Six A study of man in crisis: Late 1932–1935 ...... 179

Chapter Seven A study of man in action: 1936–1940 ...... 209

Aft erword: Notes on a death ...... 241

Bibliography ...... 253

Index ...... 265

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Although this book is dedicated to my husband Paul, it is also a memorial to friends and relatives lost in the last few years. First of all, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the late Mino Masahiro who so kindly sent me, out of the blue, Miki Kiyoshi’s nineteen-volume Complete Works. I also acknowledge the kindness of his widow Michiyo. Th is book is also a ‘monument’ in words to my grandmother Kathleen “Daisy” Griffi n and stepfather Len McDonald who both died in spring, 2006. I was delighted when my widowed mother Margaret, who had never fl own further than Jersey before, was able to go to Japan with me in April 2008 and share my love of that country and its people, at her expense I might add. Th is book was initially vaguely conceived as a sequel to my monograph on Yanaihara Tadao which was subtitled “Redeeming Empire”. It was to be subtitled “Idealising Empire” and set out to investigate Japanese ideas about a civilizing mission in Asia. However, Miki Kiyoshi presented such an interesting challenge to understanding what motivates a person, especially in contrast to Yanaihara, that I ended up writing an intellectual biography. I wish to thank, therefore, the British Acad- emy for funding me on the basis of my initial proposal and hope that they won’t be too disappointed with a rather diff erent outcome and the long wait. My British Academy Post-doctoral Fellowship was taken at the Faculty of Oriental Studies, Cambridge (1996–99) and once again I extend my gratitude to Stephen Large. I also wish to thank Anne Lonsdale who has just retired from what was then New Hall and is now Murray Edwards College, Cambridge for her continued support and encouragement in my career. Other much needed funding came from the Arts and Humanities Research Board (AHRB) Research Leave Scheme in 2003. I would also like to acknowledge the continued support and friendship of Gordon Daniels, Ian Kershaw, Beverley Eaton and Helen Grindley in Sheffi eld. My research was fi nally completed with the aid of a visiting professorship to Nagoya City University in 2004–5 and I am immensely grateful to Saho Matsumoto and Anthony Best for extending an invitation and welcoming me (and my husband Paul) to that wonderful city. x acknowledgements

Also in Nagoya I wish to thank Hiroaki Ishikawa, Tsuchiya Masahiko, Kato Itsumi and all the staff who made our stay so pleasurable. Special thanks to Rumi and her customers at Yakuzen restaurant where every Wednesday Paul played jazz on the piano. Th anks must also go to my dear friend Kei Imai who treated us to a memorable lunch in Tokyo during our stay at International House. In Tokyo I was very pleased to be able meet and talk with Uchida Hiroshi, who had just published his biography of Miki. I am grateful also to Shoji Muramoto for his advice about translating Miki’s poetry. I owe another huge debt to Christopher Goto-Jones for his intellectual generosity and our many conversations about Miki and the Kyoto School. In particular, he organised a workshop in Leiden in November 2006 to discuss an article on Miki and the Showa Research Association which helped me enormously. Th anks also to Richard Calichman and all those who attended and contributed to the discussion and to Rikki Kersten and Nozomi Goto for their hospitality during my several visits to Leiden. I found the key to unlocking Miki’s personality, however, in the library of Nagoya City University when I came across, quite by accident, Dan McAdams’ Power, Intimacy and the Life Story: Personological Inquiries into Identity. I am immensely grateful to him for reading through the manuscript and recommending a better balance between history and psychology (more history and less psychology) which greatly improved the book. Th anks also to Pat Bracken for help with the French sources and to Elaine Wilson for proof reading and commenting on an earlier manuscript. I am grateful to Albert Hoff städt of E. J. Brill for waiting so patiently for the fi nal draft and to the anonymous reader for his (or her) kind comments. Here in Nottingham, thanks are due to my special subject students who, over the years, have coped with my enthusiasm for various “dead Japanese philosophers” by rising to the challenge and enriching my experience of teaching. To my colleagues, Mathilde von Bulow, Sheryl- lynne Haggerty and Liudmyla Sharipova, a heartfelt thanks for their friendship and support, oft en in the wine bar. Finally, love and thanks to my husband Paul Bracken, for the lovely photographs of Miki’s monument used in this book, and for his “nit- picking editorial skills” which improved the standard of the manuscript immeasurably. INTRODUCTION

NOTES ON A LIFE

According to my notion, he who would write a book does well to think a good deal about the subject on which he would write. Neither would he do ill to form acquaintance, so far as possible, with what has previously been written on the same subject. Søren Kierkegaard Th e Concept of Dread Giving an accurate account of my past life is important and whether or not I commit it to paper is, aft er all, a subordinate concern. It is not so much that I expect to do a good job, but that I prepare correctly for it. Nor is it about arriving at an end result, but rather it is about setting out on the path to a solution. Miki Kiyoshi Th e Unspoken Philosophy On 28 December 2004 I walked with my husband through Tatsuno Koen, a memorial park in Hyogo Prefecture dedicated to celebrat- ing the achievements of some of Japan’s modern literary fi gures. We were searching for the monument to Miki Kiyoshi and this was, by sheer coincidence, the 108th anniversary of his birth. We had been misdirected by the taxi driver to the monument of another Miki, Miki Rofu (189–1964) a well-known poet, on the other side of the park, but eventually we found Kiyoshi’s memorial situated high on the hillside beside a quiet mountain path. On a rise above the little collection of stones and plaques is a granite obelisk engraved with the words ‘Miki Kiyoshi’s Philosophical Monument’ (Miki Kiyoshi no tetsugakuhi). As we cleared away the debris of leaves and twigs to read the various inscriptions commissioned by local citizens in 1964, I refl ected on the forgetfulness of the taxi driver, the loneliness of the mountain side and the signs of benign neglect surrounding the site. It seemed to me on that bleak winter day that these things spoke most eloquently of the waxing and waning of Miki Kiyoshi’s reputation in the post-war period. A wooden notice placed at the foot of the steps leading to the monument informs us that Kiyoshi was born in Kogami, near what is now Issai-mura on 5 January 1987.1 However, although this is the date

1 Th e village of Issai-mura was formerly known as Hirai-mura. “Nempyō” (Chrono- logical Record) in Miki Kiyoshi Zenshū (Th e complete works of Miki Kiyoshi) ed. 2 introduction

recorded in the family register, his actual date of birth was 28 December 1896.2 Th e hillside on which we stood overlooks the broad valley of the Iho River where Miki spent his childhood and youth. He attended Tatsuno Junior High School which is just over the river from the park. In those days the area was considerably more rural and isolated than it appears today. A bronze relief on a rectangular stone slab at the foot of a semi- circular head-stone provides a few more details about his life and the following translation will serve here as a brief biographical overview: He was born in Issai-mura, Kogami. Aft er graduating from Tatsuno Junior High School and the First Higher School, he entered Kyoto Imperial University, to follow Nishida Kitarō and study philosophy. In 1920 he graduated from the university. In 1922 he studied abroad in Germany, learning from Rickert and Heidegger. He associated with Japanese social scientists who were then studying in Germany. In 1925 he returned and

Ōuchi Hyōe et al. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1966–8), XIX, 853, hereaft er cited as MKZ followed by the volume number. A later version of the Complete Works containing some additional material was published by Iwanami Shoten in 1985–6 in 20 volumes. Th e version used throughout this book is the 1966–8 version unless otherwise stated. 2 MKZ, XIX, 853. notes on a life 3

became a lecturer at the Th ird Higher School. In the following year, he published A Study of Man in Pascal. In 1927 he became a professor at Hōsei University and moved to Tokyo. From this year, while also teaching, his publications and lectures led to him being proclaimed as a new, progressive philosopher. Many young students gravitated towards him. In 1930 he was arrested for violation of the Peace Preservation Law, but although he was later released on probation, he resigned from his teaching post. Aft er this, Miki Kiyoshi was not able to take up further academic posts. In 1937, with the outbreak of the incident between Japan and China, a period of darkness gradually engulfed Japan. However, Miki Kiyoshi continued to engage in research without extinguishing the light of his conscience as a scholar, and carried out a wide range of writing activities. As a philosopher, Miki Kiyoshi’s achievement lay in liberating philosophy from the narrow confi nes of academia and linking it to the current aff airs of the time. His works in all their diversity are gathered together in the sixteen-volume Selected Works of Miki Kiyoshi which was published posthumously. In March 1945 he was arrested again and detained in the police station and Toyotama Detention Centre. Th us imprisoned, he witnessed the end of the war but was not released and died from an illness in the Detention Centre on 26 September. It was a life of forty-eight years and eight months. It is understood that the Peace Preservation Law was abolished as a result of Miki Kiyoshi’s death in prison. For devoting his life to the investigation of truth, and especially to honour Miki Kiyoshi who has infl uenced our realm of ideas so deeply, we erect this monument.3 To the right of this plaque there is a square grey stone with another inscription in white lettering on black granite. It is an extract from Miki’s well-known and perhaps best-loved work Notes on Life (Jinseiron nōto). Th is book of what might be termed ‘popular philosophy’ was originally published in serialised form between June 1939 and October 1941 and was republished in 1947 when it instantly became a best-seller.4 Th e extract is from a section entitled “On Anger” and it refl ects on the character of man in a time of crisis: Today everyone is talking about love. Does anyone talk critically about anger? Th at we have forgotten the meaning of anger and talk only about love is a sign of the characterless nature of man in the present day. I think earnestly of martyrs. What is a martyr? It is someone who has known anger.

3 MKZ, XIX, 888–9. 4 Reprinted in MKZ, 1, 193–361. 4 introduction

It is clear that Miki was respected as a scholar and regarded as a man of conscience or even a martyr. However, he was revered not only as a philosopher, but also as a poet. To the left of Miki’s ‘philosophical’ monument is a semi-circular head-stone to which is attached a bronze relief bust of Miki and, on the lower left of the stone, a tanka (thirty-one syllable poem) also in bronze relief, which he wrote on his graduation from Kyoto Imperial University in 1920. Th is is described as his ‘poetical monument’. Th e full signifi cance of this tanka will be discussed in detail later, but what should be noted here is the emerging complexity of Miki’s identity, in particular, the apparent need to erect two monu- ments, one to Miki the philosopher and another to Miki the poet.

Miki in the historiographical debates

A pamphlet published recently by Kasumijōkan, the museum in Tat- suno Koen, does little to dispel this untarnished view of a local hero.5 Th e appalling circumstances of his death make it easy to understand why Miki is viewed as something of a martyr. Indeed, John Dower has stated that Miki, together with the Marxist Kawakami Hajime and the communist Ozaki Hotsumi who also suff ered imprisonment, was held up as an exemplar of those who embodied qualities of independent thought and personal autonomy which appeared admirable in a country where most people had caved in completely, in many cases enthusiastically, to the authoritarian state.6 Moreover, the link between Miki’s death as a political prisoner and the hastened introduction of a civil liberties bill during the Occupation period led to a generally affi rmative view of Miki’s life and works in the immediate aft ermath of the war. Th is view generally still prevails in Japan and is represented by some of the most recently published

5 Kasumijōkan dayori 39 (1 January 2005). Th e museum also houses some of Miki’s original manuscripts. 6 John Dower, Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Aft ermath of World War II (London & New York: Allen Lane, Penguin Press, 1999), 190–1. notes on a life 5 intellectual biographies of Miki by, for example, Akamatsu Tsunehiro (1994)7 and Uchida Hiroshi (2004).8 However, Miki’s actual position vis-à-vis the state was not as black and white as the engraving on his monument suggests. In the late 1970s and early 1980s criticism of Miki arose from outside Japan to challenge this dominant affi rmative narrative. As the complexity of the debates surrounding Miki and some of his colleagues has grown it has become much more diffi cult to locate the man and his philosophy within the intellectual and political climate of his times. However, historians in the West, for example, Christopher Goto-Jones and Kevin Doak, while oft en critical of Miki, have also recognised his importance in theorising both Marxism in the late 1920s and ‘cooperativism’ (kyōdōshugi) in the late 1930s.9 Indeed, Harry Harootunian, while severely criticising Miki’s thought as “fascistic,” argued that Miki’s analysis of Marx “was the most originally forceful analysis of the current situation of Japa- nese capitalist society at the time.”10 Moreover, in the new millennium Miki’s thought is recognised as important in a number of unexpected quarters. His theory of techné (gijutsu), particularly as expressed in Th e Logic of the Imagination (Kōsōryoku no ronri, 1937–43),11 for example, has been cited recently in contexts such as the study of technology in

7 Miki Kiyoshi: Tetsugakuteki shisaku no kiseki (Miki Kiyoshi: Tracking his philosophical thought), (Kyoto: Minerva, 1994). 8 Miki Kiyoshi: koseisha no kōsōryoku (Miki Kiyoshi: Th e imagination of an individual), (Tokyo: Ochanomizu shobo, 2004). Machiguchi Tetsuo’s Teikoku no keijijōgaku: Miki Kiyoshi no rekishi tetsugaku (Th e metaphysics of empire: Miki Kiyoshi’s historical philosophy), (Tokyo: Sakuhinsha, 2004) is a somewhat quirky, but generally affi rmative analysis. 9 See Christopher Goto-Jones, “Th e Left hand of darkness: Forging a political Left in interwar Japan,” in Th e Left in the Shaping of Japanese Democracy: Essays in honour of J. A. A. Stockwin, ed. Rikki Kersten and David Williams (Abingdon, Oxon.: Routledge, 2006) 3–20, and Political Philosophy in Japan: Nishida, the Kyoto School and Co-prosperity (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2005); Kevin M. Doak, “Under the Banner of the New Science: History, Science, and the Problem of Particularity in Early Twentieth-Century Japan,” Philosophy East and West 48:2 (April 1998): 232–256. 10 Harry Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), 366. 11 Miki began work on a theory of techné in 1937. “Gijutsu—Kōsōryoku no Ronri ni tsuite” (techné—on the logic of the imagination), was published in three parts in the journal Shisō in February, March and May 1938 and as the third chapter of Volume One of Kōsōryoku no Ronri in July, 1939. Another version of the theory formed part of an Iwanami lecture series on ethics in 1941 and was published as Gijutsu tetsugaku (the philosophy of techné) in 1942. Th e latter parts of Kōsōryoku no Ronri, published posthumously as Volume Two in June 1946, continued to be serialised in Shisō until July 1943. All Miki’s essays on techné are reprinted in MKZ, VIII. 6 introduction relation to women and water supply in the Th ird World and new ideas about the interface between technology, patients and professionals in nursing education.12 In addition, Japanese historians such as Iwasaki Minoru have acknowledged the special quality of Miki’s philosophical contribution to both the pre- and post-war debate on ‘active subjectivity’ (shutaisai).13 So, to a lesser extent, has Victor Koschmann in his study of subjectivity in post-war Japan.14 On the other hand, as a student of both Nishida Kitarō (1870–1945) and Tanabe Hajime (1885–1962), Miki inhabits the margins of the heated debate surrounding the so-called ‘Kyoto School of Philosophy’ in recent years.15 Scholars, particularly in North America, characterise Miki as a tenkōsha (political and/or ideological recanter) who collaborated with the authorities in disseminating the ideology of fascism and imperialism in the late 1930s. Historians here have focussed on Miki’s involvement in Prime Minister Konoe Fumimaro’s ‘think-tank,’ the Shōwa Research Association (Shōwa kenkyūkai) in 1938–9, when he acted as chair of the Cultural Problems Committee (bunka mondai iinkai).16 Graham Parkes has criticised the bias or “political correctness”

12 For example Kimura Chiyoko, “Miki tetsugaku-ron: kango kyoiku ni okeru ningen rikai no tame ni” (A Consideration of Miki Kiyoshi’s Philosophy of ‘Imagination’: For a Better Understanding of Human Nature from a Viewpoint of Nursing Education) Nihon daigaku daigakuin sōgō shakai jōhō kenkyūkai kiyō 4 (2003): 355–367. Also Arisaka Yoko, “Women Carrying Water: At the Crossroads of Technology and Critical Th eory,” http://www.arisaka.org/newcriticaltheory.pdf (accessed 24 April 2007), 1. 13 Iwasaki Minoru, “Desire for a Poietic Metasubject: Miki Kiyoshi’s Technol- ogy Th eory,” in Total War and Modernisation, ed. Yamanouchi Yasushi and Victor Koschman (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell, 1998), 174. For a defi nition of shutaisei in the post-war context see J. Victor Koschmann “Th e Debate on Subjectivity in Postwar Japan: Foundations of Modernism as a Political Critique,” Pacifi c Aff airs 54:4 (Winter 1981–1982): 609–631. 14 See Revolution and Subjectivity in Postwar Japan (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 140–2. 15 Perhaps the greatest divide is between Harry Harootunian and David Williams. Relevant articles by David Williams are: “In Defence of the Kyoto School: Refl ections on philosophy, the Pacifi c War and the making of a post-White world,”Japan Forum 12:2 (2000): 143–156; “Modernity, Harootunian and the demands of scholarship,” Japan Forum 15:1 (2003): 147–162, and his book Defending Japan’s Pacifi c War: Th e Kyoto School philosophers and post-White power (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004). John C. Maraldo’s review article, “Th e War Over the Kyoto School,” Monumenta Nipponica 61:3 (Autumn 2006): 375–406, sensibly suggests moving beyond mere attempts to save the reputations of Kyoto school philosophers in favour of detailing their contributions to contemporary debates in political theory and international relations. 16 For example: James B. Crowley, “Intellectuals as visionaries of the New Asian Order: A reappraisal of the prewar intellectuals,” in Dilemmas of Growth in Prewar Japan, ed. J. W. Morley (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1971): 319–373 notes on a life 7 of these narrowly-based studies.17 More recently Christopher Goto- Jones has reasserted the superiority of academic rigour over ideological persuasion in his study of Nishida’s politics basing his interpretation of the Kyoto school and its associates, including Miki Kiyoshi, on a more balanced and analytical approach.18 Indeed, he has classifi ed both Miki and his friend Tosaka Jun as Kyoto “rebels” and the most outspoken critics of Nishida’s thought before the Pacifi c War.19 Th ese topical debates will be dealt with in more detail in the appropriate chapters.

Sources and Methodology

R. Pannikar in the “Foreword” to Yusa Michiko’s intellectual biography of Nishida Kitarō stated that: An intellectual biography is neither a mere historical account of the events of one particular person, more or less interesting as they might be, nor is it merely one more chapter in the history of ideas describing the more or less logical connection of one person’s thought to ideas prevalent at a particular time and place. It is more demanding than that, and also more important. To be sure, the intellect expresses itself in ideas, and biography is concerned with the facts of a person’s life. But an intellectual biography seeks to approach ideas as living entities incarnated in a living person. Th e connections are not only logical but also vital. A philosopher not only has ideas and writes about them; he lives.20 For Miki, the connection between philosophy and life went even deeper. In response to critics who accused him of tenkō in the early 1930s, he stated “I constantly strive to walk the path of my own philosophy.”21 He believed that not only does a philosopher have ideas he lives them. Th is biography, therefore, begins from the standpoint of Miki’s life and personality. Th e splitting of his identity into the poet and the

and William Miles Fletcher III, Th e Search for a New Order: Intellectuals and Fascism in Prewar Japan (Chapel Hill: North Carolina University Press, 1982). 17 See “Th e putative fascism of the Kyoto School and the Political Correctness of the Modern Academy,” Philosophy East and West 47:3 (July, 1997): 305–336. 18 Political Philosophy in Japan: Nishida, the Kyoto School and Co-prosperity (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2005). 19 Ibid., 104. 20 R. Pannikar, foreword to Yusa Michiko, Zen & Philosophy: An Intellectual Biog- raphy of Nishida Kitarō (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2002), vii. 21 “Marukusushugi tetsugaku nitsuite” (On Marxist philosophy), MKZ, XVIII, 100. 8 introduction

philosopher evident in his memorial encapsulates a central thesis of this book: that his philosophy as well as his journalism can best be understood as manifestations of a struggle to reconcile two fundamental aspects of his personality, and that this splitting of the self is evident in the autobiographical record as well as Miki’s oeuvre. Methodologically, therefore, this book draws on a model of narrative interpretation employed by personality psychologists who insist that there is an intimate connection between autobiographical memory and constructions of self.22 One of the most infl uential is Dan P. McAdams who defi nes personality psychology as the“ scientifi c study of the whole person.”23 In the 1980s, he began to develop ideas emerging among personality psychologists about the importance of narrative in human lives and formulated what is termed a “life-story model of identity.”24 Particularly relevant to the reading of Miki’s autobiographical sources is the identifi cation of so-called imagoes and anti-imagoes. According to McAdams our life stories are populated by characters, some of which may dominate the life story and become personifi ed. Th ese idealised personifi cations or imagoes may be accompanied by an opposite and perhaps antagonistic personifi cation known as an anti-imago. Psycho- logical development aims at reconciling these opposites.25 I argue that a philosopher/sage imago is easily identifi able in Miki’s autobiographical writing and that it is accompanied by a bohemian/poet anti-imago. Furthermore, Miki’s sometimes unsuccessful attempts to reconcile these two sides of his personality, manifested in many of his philosophical treatises and commentaries on public aff airs, helps to explain his motivation in joining the Shōwa Research Association in 1937–8. However, the major problem confronting any would-be biographer of Miki is that the autobiographical record for key periods of his life is patchy. Th e sub-title of this biography, Japan’s Itinerant Philosopher, was suggested by what might be termed Miki’s ‘offi cial’ autobiography

22 See for example, Martin A. Conway and Christopher W. Pleydell-Pearce, “Th e Construction of Autobiographical Memories in the Self-Memory System,” Psychological Review 107:2 (2000): 261–288. 23 Dan P. McAdams, “What Psychobiographers Might Learn,” in Handbook of Psy- chobiography, ed. William Todd Schultz (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 64. (McAdams’ italics). 24 Dan P. McAdams, Jack J. Bauer and April R. Sakaeda, et al. “Continuity and Change in the life Story: A Longitudinal Study of Autobiographical Memories in Emerging Adulthood,” Journal of Personality 74:5 (October 2006): 1372. 25 Dan P. McAdams, Power, Intimacy and the Life Story: Personological Inquiries into Identity (New York and London: Guilford Press, 1988), 178–180. notes on a life 9

Wanderings through the World of Books (Dokusho henreki) which was originally published in seven instalments in the literary magazine Bungei from June 1941 until January 1942.26 At the time he was around forty-four years old. How Miki chose to describe his life is highly signifi cant since, as in novels, a number of universal action sequences are also observable in life-stories. Th e psychologist L. Elsbree devised a taxonomy of generic plots which include sequences such as establishing or consecrating a home; engaging in a contest or fi ghting a battle; enduring suff ering and pursuing consummation. McAdams, in a survey involving fi ft y mid-life men and women found that forty-two percent of his subjects described their lives in terms of making a journey, making this the most popular mode of emplotment.27 In Japan also the theme of travelling is very popular in story-telling, for example, Yukawa Hideki’s (1907–1981) Ryojin (Traveller, 1958). Similarly, numerous autobiographies feature the theme of ‘walking a road’ or ‘following a way’ in their titles, for example, Kindaichi Kyōsuke’s (1882–1971) Watashi no aruitekita michi (Th e road I have walked, 1968) and Arahata Kanson’s (1887–1981) Hitosuji no michi (Th e straight road, 1954). Such titles are oft en found in the autobiographies of Japanese Christians or those such as Arahata who had strong political beliefs. For example, Yanaihara Tadao (1893–1961), the Christian political scientist well-known for his resistance to militarism in the 1930s and 40s, also chose the title Watakushi no ayundekita michi (Th e road I have walked, 1958). eseTh titles suggest a life’s journey governed by strong beliefs or codes which keep the individual on a predestined path or way. Miki himself, at the age of twenty, wrote a series of autobiographical poems, Ayumikishi michi subtitled in English “New wine must be put into new bottles.”28 As well as ‘road’ or ‘path’, michi (道) also means ‘a way of doing’ or ‘an approach to life’ and the ideals of morality and duty that this implies; for example it comprises the dō of bushidō (武士道) ‘the way of the warrior’, meaning in this context ‘code of conduct.’ However, Miki chose to describe his life story as henreki from the characters hen (編) meaning to edit or compile and reki (歴) which means the passing of time; a history or a continuum. Henreki also means to make a journey or to travel, but has strong connotations of

26 Reprinted in MKZ, I, 369–432. 27 Ibid., 20. 28 Reprinted in MKZ, XIX, 53–61. 10 introduction pilgrimage and, in a lesser sense, of itinerancy. It refers as much to a psychological or spiritual journey as to a physical one, which diff eren- tiates it from ryokō meaning more simply to make a physical journey. Th e culmination of Wanderings through the World of Books is a physical tour of Europe as well as a psychological, philosophical and spiritual journey through life. It is perhaps no coincidence that Goethe’s Wil- helm Meisters Wanderjahre (Wilhelm Meister’s Year of Travel, 1821), which Miki enjoyed reading as a young man, is rendered in Japanese as Maisutā no henreki jidai. Th e connotation of wandering rather than following a road or path, which by defi nition would tend to be narrower and straighter, was perhaps a conscious or unconscious affi rmation of Miki’s deep distrust of religious and political dogma and his defence of the mutability of thought and belief—an attitude judged by some as courageous and by others as tenkō. However, this account of his childhood, adolescence and early adulthood ends suddenly with his return from a three-year study tour of Europe in the autumn of 1925. The most revealing autobiographical source in terms of his psychological state is Miki’s posthumously-published confessional essay Th e Unspoken Philosophy (Katararezaru tetsugaku) which was written in 1919 when he was on the point of graduating from Kyoto Imperial University. Other accounts are more fragmentary and include “Th e Springtime of my Life” (Waga seishun, 1942),29 a short, nostalgic account of his student days providing details about Miki’s relationship with Nishida which is further explored in a number of other short essays. Th ere are a few surviving letters, mostly written during his time as an overseas student between 1922 and 1925, but the majority of his diary entries have been lost or, maybe, destroyed. Th e biographer is left with several autobiographical poems and a very moving essay “For the Children” (Osanakimono no tame ni) which was written in 1937 for a small collection of pieces entitled “Shadow without a Shadow” (Kagenaki kage) to honour his fi rst wife who died the previous year.30 Th ese latter sources provide rare insights into Miki’s emotional state during the late 1930s in a way in which his (no doubt carefully scripted) Wanderings through the World of Books does not. Despite these shortcomings his offi cial autobiography and Th e Unspoken Philosophy are nevertheless valued

29 Reprinted in MKZ, I, 363–8. 30 MKZ, XIX, 109–125. notes on a life 11 by Japanese scholars for their broadly representative insights into the Taishō generation’s31 response to modernity, particularly in terms of reading and readership.32 However, apart from one or two brief diary entries, none of these sources refer directly to the controversial events of the late 1930s when Miki apparently ‘sold out’ to the Shōwa Research Association. Th e psychobiographer Alan C. Elms refers to such an omission from the autobiographical record as “the Sherlock Holmes rule” suggesting that “sometimes we should ask more questions when a dog doesn’t bark than when it does.”33 Moreover, what autobiographical sources we have for Miki remain largely unexplored in the West, perhaps because none have been translated into English. Not only is this the fi rst biography of Miki Kiyoshi in the English language but it is unique in bringing together a variety of autobiographical sources and other fragments in order to provide concrete evidence for establishing Miki’s frame of mind and motivation at key points in his life. In particular, Th e Unspoken Philosophy is an unexplored mine of information about the psychological impact of Miki’s one-sided encounter with the Western literary and philosophical canons. Other data, such as the letters written during his European studies, have been examined briefl y by Yusa Michiko,34 but these too provide additional and previously untapped evidence here, as do the all-too-rare published diary entries for the months from January 1935 until July 1937. Unfortunately, his private papers kept in Hōsei University were not, at the time of writing, available for consultation. Th e fi rst part of this biography, from Chapter One to Chapter Four, is entitled ‘Wanderings through the world of books’ since it focuses on Miki’s intellectual development seen primarily through the prism of his offi cial, published autobiography. Th e psychologist James Olney wrote that an autobiography “is more than a history of the past and more than a book currently circulating in the world; it is also, intentionally

31 By ‘Taishō generation’ I mean those born around the 1890s whose intellectual development matured during the Taishō period. 32 For a broader study into reading and readership during this time and the insights provided by Miki’s autobiographies see Susan C. Townsend “Lost in a World of Books: Reading and Identity in Pre-War Japan,” Literature Compass 4:4 (2007): 1183–1207. 33 Alan C. Elms, Uncovering Lives: Th e Uneasy Alliance of Biography and Psychology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 246. 34 See “Philosophy and Infl ation: Miki Kiyoshi in Weimar Germany 1922–1924,” Monumenta Nipponica 53:1 (Spring, 1998): 45–71. 12 introduction or not, a monument of the self as it is becoming, a metaphor of the self at the summary moment of composition.”35 Wanderings through the World of Books is Miki’s ‘monument of the self’: it is how he would like to have been remembered. However, Th e Unspoken Philosophy reveals a very diff erent sense of self which acts as a counter to Miki’s portrayal of ‘self-as-philosopher’. I aim to begin the rehabilitation of Miki Kiyoshi the man by examining the available evidence more closely and analysing the way in which his concrete life experiences infl uenced his early development. Even in the Japanese literature it is notable that Matsumaru Hisao, for example, in his re-issue of Karaki Junzō’s 1947 biography of Miki, edited out the fi rst one-hundred pages of the original, the section entitled “Hito” (the man), and skipped straight to the part entitled “Tetsugaku” (Philosophy). Th e time-span dealt with in Part I is that suggested by Wanderings through the World of Books, from Miki’s earliest childhood memories of reading to his studies in Paris in 1925. Part II, from Chapter Five to Chapter Seven, is entitled “Wanderings through the world of thought” (Shisō henreki) and examines Miki’s career from his return to Japan in autumn 1925 until 1940 when his career was at its height in terms of his infl uence in the public sphere. Shisō henreki is another common autobiographical theme which, again, suggests itinerancy. Miki’s philosophy was, indeed, exceptionally pro- lifi c, wide-ranging, varied and occasionally original. Yet his importance as a journalist, editor and commentator on public aff airs has remained shrouded in the mists of debates in the West about the “putative” fascism of Japanese intellectuals during the 1930s and 40s. Th e aim here is to move the focus away from narrowly-conceived research (which is overwhelmingly coloured by his brief spell in the Shōwa Research Association between 1937 and 1940) and to highlight Miki’s central importance as a kind of Japanese Boethius (c. 480–524), acting not in this case as a conduit between the traditions of ancient Greece and the Latin-based scholasticism of medieval Europe, but between the intellectual and cultural traditions of modern Europe and the Chinese-based traditions of Japan. Under conditions prevailing within Japan at the time, however, he was only able to act as a one-way conduit running from West to East.

35 James Olney, Metaphors of self: Th e meaning of autobiography (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1972), 35. notes on a life 13

Given the morass of competing infl uences described in Part I, it is enormously diffi cult systematically to trace or categorise Miki’s thought. Much of his early work represented developments or syntheses based on Nishida’s philosophy, and his experiences in Germany and France oft en merely deepened his interest in and knowledge of aspects of Western philosophy he was already familiar with. However, early biographers such as Satō Nobue and Karaki Junzō have stressed Miki’s successful emergence from Nishida’s shadow as a philosopher in his own right by demonstrating an independent world-view which informed his philosophy and journalism. Other biographers, such as Miyagawa Tōru, sought to classify his works according to philosophical genre and, in the 1980s, Akamatsu Tsunehiro suggested that Miki’s thought went beyond the intellectual dept to Nishida, Heidegger and Marx. Uchida Hiroshi’s recent intellectual biography represents the most comprehensive and sophisticated attempt to categorise Miki’s works thematically while also recognising his various roles as academic philosopher, journalist, editor, social critic and commentator on public aff airs. In contrast to many previous studies of Miki’s thought, my approach in Part II is more grounded in the biographical data and is chronological in format, beginning with Miki’s return from Europe and ending with the zenith of his infl uence in 1940. His declining infl uence and literal and fi gurative exile from 1941 (when he was sent to serve in a military propaganda department in the Philippines) as well as the tragic circumstances of his death are examined in the “Aft erword.” eTh dates given in the chapters; 1925 to early 1932; late 1932 to 1935 and 1936–1940 are meant only as rough guide and are not held to represent distinct epistemological breaks in his thought. I argue, along with Uchida and Goto-Jones, that Miki’s thought is marked more by continuity than dis- continuity; by subtle reorientation rather than tenkō. It is important, in my view, to keep the link between the intellectual and the biographical as close as possible. Th e intention is to deepen certain perspectives or particularities of his thought by locating them within the psychology of the individual as well as within larger social, historical and political contexts. In this way, labels or ‘isms’ acquire a substance and meaning of their own, rather than becoming blunt instruments wielded for nefarious political or ideological purposes. 14 introduction

Miki as philosopher/sage and poet/bohemian

Th e literary critic and medieval literature specialist, Karaki Junzō and the historian and post-war peace activist Kuno Osamu both knew Miki personally and emphasised his apparent desire for solitude.36 Kuno described him as a solitary character who made few demands on other people and stated that not only did Miki endure solitude, “it could even be said that he loved solitude”, even going so far as to suggest that, towards the end of his life, he may have accepted his solitary cell as a haven for dialogue with his own thoughts.37 Karaki Junzō also stated that “the shadow attached to Miki was, more than anything, the shadow of loneliness.”38 He referred to the tanka which appears on Miki’s monument in Tatsuno Park. To the end of his life, Miki remained committed to his childhood faith, the ‘True’ Pure Land Bud- dhism of Shinran. Accordingly, the poem is located within a distinctly Buddhist frame of reference. It reads: “Shinjitsu no/ aki no hi tereba/ sennen ni/ kokoro wo komete/ ayumazarame ya” (しんじつの秋の日照れば専念にこころをこめて歩まざらめや) and may be translated as: “When the autumnal sun of truth/ Is shining/ My mind empty of all else/ But the deepest contemplation/ Shall I not go walking?”39 Th e autumn sun is associated with the West, the direction of the Pure Land. ‘Sennen ni’ means to concentrate the mind, but ‘kokoro wo komete’ also means to concentrate or to ‘think about something with all one’s heart.’ Th e phrase is thus tautological, placing the emphasis on the act of wholehearted concentration or meditation. Th e autumn sunshine radiates truth and meaning, beckoning the scholar to leave his dusty books and walk in its mellow warmth and light.40 Karaki emphasised the ‘shinjitsu no’ or ‘true’ at the beginning of the poem, stating that “if we were to put Miki’s life history into one word, it would begin and end in ‘truth’—a truth which is intimately connected with his love of

36 Karaki and Miki had been in correspondence from at least 1929. Miki’s letters to Karaki are reprinted in MKZ, XIX, passim. 37 Kuno Osamu ed., Miki Kiyoshi, Gendai Nihon Shisō Taikei, Vol. 33 (Outline of modern Japanese thought), (Tokyo: Chikuma shobo, 1966), 9. 38 Karaki Junzō, Miki Kiyoshi (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1947), 23. 39 Th e poem can be found in MKZ, I, 363. 40 Ayumazarame refers to the act of walking but has both negative (zara) and speculative (me) connotations, giving in this context, together with ya, the sense of the rhetorical question “why not go out walking?” or possibly “Shall I not go walking?” I am deeply indebted to Professor Muramoto Shoji for his invaluable help and sugges- tions in translating this poem and delving for its deeper meanings. notes on a life 15 nature.” At the heart of poem the tautological ‘sennen’ and ‘kokoro wo komete’, encapsulated for Karaki the essence of the man—his single- mindedness and earnestness, as well as his devotion to the truth.41 But, as I have hinted at before, Karaki saw another side to Miki—the “provincial dandy” (haikara) walking the streets empty-handed with a cigarette in his mouth, “spitting and coughing with the hack-hack-hack of a chain smoker.”42 As a youth, Miki was highly sensitive to his rustic awkwardness, a legacy of his rural upbringing, and to the hedonistic, bohemian streak in his character. Karaki used the phrase “tebanashi” to describe him which, although meaning ‘empty-handed’, is also suggestive of one who holds nothing back, in the sense of being open and honest. However ‘tebanashi’ can also be translated as ‘indiscreet’ and in 1925, as we shall see, one such indiscretion caused a scandal which almost ruined his career. Yet for all Miki’s bucolic coarseness and occasional lapses of judgement, Karaki admired him for his single-minded pursuit of knowledge, his remarkable powers of concentration, and deep sensitivity to the Taishō and early Shōwa Zeitgeist. Perhaps because of his own experience as a young man arriving in the big city from the countryside, Miki was able to articulate the sense of alienation so characteristic of the condition moderne or the ‘problem of the age’ which can be summarised in the following paragraph from his Notes on Life: Modern man lives in a boundless world. I don’t know who made the tools I use or where they were made; neither do I know from whence or from whom comes the knowledge and intelligence within which I am grounded. Th ese are all nameless things; anonymous and amorphous. Th us the modern self, existing in the midst of such living conditions, has become an anonymous, amorphous, characterless thing.43 Th is meant, moreover, that “through the development of modern communication networks, every nook and cranny is mutually related. I am intimately bound to innumerable things which I can’t see.”44 Such insights led Karaki to refer to him as a “modern sage.”45 Both Karaki and Kuno in diff erent ways identifi ed two clearly defi ned aspects of Miki’s personality. On the one hand, Miki embodied the

41 Karaki, 10. 42 Ibid., 23. 43 MKZ, I, 258. 44 Cited in Karaki, 46. 45 Ibid., 23. 16 introduction plain-speaking sage/philosopher whose genius lay in articulating life’s ‘truths’ and making philosophy relevant to people’s everyday lives. On the other hand, he adored Baudelaire and Miki’s open-handed, anti- consumerist posture, indeed his recklessness at times, appears to evoke Baudelaire’s ‘dandy of letters’ who walked aloof down the busy city streets in the solitary and leisurely cultivation of intellect. Baudelaire’s ideal dandy was the bohemian of private means, able to rise above the prostitution of one’s intellect to capitalism: It is in part through leisure time that I have developed. To my great detri- ment, insofar as leisure time without a fortune increases one’s debts and the humiliations arising from debts. But also to my great advantage, in terms of sensitivity, refl ection, and the capacity for dandyism.46 Miki, however, was not a man of private means, and when he was more or less forced to resign his academic post, he was confronted by a series of choices which brought his desire for political infl uence into confl ict with his ideal of philosophical and scholarly integrity. What follows is suggestive rather than defi nitive since no single volume can do justice to a thinker as diverse as Miki. Th e works I have chosen to analyse in part II represent what I believe to be major developments in his thought. I have tried to select representative works from both his philosophical and journalistic oeuvre, but I am also aware of my limitations in being trained as a historian, rather than a philosopher, and that for this reason and the lack of space, vast tracts of the landscape of his thought must lie unexplored to the dissatisfaction of the reader. Th ere is much more work to be done on both Miki and his circle and, in particular, there is considerable scope for comparative intellectual studies on this period, although further research may remain unrealised because of the language barrier. Ultimately, the questions which Miki’s thought raise may never be answerable because the interactions that lie between the intellectual and the biographical and their various contexts are simply too complex, and the points at which we may choose to probe, simply too numerous. Moreover, this book is much more than an intellectual biography of one man. It is also a history of reading and readership in the twentieth century which goes beyond the narrower confi nes of Japanese studies to shed light on a remarkable exchange of ideas which took place

46 Cited in Eugene W. Holland, Baudelaire and Schizoanalysis: Th e Sociopoetics of Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 239. notes on a life 17 between Germany, France and Japan during a brief, golden period of opportunity between the First World War and the onset of the Great Depression. All too soon, the rampant infl ation in Germany from 1923 and the beginnings of Hitler’s rise to power stemmed the fl ow of young Japanese overseas students to Europe and this particular route to knowledge began to close. Whatever fate awaited them on their return to Japan, Miki and his circle must be admired for their endeavours fi rstly, to master a number of languages; commonly, German, French, English, Latin and Greek and secondly, to act as conduits of knowledge (albeit one-way in the circumstances) between two great arms of civilisation. Th is book opens a window upon a historically signifi cant world of thought traversed by a remarkably talented generation.

PART ONE

WANDERINGS THROUGH THE WORLD OF BOOKS

CHAPTER ONE

GIVEN UP TO NATURE AND TO BOOKS

Th ey were happy years, and still stand out as memorable. Ignorant of the world, of the pitfalls that await any who try to walk a straight path through life, of the price of progress for both individual and community; childish disciples of a youthful master, we moved confi dently forward, as we thought, towards the kingdom of our ideals. Our hearts leapt at the word ‘freedom’, our eyes fl ashed at the tales of the heroes of history. An unsullied hope surged within us as we watched the world outside, yet with one eye on our books, like young recruits listening eagerly to reports from the battlefi eld. Tokutomi Roka (Kenjirō) Footprints in the Snow Th e latter part of my time at junior high school was a chaotic period of voracious reading [. . .] in which we behaved like entrepreneurs and adventurers. [. . .] Th at words could also be dangerous did not at that time occur to me. I read books and in reading books I read about myself as well as about other people. Miki Kiyoshi Wanderings through the World of Books In the 1870s and early 1880s the overwhelming majority of students fi lling the new higher education institutions were from the old samurai class. Th is class was considered by the Meiji oligarch Iwakura Tomomi, the leader of Japan’s mission abroad in the early 1870s, to represent the most important and the best among the people. Th ey were highly literate and placed great value on education and new technology.1 Miki, however, was born a commoner, the eldest son of twenty-four year old Eikichi and his wife Shin, aged just eighteen. Th e family soon expanded with the birth of another fi ve boys and four girls, although one boy and one girl died in infancy. Th is large family was sustained primarily by farming but Miki’s grandfather Kiyosuke, who died in 1910, had apparently made a considerable fortune as a dealer in grains, mainly rice, and the family were known locally as the komeya or ‘rice merchants’.2

1 David R. Ambaras, “Social Knowledge, Cultural Capital, and the New Middle Class in Japan, 1895–1912,” Journal of Japanese Studies 24:1 (Winter, 1998), 5. 2 MKZ, I, 369. 22 chapter one

Th e Miki family belonged on the fringes of a new class of wealthy peasants (gōnō) who by the mid-1880s, according to David Ambaras, emerged as “a new ideal type of national backbone”. Many of these families were engaged in the production and processing of silk and tea, and had begun to experiment with new technologies in the late Tokugawa period. Others were middling farmers who played important roles in their communities, and in the new prefectural assemblies. Tokutomi Sohō described them as “country gentlemen” (inaka shinshi) and a true middle class.3 Miki was keen to point out that although his family were comfortably well off , they were no more prosperous than any of the others in the village.4 In 1903, at the age of six, Miki entered the local primary school, leaving six years later to attend junior high school in the nearby castle town of Tatsuno from where he graduated in 1914. During these years, he was it seems, in the words of William Wordsworth, “given up to Nature and to books.”5 Th e act of reading is, for many of us, not only a thoroughly enjoyable, mind-expanding adventure, but also highly political. Indeed, it has been described as an “act of emancipation”. According to Th omas Docherty, reading gives us freedom, fi rstly in the sense of exercising choice over what we read but, secondly and more importantly, in the sense of encouraging us to search for the well-springs of our autonomy. “In reading,” he stated, “we can become more fully ourselves, can more fully realise our humanity; we can fi nd the conditions of our becoming, and not just the conditions of our economic being.”6 Th e full signifi cance of the act of reading for young Japanese like Miki at the turn of the twentieth century is perhaps hard for us to imagine a century later when our own lifestyles and views of reading have changed so dramatically. Writers and students of literature complain that we live in an age which has seen the “historical disappearance of the ‘common reader’ and the ascendancy of scepticism”; an age in which “information is valued over knowledge.”7 Miki, however, was born into a society where reading was in the ascendant, and an injunction to “seek knowledge throughout the world and thus invigorate the foundation

3 Ambaras, 5–6. 4 MKZ, I, 369. 5 From “Th e Prelude, Book IV,” in William Wordsworth: Selected Poems, ed. Damian Walford Davies (London: Everyman’s Library, J. M. Dent, 1994). 6 Th omas Docherty, “On Reading,” Critical Quarterly 45:3 (Autumn 2003), 6–7. 7 Caroline Blyth, “Introduction: Th e Making of the Reader,”Critical Quarterly 45:3 (Autumn 2003), 1. given up to nature and to books 23 of this imperial nation” was declared to be a corner-stone of the new Japanese nation.8 He wandered through his world of books, not with the onerous obligation of a student, but with the joyful enthusiasm of an adventurer. Reading a good book is, as Descartes put it in his Discourse of Method, “like conversation with the fi nest men of past centuries.” Th is was particularly signifi cant for Miki when the enormous growth in available Western literature, both in original languages and in Japanese translation, opened for him a world which was as broad geographically as it was chronologically. Alberto Manguel, in his history of reading and readership, points to the peculiar association between the reader and his books which is unlike any other association between subject and object. Th e books which we choose to read are endowed with a symbolism far more complex than that of using a simple tool. Indeed, the mere possession of signifi cant numbers of books implies a certain intellectual standing, and the types of books we read indicates our basic approach to life and work.9 Similarly, there is a remarkable correlation between Miki’s recollection of reading and his life-story, and certain authors or book titles become highly symbolic in the context of his self-identity. Miki was born two years aft er the end of the Sino-Japanese War (1894–5). His generation was accorded a whole host of opportunities not widely available to their parents or grandparents.10 With increasing industrialisation and urbanisation, education at all levels became more widespread with numbers of children in compulsory education rising from 66.7 percent in 1897, the year of Miki’s birth, to 98.1 percent in 1910. In 1907 compulsory education was increased from three to six years. Graduation from this level was the end of formal education for the majority of Japanese in the Meiji period. Th e higher elementary school provided an additional three years of preparatory training which led to a further stage of division, one of which was the middle or junior high school which, normally consisting of fi ve years, was almost exclusively

8 One of the Five Articles of the Imperial Oath. Th e Oath refers to the ritual performance and the Five Articles are a broad outline of Restoration policy. It was read out at 4 p.m. on Tuesday 6 April 1868 at the Imperial Palace in Kyoto. For further information, see John Breen, “Th e Imperial Oath of April 1968: ritual, politics, and power in the Meiji Restoration,” in Meiji Japan: Political, economic and social history 1868–1912, vol. I ed. Peter Kornicki (London: Routledge, 1998), 106–127. 9 Alberto Manguel, A History of Reading (London: Flamingo, 1996), 214. 10 Kenneth Pyle, Th e New Generation in Meiji Japan: Problems of Cultural Identity, 1885–1895 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1969), 11. 24 chapter one preparatory for a third stage of higher school or college level education. Miki was destined to enter this channel which, lasting another three years, led to the higher (and for many as yet unattainable) reaches of the educational system.11 Th e Sino-Japanese War itself and the Russo- Japanese War (1904–5) some ten years later also heralded enormous economic and demographic changes, and the social and cultural tensions they left in their wake made themselves felt in educational reforms and new readership patterns. In the fi rst decades of the twentieth century, Japan boasted one of the highest literacy rates in the world. According to Carol Gluck documents relating to the recruitment of army conscripts between 1902 and 1912 show that the percentage of ‘raw’ illiteracy dropped from 24.9 percent to just 5.5 percent in that decade. 12 Richard Rubinger, however, concluded that: [. . .] the development of popular literacy in Meiji Japan may have had as much to do with the geographical environment of a community—proximity to large cities, the existence of roads or rivers for commerce and communication, traditions of learning and culture—as with school attendance.13 Conscription data from Osaka also demonstrate a link between commercial development and lower rates of illiteracy, compared with higher rates of illiteracy found in industrial areas where children may have been taken out of school to work in factories.14 One major reform was the simplifi cation and standardisation of the Japanese language which removed formerly insuperable barriers to a mass readership. In the early Meiji period the genbun’itchi (lit. unifying spoken (gen) and written (bun) languages) movement sought to replace the heavily Chinese-infl uenced form of the language now considered inappropriate for a mass education system. However, moves towards the introduction of a more colloquial style of literary Japanese based on a standardised form of everyday speech initially faced stiff opposition from offi cials, bureaucrats and intellectuals who had been educated

11 Henry DeWitt Smith II, Japan’s First Student Radicals (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1972), 2. 12 Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period (Princeton N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1985), 172. 13 Richard Rubinger, “Who Can’t Read and Write? Illiteracy in Meiji Japan,” Monu- menta Nipponica 55:2 (Summer, 2000), 194. 14 Ibid. given up to nature and to books 25 in the traditional styles.15 Th e disputes over language reform became particularly vehement during and aft er the nationalistic fervour of the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–5 when more calls to abolish ‘Chinese’ ideograms appeared in journals.16 Finally, although the initial proposal that kanji be abolished was rejected, the numbers and varieties of ideograms used by writers and in schools were reduced.17 Running in tandem with script reform was standardisation of the language based on everyday speech and the language spoken in the capital became a standard upper-class variant used for wider communication.18 By the 1880s Tokyo had become the focus for the arts and its dialect was disseminated through modern novels predicated on Western styles. According to Twine, Futabatei Shimei (1864–1909) used Tokyo speech for a colloquial style in Ukigumo (Floating Clouds) generally recognised as Japan’s fi rst modern novel.19 Ueda Kazutoshi (1867–1937), the fi rst Japanese to be sent by the government to study linguistics in Germany and France in 1890, and linguist and English-language scholar Okakura Yoshisaburō (1868– 1936) both regarded a unifi ed national language as essential to national progress. Okakura regarded the classroom as a vehicle for rooting out the use of regional dialects. Gradually reformers received the backing of infl uential educators such as those in the Teikoku kyōikukai (Imperial Education Association) who presented both houses of the Diet with “A Petition for the Reform of our Script, Language and Style” in 1900. Ueda, as parliamentary councillor of the Ministry of Education, was instrumental in getting the petition passed. In 1902 the Diet funded the establishment of a commission to inquire into language reform, and 1903 saw the publication of the fi rst state-compiled school textbooks and primers. In 1916 a grammar of spoken Japanese was published

15 Nanette Twine, “Toward Simplicity: Script Reform Movements in the Meiji Period,” Monumenta Nipponica 38:2 (Summer, 1983): 115–6. 16 Ibid. 130. 17 Donald Keene, “Th e Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95 and its cultural eff ects in Japan,” in Meiji Japan, vol. I, ed. Kornicki, 276. 18 Nanette Twine, “Standardizing Written Japanese. A Factor in Modernization,” Monumenta Nipponica 43:4 (Winter, 1988): 437. 19 Ibid. However, the literary critic Karatani Kojin disputes this prevailing interpretation, arguing that Futabatei did not in fact remain faithful to the colloquial speech of his contemporaries. Karatani Kojin, Origins of Modern Japanese Literature, trans. Brett de Bary, (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1993), 48–51. 26 chapter one which, together with its supplementary volumes, defi ned the standard language as that spoken by educated Tokyoites.20

Th e rural primary school

However, at the age of six Miki was presented with a possibly confus- ing array of new ideals based on both Western and traditional Japanese reading when he fi rst entered primary school in 1903. Th e enormous infl ux of Western books had triggered a so-called ‘conservative reaction’ in pedagogic circles and led to charges of extreme Westernisation of primary school textbooks in the 1880s. Th ese charges were apparently not without foundation; no less than fi ve sets of primary textbooks recommended by the Ministry of Education in 1873 consisted of translations of Western texts. Th e most popular ethics textbooks were a series entitled Taisei kanzen kunmō (Moral stories from the West), and that Victorian favourite, Samuel Smiles’s Self Help. On the other hand, teachers were also required to give oral instruction on morals to their pupils and this was oft en infl uenced by Confucianism ensuring that pupils were not subjected to an entirely Western diet of ethical training. Nevertheless, there is certainly evidence for a Western bias leading to a ‘conservative reaction’ which began in the late 1870s and was led by two infl uential Confucian scholars Nishimura Shigeki (1828–1902) and Motada Eifu (1818–91). Th e latter criticised Western-style ethics for a decline in public morals and warned of the impending destruction of the Japanese family system and its values.21 Eventually, these concerns were answered in the “Imperial Rescript on Education” which was promulgated in 1890 and exhorted pupils to be fi lial to your parents, aff ectionate to your brothers and sisters; as husbands and wives be harmonious, as friends true; bear yourselves in modesty and moderation; extend your benevolence to all; pursue learning and cultivate arts, and thereby develop intellectual faculties and perfect moral powers; furthermore advance public good and promote common interests.22

20 Twine, (1988): 443–5, 448–9 and 451–3. 21 E. Patricia Tsurumi, “Meiji primary school language and ethics textbooks,” in Meiji Japan, vol. III, ed. Kornicki, 308–312. 22 Appendix I to Horio Teruhisa, Educational Th ought and Ideology in Modern Japan: State Authority and Intellectual Freedom, trans. Steven Platzer (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1988), 399. given up to nature and to books 27

Many liberal-minded teachers, especially Christians, were deeply disturbed by this apparent triumph of nativism within the Imperial Rescript. Nishida Kitarō himself had been appalled by its conservatism, believing that it was counter-productive to the achievement of self- independence.23 Shortly before Miki entered primary school, moreover, a code of ethics, Shushin kyōten, had been installed which extolled the virtues of heroes from Japanese (especially Tokugawa) history and encouraged pupils to learn by example. For boys growing up in the countryside, one of the most popular of these heroes was Ninomiya Sontoku (1787–1856)24 who appeared in twelve of the thirty lessons in the volume of the codes written for primary school.25 He was no less than an embodiment of the Imperial Rescript on Education and was exalted as a paragon of virtue in the pages of the textbooks. In the 1930s statues of him appeared in school playgrounds. A farm technologist and leading agricultural philosopher in his lifetime, he inspired the hōtoku movement, or ‘repaying virtue movement’ of the mid-1880s. Th is movement, founded by his followers, was widespread, particularly in eastern Japan, and became the basis for both popular and offi cial agrarianism aft er the Meiji Restoration. It was based on the idea that the blessings and benefi ts man received from both heaven and earth should be collectively repaid in order to create a ‘true society’ and a peaceful and prosperous country. Th is was to be achieved through the virtues of sincerity (shisei), diligence (kinrō), thrift (bundo) and yield- ing to others (shijō).26 Other Tokugawa heroes were brought to life through the pages of primary school textbooks for a whole generation of children. Kumazawa Banzan (1619–91) was celebrated for his great learning, Kaibara Ekken (1630–1714) was renowned for his modesty and Wata- nabe Kazan (1793–1841) for his kind gestures towards his teacher. Such historical examples of Confucian morality sat alongside a group of values that might be described as ‘Western’ and another group of ‘patriotic’ values which Tsurumi terms “National Statist”. Th ese three value groups remained in place in Japanese primary school education to varying degrees until aft er the Pacifi c War, and together imparted

23 Goto-Jones (2005), 50. 24 Also referred to as Ninomiya Kinjirō. 25 Tsurumi, 315. 26 Th omas R. H. Havens, Farm and Nation in Modern Japan: Agrarian Nationalism, 1870–1940 (Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1974), 25–6. 28 chapter one ideas about self-reliance and personal achievement as well as loyalty to the state.27 Th e question is what did these changes in education actually mean for a generation of children like Miki? According to social psychologist Jack Block, the signifi cance of reforms within a mass education system such as this lay in creating, for the fi rst time, relative uniformity within the social learning context. Whilst regional studies caution against assuming monolithic homogeneity in Japan at the time, to a greater or lesser extent, these reforms (here we may include the enforcement and re-enforcement of Confucian values and other ‘traditional’ Japanese socio-cultural practices) dictated a process of socialization that would have similar character-shaping eff ects on all children born into that particular social milieu.28 Th e ability to dictate socialization techniques also has implications for class identity. Autobiographical accounts from Japan in this period oft en indicate an identifi cation with and pride in ‘commoner’ roots, and a concern not to be seen as ‘better off ’ than other families in the same community is also discernable.29 Th at Japanese society showed massive trends towards cultural homogeneity is also highly signifi cant. In such societies, Block argued, the artifi cial dissemination of values and attitudes oft en causes class-related diff erences to shrivel away. Th e various psychological variables normally associated with social class would still be relevant, but they will no longer be related to social class per se.30 Again, while exercising caution in assuming too much cultural homogeneity in Japan at this time, Block’s analysis may help to explain why many Japanese from similar social backgrounds oft en demonstrated ambiguous attitudes to the question of class when forced by Marxist colleagues to state a political position. We can assume, therefore, that in common with the vast majority of Japanese children, Miki’s early moral training would have been broadly Confucian but interspersed with a mixture of Japanese rural nationalism, and Western idealism and scientifi c rationalism. However, Miki’s own experience of education warns against making generalisations about socialisation processes. Th e Unspoken Philosophy demonstrates the

27 Tsurumi, 316–7. 28 Jack Block, Lives Th rough Time (Berkeley Calif.: Bancroft Books, 1971), 277. 29 For example, the social scientist Yanaihara Tadao (1893–1961) was born in rural Ehime prefecture, Shikoku, and strongly identifi ed with the ‘commoner’ Oliver Cromwell. Susan C. Townsend, Yanaihara Tadao and Japanese Colonial Policy: Redeem- ing Empire (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000), 19. 30 Block, 273. given up to nature and to books 29 negative eff ects of this mixed bag of values. “Awakened by wisdom,” Miki wrote, “I began to doubt.” He continued: From almost the fi rst day of my conscious life I had hardly any trust in either my school or my teachers. Neither was it possible for me to place any great authority in the ethics which I was taught. I was a mischievous, recalcitrant child. In the classroom, I was inattentive, intent on making friends with neighbouring children and liking nothing more than to read my books.31 However, despite his scepticism Miki admitted that his desire for good grades and the approbation of his teachers made him a “coward” and prevented him from expressing his feelings of rebellion.32 It was not, therefore, the tales of virtue and the example of Tokugawa heroes that were responsible for his good behaviour at primary school, but his desire to maintain his status and not “lose face” by getting bad grades. In rural Japan these kinds of social pressures had as much to do with family structures as the moulding eff ects of education. Th e sociologist Fukutake Tadashi has emphasised the moulding eff ects of not only family and familistic social structures, but also of the constraints of mura (village-like) neighbourhoods on individual development before the Pacifi c War. The mura was important in shaping Miki’s intellectual and personal development in a world where status within a system of community stratifi cation was of prime concern. According to Fukutake, in such families children were required to learn not only to observe their status within the family but also to observe the status of their family within the community in all their actions. Th e existence of this status-ranking order made parents look forward to the hope that children would move a step up the hierarchy, although upward social mobility was a remote possibility for the majority of children.33 It is perhaps to the family environment, therefore, that we should turn for clues to Miki’s earliest childhood development. Signifi cantly, his father is largely absent from Miki’s narrative about his childhood. It seems that his mother was more infl uential in instilling codes of behaviour. In Th e Unspoken Philosophy, one of Miki’s earliest memories

31 MKZ, XVIII, 10. 32 Ibid. 33 Fukutake Tadashi, Th e Japanese Social Structure: Its Evolution in the Modern Century, trans., Ronald P. Dore, (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1982), 42. 30 chapter one linked to his mother was an episode of bad behaviour and subsequent repentance: I was passing through a stage of being an obstinate child and having my own way, when it dawned on me that creating such a disturbance for my wise mother was not a good thing to do. I broke down in tears on my mother’s knee for an hour.34 Not only does Miki remember this incident with sorrow for the trouble he caused his mother, but the memory of his behaviour was a lesson in humility and became a mirror for self-refl ection in later life. Years later he mused: “With tears falling on the ground, I must crush my proud heart with that child’s innocence and meekness.”35 According to the Japanese psychologist Doi Takeo, the concept of amae or “need-love” is specifi cally linked with the psychology of infancy and the relationship between mother and son. Most importantly this behaviour “suggests a continuous spectrum from early infancy to adulthood.”36 In other words these feelings of dependency and/or attachment can be transferred to relationships with adults throughout an individual’s life and the concept of amae is important in understanding the development of individual/group relationships in adult life. Further evidence for the enduring infl uence of Miki’s family life lies in his lifelong adherence to his childhood faith. His strong emotional bonds with the Japanese countryside in particular and with nature in general were strengthened by his family’s belief in the True Pure Land Buddhism of Shinran whose Tannishō was oft en read aloud in the home. Shinran (1173–1262), together with two other great Buddhist teachers and leaders of the new religions of the Kamakura period, Hōnen (1133–1212) and Nichiren (1222–1282) were religious reformers united, according to Miyamoto Shōson, in “the common cause of reformation and in the spirit which demands a religion of simplicity, practicality, absolute faith, individual spiritual awakening, and a new and vital aspiration.”37 Like many religious reformers in all ages and cultures, they were persecuted and eventually exiled by traditionalists

34 MKZ, XVIII, 20. 35 Ibid. 36 Doi Takeo, Understanding ‘Amae’: Th e Japanese concept of need-love: Collected papers of Takeo Doi, ed. Doi Takeo (Folkestone: Global Oriental 2005), 141–2. 37 Miyamoto Shōson, “Th e Relation of Philosophical Th eory to Practical airsAff in Japan,” in Th e Japanese Mind: Essentials of Japanese Philosophy and Culture, ed. Charles A. Moore (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1967), 11. given up to nature and to books 31 and established religious institutions. Shinran developed the teachings of Hōnen who is regarded as the true founder of Amida Buddhism.38 In common with other Japanese religious systems one of the main concerns of Amida Buddhism is not so much with devising a system of ethical standards by which we measure our actions, but rather with the interior life of the individual and man’s emancipation from worry and anxiety. Shinran was famous for his view that; “[If] even a righteous man can be saved, why not a sinner.”39 Both Hōnen and Shinran were condemned as anti-social and anti-nationalistic and were held responsible, in part, for the weakness and ultimate disintegration of the state. It is not surprising, therefore, that Shinran’s name is historically associated with the common people; the non-aristocratic warriors, merchants and peasants at a time when aristocratic power was declining and the warrior class was in the ascendant.40 Shinran removed Buddhism from its aristocratic roots and disseminated it among the common people.41 Shinran himself had not intended to found a completely new Bud- dhist sect, and initially his followers deviated little from the Pure Land movement as a whole. Indeed, for the fi rst fift y years aft er his death his followers regarded their practices as indistinguishable from Hōnen’s example and held their congregations on the 25th day of each month, Hōnen’s death day rather than Shinran’s, the 28th day. It was Shinran’s grandson42 Kakunyo (1270–1351) who began the major departure from mainstream Pure Land practice. Soon aft erwards, however, several divergent strands of Shinshū, as it became known, began to evolve and these were fi nally brought together by Shinran’s blood descendant Rennyo (1415–1499) who did much to disseminate Shinshū among the common people through the introduction of popular forms of worship and guidelines for conduct. Shinran himself, however, considered all actions apart from the act of faith as largely irrelevant to achieving salvation refusing to lay down any rules of conduct for his followers to obey.

38 Ibid. 39 Kishimoto Hideo “Some Japanese Cultural Traits and Religions,” in Th e Japanese Mind, ed. Moore, 116. 40 Miyamoto, 10–1. 41 Kōsaka Masaaki, “Th e Status and Role of the Individual in Japanese Society,” in Th e Japanese Mind, ed. Moore, 249 42 Although many Buddhist monks married secretly, Shinran was the fi rst major leader to marry openly and found a dynastic leadership through his bloodline, although a leadership based on hereditary succession was not his intention. Michael Solomon, “Kinship and the Transmission of Religious Charisma: Th e Case of Honganji,” Journal of Asian Studies 33:3 (May, 1974): 403. 32 chapter one

Rennyo also introduced the practice of writing regular pastoral letters in colloquial Japanese which conveyed Shinran’s teachings more clearly than the standard texts, especially when it came to the articulation of the meaning of faith. Taken not so much from Shinran’s written works, but from other schools of Pure Land Buddhism, Rennyo’s simplicity of expression struck a chord among thousands of people, increasing Shinshū’s membership enormously. Under his leadership it emerged as a distinctive form of faith-oriented Japanese Buddhism clearly diff erentiated from the Pure Land Buddhism existing in continental Asia. 43 It diff ers from the orthodox or classical version of Buddhism which is based on ancient Indian patterns of peripatetic individuals who follow the monastic tradition within sangha, usually male communities bound to the teachings of the Buddha Shakyamuni, and the Tantric version which is based on the tradition of veneration and obedience to a guru. Shinshū is instead a radical form of independent Pure Land Buddhism which situates the Buddha as an object of faith outside the world and therefore also outside normal structures of worldly authority. Histori- cally, because it disposed of the enlightenment-ignorance oppositions of the monk-lay and guru-disciple polarities, it also distanced itself from central authority, dispersing power more equally among devotees and evolving to become the most successful version of Pure Land practice in Asia. In Japan during the Tokugawa period it gradually increased in scope to encompass approximately one third of the population, forming what Galen Amstutz calls “the single largest integrated discourse of early modern Japan.” A thoroughly grass-roots movement, it still holds great sway among rural communities in Japan and today it is reputedly “the largest, most active, and most liberal of Japan’s traditional Buddhist institutions.”44 It is hardly surprising, therefore, that Shinshū was closely associated with Miki’s deep and abiding love for the fi elds, rivers and hills of his home and became his natural spiritual home.

43 James C. Dobbins, “From Inspiration to Institution. Th e Rise of Sectarian Identity in Jōdo Shinshū,” Monumenta Nipponica 41:3 (Autumn, 1986): 336–342 44 Galen Amstutz, “Shin Buddhism and Protestant Analogies with Christianity in the West,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 40:4 (October, 1998): 727–8. given up to nature and to books 33

Tatsuno Junior High School

Aft er graduating from elementary school, Miki entered Tatsuno Junior High School where one of his teachers, Terada Kijirō, who was formerly in charge of compiling and editing school textbooks in Manchuria and later served in the Ministry of Education, proved enormously influential in shaping Miki’s early development as a reader. With Terada’s encouragement, Miki began supplementing his reading of school textbooks with the novels and poetry of contemporary Japanese authors. Of these, it was Tokutomi Roka (1868–1927) who was the most important in shaping both Miki’s emerging sense of identity and his future aspirations. Roka, who for a long time lived in the shadow of his elder brother, Tokutomi Sohō (1863–1957), had virtually no direct contact with the Japanese literary establishment, but was nevertheless one of the most fi nancially successful of all Meiji writers. His exposé of the unequal treatment of women in Meiji Japan, Hototogisu, was not only enormously successful in Japan but was also translated into seven European languages. Roka’s appeal, according to Donald Keene, lay in his loft y ideals rather than his qualities as a writer and, though praised for his high moral principles, he remained on the periphery of Japanese literary history.45 Miki read Roka’s Shizen to jinsei (Nature and Man, 1900),46 which enjoyed tremendous popularity with the Japanese reading public, together with one of Roka’s most successful novels Omoide no ki (1901) which was translated into English as Footprints in the Snow in 1970.47 It is a fi ctionalised, semi-autobiographical account of a young writer, Shintarō Kikuchi, who was born in a remote valley in central Kyushu. Th is story of a young writer’s growth and development was inspired by Roka’s reading of Dickens’ David Copperfi eld and constituted Miki’s

45 Donald Keene, Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era, Fiction, (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1984), 228. However, it must be pointed out that somewhat counter to Donald Keene’s claim, Roka is remarkable in inspiring Nakano Yoshio’s massive three-volume biography, Roka Tokutomi Kenjirō (1972–74). 46 MKZ, I, 372. 47 Th e English title is taken from a quotation by the American poet and essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–82) which is included in the frontispiece to the book: “All things are engaged in writing their history. [. . .] Not a foot steps into the snow, or along the ground, but prints, in characters more or less lasting, a map of its march.” See frontispiece to Kenjiro Tokutomi, Footprints in the Snow: A Novel of Meiji Japan, trans. and introduced by Kenneth Strong, (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1970). 34 chapter one earliest and most vivid memory of reading. “In the winter evenings,” he wrote, sitting with my feet dangling in the kotatsu [a charcoal brazier in a fl oor- well], by the light of the dim lamp, I would spend the evenings with my mother reading Omoide no ki in wonder; this was the fi rst time I had read a so-called ‘novel.’48 It is highly signifi cant that Miki’s earliest memory of reading is closely associated with his mother, but he remembered Roka’s Shizen to jinsei (Nature and Man), for its “essential humanism.” Encouraged by Terada, he began to dream of becoming a writer himself and later recognised in Roka the well-springs of his own distinctive philosophy: If I am a humanist, then it was something that Roka’s infl uence nurtured within me, unconsciously, unbeknown to me. It was natural for me, a country boy, that his humanism should make such an impression upon me. Even today it is the earth that captivates my heart—not nature as in a beauty spot, but nature as earth. As with Bashō, so with me, it goes beyond the merely aesthetic.49

Japanese literature aft er the Russo-Japanese War

Miki’s experiences of reading in Junior High School must be viewed in the context of the changes wrought by the Russo-Japanese War, itself a symptom of the transformation of Japan’s international situation. Th e war constituted not only a turning point in Japan’s international aff airs, but also aff ected the mood of the people in a way which became noticeable in the literature of the time. Some historians have taken a rather sombre view of this change in the intellectual climate. Calman, for example, speaks of a “brutal, exhausting and profi tless war” hanging “like a dark shadow not only over the generation that fought it, but also over the generation not yet born.”50 While this may be an exag- geration, many Japanese writers were aff ected by various degrees of anxiety. Th e great novelist Natsume Sōseki (1867–1916), for example, prophesised “nervous collapse” and warned of the illusory nature of

48 MKZ, I, 372. 49 Ibid., 373. 50 Donald Calman, Th e Origins and Nature of Japanese Imperialism: a reinterpretation of the great crisis of 1873 (London: Routledge, 1992), 186. given up to nature and to books 35

Japan’s new-found equal footing. Tokutomi Roka was also fi lled with a sense of foreboding and urged his fellow countrymen in 1906 to turn away from extreme nationalistic tendencies and a growing reliance on military power.51 In the world of literature, according to Donald Keene, “if any movement in Japanese literature of the twentieth century can be described as central, it is doubtlessly Naturalism (shizenshugi).”52 Suzuki Tomi has divided Japanese Naturalism into two stages, however, “early Natural- ism” which emerged around 1900 under the infl uence of Zola and “late Naturalism” a more domesticated form arising shortly aft er the Russo- Japanese War.53 At its height only between 1906 and 1910, Naturalism gave expression to these widespread feelings of anxiety and doubt, the other side of the coin of Japan’s fulfi lment of imperialist ambitions and desire for international recognition. For some Japanese writers it was an ‘Age of Confession’ or ‘Disillusion’. Japanese Naturalism referred not so much to a preoccupation with nature, but to a reaction against the perceived artifi ciality of the Ken’yūsha (Th e Society of the Friends of the Inkstone), a literary society founded in Tokyo Imperial Univer- sity whose works appear to Japanese literary historians today to be a throw-back to the past. Since the beginning of the Meiji era Japanese literature swung between the Western and Japanese literary traditions until the realisation dawned on most writers that ‘East and West’ could be perhaps reconciled and synthesised.54 Whereas the Ken’yūsha attempted to reject Western infl uences, the Naturalists were inspired in part by the realism of French novelists such as Émile Zola (1840–1902) and Guy de Maupassant (1850–93).55 However, Suzuki has argued that the movement embraced “Nietzsche-ism, Rousseau-ism, Tolstoy-ism and Zola-ism indiscriminately” in order to criticize social and sexual constraints at the time.56

51 Kenneth B. Pyle, Th e Making of Modern Japan (Lexington: D. C. Heath and Company, 2nd edn., 1996), 143 and 145. 52 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 220. 53 Suzuki Tomi, Narrating the Self: Fictions of Japanese Modernity (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1996), 79. 54 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 4–5. 55 In the 1860s Zola coined the term naturaliste to refer to realist literature inspired by positivist trends in science as well as the in the humanities. Naturalism is oft en viewed by literary historians as a crude pseudoscientifi c successor to Realism. 56 Suzuki, 82. 36 chapter one

Th e starting point for most Japanese Naturalists was their own lives, actions, thoughts and anxieties as they embarked upon a search for individuality. Th ey also showed remarkable courage in dealing with problems that intellectuals had previously left unquestioned, such as sexuality.57 Consequently, many devised their own eclectic style of writing. In March 1906, for example, Shimazaki Tōson (1872–1943) published Hakai (Apostasy) whose main protagonist was a social outcast (eta or burakumin) seeking to emancipate himself from social prejudice. Th is novel had an apparently “electrifying” impact on the Japanese literary scene. In his confessional novel Shinsei (Regeneration) Shimazaki tells of his incestuous relationship with his niece. Another ‘confessional’ novel Futon (Th e Quilt) which came from the pen of Tayama Katai (1871–1930) was described by Arima Tatsuo as “a crude, if candid, confession of middle-aged erotic fantasy”.58 As social criticism, however, the Naturalist enterprise ultimately failed, and its leaders abdicated this role in favour of younger, socialist authors. According to Arima, they “were unable to articulate their demands in broader terms,” and their eff orts at emancipation “ended in the genre of shishōsetsu (I-novel).”59 Miki, however, in Th e Unspoken Philosophy wrote of his feelings of antipathy towards the literature of Naturalism associating it with fi n de siècle European Decadence so popular at the time.60 In Wanderings through the World of Books also, Miki referred to a “reaction against Naturalism in Japanese thought and literature, or rather a conquest of Naturalism” which manifested itself as “humanism”.61 He preferred Japanese authors who remained on the margins of this movement such as Kunikida Doppo (1871–1908) who was less inspired by Zola than Wordsworth (1770–1850). It may have appeared to Miki, therefore, that although an interest in nature is evident in Japanese writings in both the distant and recent past, at this point in Japanese literary development, many authors had taken to heart an essentially ‘European’ preoccupation with the centrality of man. Th is focus on man and his interior life led many Meiji authors, despite the epithet of Naturalist, to describe

57 Arima Tatsuo, Th e Failure of Freedom: A Portrait of Modern Japanese Intellectuals (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1969), 78. 58 Ibid., 73–5. 59 Ibid., 81. 60 MKZ, XVIII, 46–7. 61 MKZ, I, 401. given up to nature and to books 37 human beings without the context of their natural environment. Both Doppo and Roka, however, were diff erentiated from this trend in their focus on nature and the interaction of man with his natural environ- ment62 which deeply interested Miki. Encouraged by Terada, Miki also read the works of young contemporary writers and poets such as Kitahara Hakushū (1885–1942) and Ishikawa Takuboku (1886–1912). In particular he recalled reading Kitahara’s Jashūmon (Secret songs of the heretics, 1909) and Omoidasu (Recollections).63 Both Ishikawa and Kitahara were nurtured by one of the greatly esteemed fathers of modern Japanese literature, Mori Ōgai (1862–1922), and published in Mori’s magazine Myōjō which was founded to help the bundan no myōjō—the “shining stars of the literary world”—air their poems in public. Th ey belonged to the new generation of Japanese literati born around 1885 who were aff ected by the post-war economic recession. Unlike the generation born around the time of the Meiji Restoration of 1868 who closely identifi ed with the aims and values of the fl edgling state, this new generation of educated unemployed quickly became disaff ected and, having no outlet through established political parties or organisations, began to identify more closely with their own peer group and its specifi c problems, emotions and identifi cations. Th is minority group also included the novelists Shiga Naoya (1883–1971) and Tanizaki Jun’ichirō (1886–1965) and the poet Kinoshita Mokutarō (1885–1945). Th e brief and delicate flowering of Japanese socialism in the fi rst decades of the twentieth century led other young literati of this generation such as Arahata Kanson (1887–1981) and Ōsugi Sakae (1885–1923) to follow the radically political Heim- insha or ‘commoners’ tradition established by the anarchist Kōtoku Shūsui (1871–1911) and Sakai Toshihiko (1871–1933) who published their work in the monthly magazine Kindai shisō (Modern Th ought) which was founded in 1912. From 1914 a number of left -wing writers also published in the socialist-oriented Heimin Shinbun (Th e People’s Newspaper).64 According to the literary historian Kato Shūichi, however, it was Ishi- kawa Takuboku who, in his journalism as well as his poetry, expressed most clearly the consciousness of this literary minority between the

62 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 220–8. 63 MKZ, XIX, 856. 64 Kato Shūichi, A History of Japanese Literature from the Man’yōshū to Modern Times, trans. and ed., Don Sanderson, (Richmond, Surrey: Japan Library, 1997), 284. 38 chapter one

Russo-Japanese War and the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution. In 1910 he articulated the problems of graduate unemployment, the advancing power of the state and the self-destructive tendencies of a younger generation preoccupied with inner strife. He identifi ed what he called a “blockading of the age” and called for a new “systematic thought about our own era.” His main works include two collections of verse, Ichiaku no suna (A handful of sand) published in 1910 and Kanashiki gangu (Sad playthings). A novel Warera no ichidan to kare (Our group and him) and a collection of essays Jidai heisoku no genjō (Th e blockading of the age: How things are now) were published posthumously in 1912 aft er his Keatsian death from tuberculosis at a tragically young age.65 Ishikawa himself was, in his own way, deeply political and sympathised with the alleged would-be-terrorist Kōtoku Shūsui who was sentenced to death in the High Treason Trial of 1910–11. Shortly before his own death Ishikawa secretly copied Kōtoku’s Chinbensho (A Defence) and added his own reactions as a memorial to him. Th ese were published in English as Letter from Prison. Miki’s interests in Japanese literary history, Chinese classics and an early passion for composing Chinese poetry also led him to study classical Japanese poetry and song, including those of Bashō (1644–94), as well as the contemporary leading light of the poetry world Doi Bansui (1871–1952). Although fl uent in French, German, Italian and English and with a good command of Greek and Latin, the major infl uence on Doi’s poetry was Chinese history and literature.66 Indeed, even before leaving primary school Miki learned to compose haiku (seventeen syllable poems). His teacher, Mr. Tada, who came from Tatsuno to teach in the village school, was an adherent of the Hototogisu School,67 a group of poets who practised traditional forms of poetry, especially haiku, and published in Hototogisu a magazine founded in 1897. Soon they had formed a recognisable school made up largely of disciples of Takahama Kiyoshi (1874–1959). Like many young Japanese of his generation, Miki was also profoundly infl uenced by Natsume Sōseki. Th e Russo-Japanese War led to hopes for a genuinely Japanese style of literature and in 1906 Natsume, just three years aft er returning from his studies in London, attempted

65 Kato, 284–5. 66 Donald Keene, Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era: Poetry, Drama, Criticism (New York: Henry Holt, 1984), 216. 67 MKZ, I, 370. given up to nature and to books 39 to theorise the tug-of-war between Eastern and Western literary styles in A Th eory of Literature (Bungakuron). He stated “I was determined, in this work, to solve the problem of defi ning the nature of literature.”68 In the preface he voiced highly personal statements about his experiences of reading both the Chinese classics and English literature. It seemed that despite his best endeavours he had never mastered Eng- lish literature. “Somehow,” he wrote, “I had been cheated by English literature.”69 Karatani noted that the basis for Sōseki’s idea that he had been “cheated” by English literature lay in the fact that for the Japanese, literature was not yet natural enough: For British readers of the time literature was literature. Insofar as “literature” was something that encompassed them, the kind of doubt Sōseki harboured could not arise. Of course, as Michel Foucault has observed, the concept of “literature” itself was a relative newcomer to European civilization in the nineteenth century. Sōseki, although his very life was encompassed by “literature”, could not escape from his doubts about it. Th ey were doubts that seemed all the more iconoclastic in Japan of 1908, where “literature” had just fi rmly established itself.70 For Karatani, this is similar to landscape which the Japanese only “discovered” once their perceptions had been altered by seeing Western landscape painting.71

An introduction to Western literature

Miki’s fi rst real engagement with continental European literature came not as might be expected from the heart of Western Europe or the U.S.A., but from Russia. Th is is perhaps not so surprising when we consider Russia’s geographical proximity to Japan. Yet despite such proximity the two countries largely ignored each other before the seventeenth century when Japan, most specifi cally the northernmost island Hokkaido, began to attract interest within an economically expanding Russia, particularly among merchants. Russian expeditions thus increased in the early eighteenth century, including Behring’s expeditions of 1725 and 1728 which found evidence for the land connection between Siberia and the

68 Cited in Karatani, 12. 69 Ibid., 18. 70 Ibid., 12. 71 Ibid., 18–9. 40 chapter one

Americas. Yet, throughout the eighteenth century attempts to establish diplomatic contacts between Japan by Bakufu representatives such as Matsudaira Sadanobu and Russian expedition leaders such as Laxman and Rézanov failed largely because of mutually insurmountable language barriers and deep suspicion on the Japanese side.72 Japan’s burgeoning imperial ambitions in Manchuria and Korea also caused an inevitable increase in tension which led eventually to war. Nevertheless, both before and aft er the war it was in Japan’s interests to learn about her neighbour, and Russian writers were particularly admired even aft er the defeat of Russia in 1905 revealed to the Japanese the weakness of Russia’s institutional and technological capabilities. Again it was Terada, no doubt through his experiences in Manchuria, who introduced his young charges to Japanese translations of works by Lev Shestov (1866–1938) and Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev (1818–83). Th rough Terada’s infl uence Shestov caught Miki’s interest long before he became popular among the Japanese Romantics in the mid-1930s aft er Dostoevsky and Nietzsche: Th e Philosophy of Tragedy (1903) was translated into Japanese. Indeed, Miki contributed to this passion for Shestov when, early in 1934, he translated Children and Stepchildren of Time: Spinoza in History into Japanese (Jidai no kodomo to mamako— Supinoza no rekishiteki unmei),73 and edited an anthology of Shestov’s work for the Kaizōsha publishing house. Shestov, whose real name was Leo Isakovich Schwarzmann, was born the son of a wealthy Jewish merchant in Kiev and, having little sympathy for the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, left Russia and spent most of his later career as an expatriate in Paris where he taught at the Sorbonne. His intellectual reputation was made with two books Dostoevsky and Nietzsche: Th e Philosophy of Tragedy and Th e Idea of the Good in Tolstoy and Nietzsche: Philosophy and Preaching (1905). In his expression of opposition to any systematic morality, he was closer to Nietzsche than Tolstoy and his philosophical defence of the individual against dogma

72 Brigitte Koyama-Richard, Tolstoï et le Japon (Paris: Publications Orientalistes de France, 1990), 11–13. 73 As there is no evidence that Miki could read Russian, he probably translated the essay from the 1929 German edition of In Job’s Balances (Auf Hiob’s Waage). Reprinted in MKZ, XVII, 325–9. given up to nature and to books 41 appears to have foreshadowed the spirit of existentialism.74 Although he seems largely forgotten by all but a few specialists today, he was an extremely important fi gure in Western European literature in general and among the French literati in particular aft er the First World War. He has been described by a contemporary literary critic and fellow expatriate Prince D. S. Mirsky as an irrationalist and immoralist, a “pure spiritualist” who valued the human personality above both ideas and systems. Inspired by Dostoevsky and Nietzsche, Shestov turned to the experiences of the great mystics, Pascal, St. Paul and Plotinus in the belief that the only way to approach God was through the transcendence of logic and morality and that this could only be obtained through the experience of the most profound crisis—of that “ultimate tragedy”, as Mirsky put it, “which makes a man dead to life.” Only when a man is dead to life, according to Shestov, can he really know God.75 Young Japanese were perhaps attracted to Shestov because of the suggestion of Buddhist-like transcendence within his religious thought. Th e appeal of Turgenev, on the other hand, lay in his evocation of the Russian countryside and his eloquent portrayal of man’s relation to both nature and society. His works came to have special signifi cance for Japanese writers such as Doppo. Th is was partly because Turgenev had similar concerns to many Meiji Japanese, becoming convinced of the need for Russia to absorb Western Europe’s “superior” culture, whilst, at the same time, maintaining a sense of Russian identity. Miki read Futabatei’s famous translation of A Huntsman’s Notes sometimes referred to as Sportsman’s Sketches.76 In 1888 Futabatei Shimei, a former student of Russian at the Tokyo Foreign Language School, published a translation of Turgenev’s “Th e Rendezvous”, a story fromA Huntsman’s Notes. So successful was Futabatei’s translation, not only in its faith- fulness to the original but in the elegance of its Japanese, that it was considered an important work of Meiji literature.77 Originally published between 1847 and 1851 and translated into English in 1855, A Huntsman’s Notes established Tugenev’s reputation

74 Evelyn Bristol, “Turn of a Century: 1895–1925,” in Th e Cambridge History of Russian Literature, ed. Charles A. Moser (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 403. 75 D. S. Mirsky, Contemporary Russian Literature 1881–1925 (London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., 1933), 172–4. 76 MKZ, XIX, 854. 77 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 113. 42 chapter one in Japan with its character sketches of Russian peasants and landown- ers and intimate feeling for nature. According to Victor Rip, it was, moreover, a response to the peculiar Russian features at the time; the lack of a middle class consciousness, a lack of interest in contesting commercial interests, the absence of an infl uential church or judiciary and an underdeveloped civil society, all of which to varying degrees had existed in Japan’s recent past. It was also an expression of the obshchestvo, the loose formation of disparate elements who were outside a society which was normally totally dominated by government. For these dissenters literature became a vehicle for discussing social issues and A Huntsman’s Notes was particularly infl uential in demonstrating the way in which the oppression of serfdom became absorbed in daily life. Peasants exploited other peasants becoming complicit with the system not through greed or malice, but because it was impossible to imagine any other way of life. It was easy, therefore, for the voices of the obshchestvo to turn into the voices of despair since too oft en they were the voices of men who lacked any sense that real choices existed in the world.78 Th e inclusion of Shestov and Turgenev in Wanderings through the World of Books is also important since these writers form a link between Miki’s past and his present; the exile Shestov mirrored his own intense religiosity and spiritualism. Th e outsider Turgenev with his Roka-like humanism perhaps refl ected Miki’s own struggles with his social conscience aft er becoming what he had most feared as a young man, a dilettante—a “danpensakusha” or jobbing writer—exposed to the full force of political pressure to conform.79 Other foreign books cited in Wanderings through the World of Books include Ibsen’s Th e Master Builder (1892) which Miki read in Japanese translation. However, his English language skills had developed to such a degree by his fi ft h year in junior high school that he was able to read Enemy of the People (1882) entirely in English.80 Ibsen’s stage plays with their emphasis on the value of individual freedom were highly infl uential when they were fi rst performed in Japan. John Gabriel Borkman was performed in 1909, and in 1911 Th e Doll’s House was enthusiastically

78 Victor Ripp, “Turgenev as a Social Novelist: Th e Problem of the Part and the Whole,” in Literature and Society in Imperial Russia 1800–1914, ed. William Mills Todd III (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1978), 239–40. 79 MKZ, XVIII, 6. 80 MKZ, XIX, 856. given up to nature and to books 43 received by a packed house in Tokyo. Also popular in Japan at the time was the work of the Italian novelist, playwright and poet Gabriele d’Annunzio (1863–1938). Miki read Trionfo della Morte (Triumph of Death, 1894) presumably in his last year at junior high school just aft er it been translated into Japanese in 1913 by Ikuta Chōkō (1882–1936) creating a profound impression on the Japanese literary public.81 Described by Andrè Gide as a man who was short and devoid of any exterior sign of literature or genius,82 d’Annunzio eventually became an exponent of populist ultra-nationalism and fi nally ended up endorsing fascism to the delight of Mussolini’s regime which showered him with honours.83 Needless to say, d’Annunzio later became a target for Miki’s criticism of irrationalism and totalitarianism in the 1930s.84 Looking back from the perspective of 1941, Miki recalled a particularly strong association with Oscar Wilde’s Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898) which he claims to have greatly enjoyed reading at junior high school. Moreover, he was “impressed” by Wilde’s De Profundis,85 a letter of bitter self-reproach as well as reproach for ‘Bosie’, Lord Alfred Douglas, whilst Wilde was in prison. Published in part in 1905, De Profundis was also an apologia for Wilde’s conduct and enjoyed a mixed reception when it was fi rst published. Although most reviewers praised it for its poignancy and the undeniable beauty of its prose, nearly all accused Wilde of insincerity, agreeing that it was no more than a “literary feat.”86 In 1912, T. W. H. Crosland, one of Wilde’s fi ercest critics and friend of Lord Alfred Douglas, wrote: “A blacker, fi ercer, falser, craft ier, more grovelling or more abominable piece of writing never fell from mortal pen.”87 Although undoubtedly the work of a huge ego and unapologetic hedonist, as a statement of what critic E. V. Lucas deemed to be “the triumph of the literary will over the most

81 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 632. 82 André Gide, Journals 1889–1949, trans. Justin O’Brien (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1967), entry for 28 December 1895. 83 Roger Griffi n ed., Fascism, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 35. 84 See for example, “Gendai no rōmanshugi nitsuite” (On the modern romanticism), MKZ, X, 373–391 and “Higōrishugiteki Keikō ni tsuite” (On irrational trends), MKZ, X, 392–409. 85 MKZ, I, 376. 86 E. V. Lucas, Times Literary Supplement, 24 February 1905 in Oscar Wilde: Th e Critical Heritage, ed. Karl Beckson (London and New York: Routledge, 1974), 244. 87 T. W. H. Crosland, foreword to Th e First Stone: On Reading the Unpublished Por- tions of Oscar Wilde’s “De Profundis” (1912) in Oscar Wilde, Beckson ed., 323. 44 chapter one disadvantageous conditions,”88 it doubtless held tremendous appeal and symbolism for Miki in later life. The timing of the publication of Miki’s autobiography, indeed, prompts the question of whether he was making a political statement, rather than recording a genuine moment of recollection. Th ere were Japanese translations of Wilde’s poems and novels around in fi rst years of the twentieth century, Salomé for example had been translated in 1909. Th e young poet Satō Haruo (1892–1964) published “On the Sale by Auction of Keats’ Love Letters” in 1911 and, during the following three years, also published translations of Wilde’s poetry at regular intervals. Tanizaki Jun’ichiro’s short novel Jōtarō (1914) was praised as Tanizaki’s Picture of Dorian Gray.89 While it is possible that Miki could have read Wilde’s Ballad of Reading Gaol at junior high school, it is more likely that he would have read De Profundis at a later date if only because its homosexual allusions would have made it unsuit- able for Japanese school children at time of moral rectitude in Japan. Nishida also refers to De Profundis in Zen no Kenkyū (An inquiry into the good, 1911) under the heading “Religion” (Part IV),90 and it could have been Nishida, therefore, who introduced Miki to this work. Th ere is little doubt that these books are symbolic as both a reminder of his brief imprisonment in 1930 and, arguably, as a criticism by analogy of the repressiveness of Japan’s judicial system and the harshness of her prisons. Th e fact that by the late 1930s Wilde was condemned as decadent by the Japanese authorities,91 can only add to his political signifi cance in Miki’s life-story. Th is exposure to an ever-widening world of books fuelled Miki’s early ambition to become a writer and he referred to this period at junior high school as his “artistic life.” He was fi rst inspired in his choice of career by the primary school poetry teacher known only as Mr. Tada and later by Terada. In Th e Unspoken Philosophy, however, Miki recalled a specifi c incident which led to his early ambition to become a writer. He revealed that in his second year at junior high school, “a friend who was intimate with T. sensei at the time told me: “T. sensei has great hopes for you. He is always telling us that you will surely be

88 Lucas, 247–8. 89 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 637 and 734. 90 Nishida Kitarō, A Study of Good trans. V. H. Vigliemo (Westwood: Greenwood Press, 1988), 184. 91 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 1173. given up to nature and to books 45 a good writer.” Miki was greatly moved by these words during a period when he was suff ering from what he described as a “certain tendency towards deep melancholia.” Fired with enthusiasm, he penned essays, attempted drama, ventured into literary criticism and wrote poetry. For inspiration he read Baudelaire, Verlaine, Wilde, Wordsworth and Milton, as well as Flaubert and Maupassant. At the time he read very little “philosophical science,” but later on “philosophy began to rear its head” and in the last term of his fi ft h year at junior high school he began to entertain hopes of becoming a philosopher.92 Looking back at his junior high school years in Wanderings through the World of Books, during the latter part especially, Miki realised that he had read quite indiscriminately. Th is enthusiasm for reading he put down to the capitalist development of the country and accompanying social changes.93 He looked nostalgically upon his junior high school years as a period of unbridled freedom. He read in a disorderly fashion; blissfully, pensively, innocently; unaware that in such freedom there is also danger: Th e latter part of my time at junior high school was a chaotic period of voracious reading [. . .] in which we behaved like entrepreneurs and adventurers. [. . .] Th at words could also be dangerous did not at that time occur to me. I read books and in reading books I read about myself as well as about other people. [. . .] In one sense what books I did read, I read by chance. On the other hand, there was a sense in which there was a certain inevitability in my choice of reading.94 His statement that “words could also be dangerous” is highly signifi cant in two respects; fi rstly in terms of what Miki himself revealed about the impact of his reading and secondly in terms of the government’s responses to this qualitative and quantitative explosion in reading. Th e Unspoken Philosophy reveals a darker side to Miki’s world of books which was carefully excised from his ‘offi cial’ life-story. He admitted that; “although I did not believe in my schooling or my teachers, I did believe in books and magazines.” Moreover, his voracious reading led him to accept overnight what he called “the random thoughts of the educated classes who wrote either for motives of glory or to earn their daily bread.” Whatever was new, was revelatory to him: Whatever

92 MKZ, XVIII, 19. 93 MKZ, I, 380. 94 MKZ, I, 381. 46 chapter one the age accepted at the time as true, was true for him also; “thus,” he stated, “with the wisdom of a dog, I doubted the wisdom of man.” He confessed that to some extent his reading was a mere feat of memory for names; “as many names as possible of people who never said things that were the least bit diff erent, and I memorised as much as possible of whatever was said that was new.” He believed that through this kind of indiscriminate reading “what we call ‘old thought’ would be destroyed.” Th us, his youthful scepticism arose because of his habit of collecting knowledge randomly rather than being the result of his own original thought. If he was a sceptic, it was only because he thought himself superior to other people. He doubted for the sake of doubting and his doubt was the product of “a dishonest life.” It was this type of “false” scepticism that Miki despised in much of Naturalist writing. His passion for books encouraged his “vanity,” “recalcitrance” and “doubts towards authority,” and his chaotic reading was instrumental in uncorking the rebelliousness which he had kept bottled up at primary school. He stated that, unable to contain himself any longer, “I collided with my physical training teacher, opposed the head of the arts department, and even went as far as to be insubordinate to the headmaster.” So fi red was he with enthusiasm for argument and discussion that he “burned with a vague ambition to become a politician.” Even ignoring the seeming contradiction in burning with a “vague” ambition, this Freudian slip perhaps reveals a deep-seated ambiguity towards politics which was to become more signifi cant in later life. Miki also admitted that he was not a particularly diligent student at junior high school. He was rarely pressed very hard and about once a month he would simply decide to stay up and read all night. His powers of concentration were expended mainly in walking and reading, but he nevertheless shone in comparison with his peers. Even in this, however, there was nothing to be proud of since; “I who had stronger powers of concentration and intellect was energetic in both ambition and vanity. [. . .] I was stubborn and obstinate. In such a bad thing I had something like talent.”95 It is perhaps little wonder, then, that the Japanese government had begun to view the development of wider reading and readership in Japan with deep suspicion. Th e growing hunger for books, the apparent freedom to choose from both Japanese and Western canons of literature, whether in the original language or in translation, the proliferation of

95 MKZ, XVIII, 10–16. given up to nature and to books 47 newspapers and magazines which extended the act of reading across whole swathes of Japanese society would inevitably confl ict with government objectives to control the dissemination of ‘dangerous thought’. By the late Meiji period waves of dissent were beginning to wash over intellectuals who were busy making new departures in literary and artistic expression. According to Huff man, what sets the decade aft er 1905 apart from anything that had gone before it was the sense of crisis among the political and intellectual elite in the battle to control the direction of society’s beliefs and norms.96 A new press law was passed in 1909 which revived government powers of censorship and in 1910 the uncovering of an alleged plot to assassinate the Meiji emperor and the subsequent ‘High Treason’ trial was grist to the mill for those who sought to curtail the infl uence of ‘foreign’ ideas. In the aft ermath of the trial the notorious Special Higher Police (tokubetsu kōtō keisatsu), the eyes and ears of the Home Ministry who became known disparagingly as the ‘thought police’, were formed in 1912. Aft erwards, censorship began to gather a sinister momentum of its own. According to Richard Mitchell, by early Taishō the wide-ranging censorship of all printed matter was such a deeply entrenched activity of the Home Ministry that the censorship mill continued to grind like a perpetual-motion machine, no matter who led the government.97 In 1941 Miki was writing his autobiography from the perspective of one who had been caught and, according to some interpretations, ground down by this machinery.

Conclusion

Miki’s Notes on Life written in 1941 begins with a section entitled “On Death”. Th is work was published around the same time as Wanderings through the World of Books. It is perhaps no coincidence that, in his autobiography also, Miki’s earliest childhood memory is not connected his books but with a narrow escape from drowning in the village pond

96 James L. Huff man, Creating a Public: People and Press in Meiji Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1997), 312–3. 97 Richard H. Mitchell, “Th e rise of the surveillance state, 1900–1917,” in Meiji Japan, Vol. IV, ed. Kornicki, 66. 48 chapter one while playing with friends when he was six years old. Miki praised his young friends who managed to get him out of the pond and thanked his good fortune that he was not alone at the time, “in which case the story would have been very diff erent.”98 Th is episode is worthy of special consideration since it speaks volumes about Miki’s state of mind in 1941. Th e psychologist Irving Alexander considered primacy, the tendency to write fi rst about what is on one’s mind at the time, to be a principle identifi er of salience, and incidents cited as earliest memories are examples of primacy.99 At the time of writing Wanderings through the World of Books Miki’s thoughts were likely to be turning to the problem of generativity, of what he would leave behind, or more specifi cally, what part of him would survive his death. It is from the perspective of what personality psychologists call the “generativity script” that Miki tells his life-story. His recollections of childhood reading in Wanderings through the World of Books are symptomatic of his mid-life reordering of earlier experiences—“his individual history as a child functioning in a child’s world.”100 Miki’s books serve as a symbolic chain of reference linking his past, present and future. As such they reveal less about Miki’s childhood and adolescent state of mind than his psychological state during mid-life crisis. Th e Unspo- ken Philosophy, on the other hand, is vitally important in providing a relatively unreconstructed narrative of childhood and early adolescence because of its temporal proximity to these points in Miki’s life cycle. At the age of twenty-three the young idealist did not as yet realise the full signifi cance of subtle changes taking place in the laws governing freedom of the press. Yet its pages reveal the enormous power of the written word and its potential to breed discontent among impression- able youth. Wanderings through the World of Books, particularly in the references to Oscar Wilde’s Reading Gaol and De Profundis, was undoubtedly also a vehicle for criticising the extreme authoritarianism and censorship which had all but destroyed Miki’s career by 1941. In this sense Miki’s books became political utterances.

98 MKZ, XIX, 853. 99 Alan C. Elms, Uncovering Lives: Th e Uneasy Alliance of Biography and Psychology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 245–7. 100 McAdams (1988), 8. CHAPTER TWO

WANDERINGS IN THE WOOD OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE

So I wandered in that wood of human knowledge, amid the gleams of mathematical and experimental science which showed me clear horizons but in a direction where there could be no home, and also amid the darkness of the abstract sciences where I was immersed in deeper gloom the further I went, and where I fi nally convinced myself that there was, and could be, no exit. Leo Tolstoy A Confession Th e days of my youth ripened into maturity and passed; melancholia spread its heavy wings over my heart. Intangible desolation—with blind eyes I looked around aimlessly. Persistent anguish—with helpless hands I clutched in vain at the empty air. It was a period when, rather than frolicking in the glittering, sunlit fi elds, I sought the loneliness of my gloomy little room. Rather than being patted on the head and praised by the crowds, I wanted nothing more than to be embraced in the arms of just one person. Miki Kiyoshi Th e Unspoken Philosophy It could be argued that the enormous political and social changes implicit in the phrases ‘Taishō democracy’ and ‘Taishō liberalism’ impacted most heavily upon Miki’s generation. Although some historians have concluded that the Taishō period (1912–1926) was neither particularly liberal nor democratic,1 it was nevertheless characterised by a burgeoning popular democracy movement and a hitherto unprecedented modern urban cosmopolitanism. Th e Meiji generation began to despair of the young people’s ability to preserve those ideals which had served the nation so well in the recent past, and Taishō youth appeared to be entertaining very diff erent ideas about the direction of Japanese culture and society. In 1916 the writer and political commentator Tokutomi Sohō (1863–1957) called upon Taishō youth to address the “illness of our times” which he saw as “the loss of state ideals and

1 See for example the relevant essays in Harry Wray and Hilary Conroy eds., Japan Examined: Perspectives on Modern Japanese History, (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1983), 171–98. 50 chapter two national purpose.”2 Th e contemporary journalist and critic, Hasegawa Nyozekan (1875–1969) commented that the modern character of the Japanese intelligentsia with all its “virtues and foibles, its strengths and weaknesses” rests on the shoulders of the generation who experienced their “age of anguish” during the Taishō period.3 While foreign books played an unprecedented part in infl uencing attitudes towards modernity and, by extension, the West in the 1920s and 1930s this generation also spearheaded what some historians have termed a ‘revolt against the West’.4 Ultimately expressions of anxiety about Japanese identity metamorphosed into a symposium in 1942 on ‘Overcoming Modernity’ in which leading philosophers and literati spoke frankly about “Western civilisation and its reception in modern Japan.”5 In the meantime, aft er graduating from Tatsuno Junior High School, Miki was able to take advantage of changes in post-compulsory and higher education which had begun to expand during the late Meiji period. Miki’s alma mater, Kyoto Imperial University, was founded in 1897, the year of his birth, and two more ‘imperial’ universities, Tōhoku in the north and Kyushu in the south, were added to the already existing imperial universities of Tokyo and Kyoto in 1910. Miki was one of those rare commoners who were able to enjoy the fruits of a university education. Many left home, possibly for the fi rst time in their lives, to attend higher schools, three year college level institutions which prepared students for the imperial universities. However, university education was extended only to a tiny minority. In 1917, the year Miki entered university, the number of students in offi cially recognised universities, colleges and higher schools was still less than 10,000.6

2 H. D. Harootunian, “Introduction: A Sense of An Ending and the Problem of Taishō,” in Japan in Crisis: Essays on Taisho Democracy, ed. Bernard S. Silberman and H. D. Harootunian (Ann Arbor, Michigan: University of Michigan, 1974; reprinted 1999), 10. 3 Ibid. 4 See Tetsuo Najita and H. D. Harootunian, “Japanese revolt against the West: political and cultural criticism in the twentieth century” in Th e Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 6, ed. Peter Duus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 711–774. 5 Minamoto Ryōen, “Th e Symposium on ‘Overcoming Modernity’” in Rude Awak- enings: Zen, the Kyoto School, & the Question of Nationalism, ed. James W. Heisig and John C. Maraldo (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1995), 197. 6 Th e numbers more than quadrupled from 9,040 in 1918 to 38,731 in 1923 increasing to 70,893 by 1933. Byron K. Marshall, Academic Freedom and the Japanese Imperial University, 1868–1939 (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1992), 83. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 51

In 1914, just as Europe was about to descend into a cataclysmic war of unimaginable horrors, the seventeen-year-old Miki left home to attend the First Higher School or Ichikō (Daiichi Kōtō Gakkō) in Tokyo. Whereas his junior high school years were “a chaotic period of voracious reading,”7 at this stage in his life Miki’s choice of reading became more coherent and systematic. While he continued to study the teachings of Shinran, for the fi rst time a non-Japanese writer and fellow countryman of Shestov and Turgenev, Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910), began to exert a powerful infl uence, not so much by providing the right answers, but by posing the right identity questions. In A Confes- sion (1879–82), Tolstoy described his quest for the “answers to life’s questions” having undergone a great spiritual conversion whilst writing Anna Karenina in 1879. He likened his search to the experiences of a man wandering in a wood of human knowledge, “amid the gleams of mathematical and experimental science which showed me clear horizons but in a direction where there could be no home.”8 In Tolstoy’s description of the search for his spiritual ‘home’, nothing could more aptly describe Miki’s own journey to self-discovery and he evidently borrowed Tolstoy’s confessional style for Th e Unspoken Philosophy. At the First Higher School hundreds of Japanese youths grew to manhood, many of them fi nding faith. Some signifi cantly converted to Christianity and it appeared for a time as though Miki might also be drawn to some form of Protestantism. His quest for the answers to life’s big questions was not undertaken in isolation and at this point a comparison with the Christian convert Yanaihara Tadao (1893–1961) presents itself as a way of explaining why some young Japanese converted to Christianity and others did not, even though there may have been strong similarities in family background. Both Miki and Yanaihara appeared to be typical First Higher School students. Andrew Barshay in his biography of the Christian educator Nanbara Shigeru (1889–1974) who attended the school from 1907 described “a typical First Higher School product: strong in sense of self and service incumbent upon status, but practically faceless when seen from without.” Many students shared with Nanbara the experience of going through “a season

7 MKZ, I, 381. 8 Leo Tolstoy, Th e Works of Leo Tolstoy, Vol. II: A Confession and the Gospel in Brief, trans. Aylmer Maude (London: Oxford University Press, 1933), 30. 52 chapter two of disorientation, a “‘groping search’ for something he could neither identify nor express.”9 Yanaihara was born, four years before Miki, to a farming family of ‘commoner’ origins in relatively nearby Ehime Prefecture on the island of Shikoku just across the Inland Sea from Miki’s home town. Th e two men had remarkably similar backgrounds in early childhood, with strong Buddhist and Confucian infl uences at home. While farming was the main provider, both families were comfortably well off due largely to additional sources of income. While Miki’s family had made their fortune as rice merchants, Yanaihara’s father came from a long line of early practitioners of Western medicine.10 Aft er a typical rural primary school education, both attended traditionally-minded and conservative junior high schools in Hyogo prefecture, Yanaihara in relatively cosmopolitan Kobe and Miki in rural Tatsuno. At the First Higher School, however, they found themselves challenged by the relatively liberal atmosphere and were exposed to Christian teachings and theology which they studied enthusiastically. Aft er a long period of soul searching, Yanaihara converted to the mukyōkai (non-church) sect of Protestant Christianity, but Miki, although deeply interested in all things Christian and profoundly infl uenced by Tolstoy, did not. From this point the two men’s lives followed increasingly divergent trajectories which would have a profound infl uence on their moral and political choices in later life. Th e aim of such a comparison is to throw into sharp relief the interplay between the social, ideological and psychological factors acting upon young Japanese like Miki and Yanaihara during the Taishō period.

9 Nanbara Shigeru was also from a rural background, born to a farming family in Kagawa Prefecture, Shikoku. However, while there are many points of comparison with both Yanaihara and Miki which off er possibilities for investigation, Nanbara was considerably older than Miki and had been born the son of an impoverished samurai to be raised in relative poverty by his mother and grandparents aft er his parents’ divorce. He, therefore, lacked the specifi cally ‘commoner’ or non-samurai roots which were so important to both Yanaihara’s and Miki’s sense of identity. See Andrew E. Barshay, State and Intellectual in Imperial Japan: Th e public man in crisis (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1988), 51–2. 10 Townsend (2000), 18. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 53

Th e First Higher School and the liberal experiment

Despite the infl uences of Western literature and an increasingly sophisticated nation-wide press to which he had access, no amount of reading could prepare Miki for the personal anguish and culture shock which accompanied his move to the bustling capital. It was not only the change in the pace of life, from the quiet village and its rural rhythms to the pressured and competitive environment of the nation’s most prestigious higher school, which presented the greatest challenge to his life so far. By world standards Japanese cities were impressive in the sheer size and density of their populations. In 1920 Tokyo, for example, had reached 3.35 million and Osaka 1.25 million people. Compared with cities world-wide even the United States had only three cities with populations over one million, New York, Chicago and Philadelphia, and only Berlin and Paris in Europe and London and Glasgow in Britain could match this. In addition Kobe, Nagoya and Yokohama all had populations numbering over half a million and a further ten cities Nagasaki, Hiroshima, Hakodate, Kure, Kanazawa, Sendai, Otaru, Sapporo, Yawata and Kagoshima had populations of over 100,000.11 Japan’s great cities became crucibles for a new conception of modern life which, borrowing heavily from the West, gave meaning to the bunkashugi (culturalism), bunka jūtaku (cultural residences) and bunka seisaku (cultural life) which, as Miki stated, symbolised the Taishō period.12 Miki’s own experience of moving to Tokyo was characteristic of the rupturing of familial ties and the loneliness and sense of disorientation which accompanied these demographic trends. Th e writer Yanagita Kunio observed that the loneliness of city life made people into travellers who yearned so much for their families and attached so much importance to their home village that the cities were increasingly “fi lled with residents who were not attached to anything, anywhere.”13 More signifi cant for the traditionally educated youth was the sudden confrontation with a whole new world of Western European and North American values and beliefs. Th e First Higher School’s former principle Nitobe Inazō (1862–1933) was a Quaker who had studied in the United States and Germany and had done much to change the school’s ethos

11 Harootunian (2000), 8. 12 MKZ, I, 402. 13 Cited in Harootunian (2000), 9. 54 chapter two towards more liberal education. During his illustrious career he gained a reputation as a great internationalist and as a ‘bridge across the Pacifi c’. Aft er leaving the First Higher School and lecturing in Tokyo Imperial University, he became Under Secretary-General of the Secretariat of the League of Nations, serving in London in 1919 and in Geneva from 1920 until 1927.14 Before leaving in 1913 Nitobe was responsible for instigating a series of highly controversial reforms to turn the school away from its traditionally conservative attitudes towards what became known as the ‘new liberalism’, which to some extent was coterminous with the wider, though limited, social and political liberalism of the Taishō period. Nitobe’s reforms had provoked strong reactions among conservatives and traditionalists within the school who tried to oust him from his post.15 Th e First Higher School itself had been at the centre of debates about issues such as educational and institutional autonomy as well as individual freedom of speech and conscience, issues which were to become central to the lives of both Miki and Yanaihara in the mid-1930s. In 1891, for example, the school had become the stage for one of the fi rst tests of the limits of religious freedom in Japan when a notorious scandal broke out involving one of its staff . Th e Christian evangelist and founder of the mukyōkai or non-church society, Uchimura Kanzō (1861–1930) was dismissed aft er refusing to bow to a signed copy of the Imperial Rescript on Education on the grounds that to do so would constitute an act of idolatry expressly proscribed by his fundamentalist Christian beliefs. Similar acts of dissent in schools in Kumamoto and Nagoya were regarded as disloyal to the imperial family and treated as ‘heretical’, leading to heated debates and, increasingly, attacks on Christianity which became regarded specifi cally as the source of such heresy.16 It was at the First Higher School also that, on 1 February 1911, Tokutomi Roka delivered a critical speech entitled “Muhon-ron” (On Rebellion), in defence of the anarchist Kōtoku Shūsui who had recently been executed aft er the High Treason Incident.17

14 See preface to Nitobe Inazō, Reminiscences of Childhood, (Tokyo: Maruzen, 1934). 15 Fujita Wakao, “Yanaihara Tadao: Disciple of Uchimura Kanzō and Nitobe Inazō,” in Pacifi cism in Japan: Th e Christian and Socialist Tradition, ed. Nobuya Bamba and John F. Howes (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1978), 201. 16 Horio, 73. 17 Barshay, 54. Sometimes pronounced ‘bōhan-ron’, rather than ‘muhon-ron’, Roka’s title was not publicised in advance, instead the subject was given as ‘not yet decided’. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 55

Despite the limits to liberalism in Taishō Japan, it can be said that when Miki arrived at the school in 1914, just one year aft er Nitobe had left , ideas about the democratisation and liberalisation of society were aired more openly and an accompanying movement for freer education led by a number of enlightened individuals became noticeable in various educational establishments, although more so in the private sector.18

Intimations of loneliness

Miki entered an environment which, therefore, boasted a pioneering outlook on education. It also had a relatively long track record of generally liberal attitudes which seemed radical at the time. Th is in itself was intellectually and ideologically challenging, but he also found himself distressingly adrift without the social networks which were such an important lifeline within Japanese society. He stated that, despite the rapidly changing social conditions in some parts of the country, his village was comparatively isolated. Certainly there was no tradition at his junior high school of sending pupils into the higher echelons of further education: When I left junior high school, I alone left for Tokyo. When I entered the First Higher School, there was not a single sempai [senior pupil] there from my school and when I graduated three years later no pupils followed immediately behind me. Under the particular social conditions within our country at the time, what did it mean to be the only fresher from a particular home village? Perhaps that can be left to the reader’s imagination.19 Such isolation from mainstream developments in education and educational networks, particularly with regard to the sempai-deshi (senior- junior pupil) relationship, was by no means the case for all adolescents leaving home for the capital. It is in sharp contrast, for example, to the

Although the students who invited Roka to speak at the annual meeting of the Oratorio Society knew what the subject was, the then principal, Nitobe Inazō, was not informed and off ered his resignation in the ensuing furore. Th e students apologised to Nitobe and to the Minister for Education. Roka himself wrote to the minister urging him not to accept Nitobe’s resignation. Finally Nitobe was merely censured, but Roka suff ered violent attacks in the press and at public meetings. Kenneth Strong, introduction to Kenjiro Tokutomi Footprints in the Snow, 37–8. 18 Horio, 78. 19 MKZ, I, 381. 56 chapter two experience of Yanaihara who had entered the First Higher School in 1910, four years before Miki. Unlike provincial Tatsuno, Yanaihara’s Junior High School in Kobe had a well-connected educational network and had developed a tradition of sending pupils to the First Higher School and then onward and upward to the imperial universities. In his autobiography, Yanaihara stated that a young intellectual-type called Kawanishi Jitsuzō had moved up to the First Higher School but had kept in touch with his old school where he was revered as a sempai (senior pupil). He befriended juniors at the school with a view to preparing them for the move to Tokyo by means of letters and returning to Kobe periodically to inform them of the exciting changes taking place at the school under its then principal Nitobe.20 Th is type of school tradition, through which Yanaihara was able to strike up a close friendship with his “Tokyo brother,” Kawanishi, provided him with an essential continuity of social structure, what Fukutake called “communitarian familistic interpersonal relations.”21 Th is network undoubtedly eased the transition for him. Even so the challenge was daunting, and Yanaihara admitted to standing at the gates of the school and refl ecting on his “powerlessness, smallness, weakness and ugliness.”22 However, he never hinted at, or at least never admitted to, any acute sense of loneliness or insecurity and had evidently felt himself to be well-prepared for the transition through his school’s connections with the First Higher School.23 Miki, on the other hand, had never felt so completely alone. Th e suggestion in Wanderings through the World of Books that his particular situation was a little unusual in comparison with fellow students only added to his sense of isolation. He complained that his rural upbringing and relatively narrow experience had left him singularly unprepared and without the necessary social skills he needed for making new friends. He was, he stated, “ever the lonely country yokel from the time I went to live in Tokyo.” Rather enigmatically he ascribed his situation in part to his father’s “rustic inheritance.” Knowing no other families in the city and fi nding it impossible to come into contact with any type of

20 Yanaihara Tadao, “Watakushi no Ayundekita Michi,” (Th e Road I have Walked), YTZ, XXVI, 225. 21 Fukutake, 41. 22 Yanaihara Isaku, “Yanaihara-den,” Asahi Jaanaru, 11 March 1975, 40. 23 YTZ, XXVI, passim. See also his “Nikki” (Diaries), YTZ, XXVIII, passim. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 57 family environment,24 Miki was desperately isolated from the normal pattern of extended familial relationships. In this state of social and cultural disorientation he began to think more about religion but, in retrospect, he found it diffi cult to separate the true search for faith from youthful sentimentality: In loneliness there is perhaps something of the sentimentality of youth and a tendency for lonely youths to turn to religion, or rather, adopt a religious frame of mind—a religious frame of mind which is both for and against religion. Religion itself, in opposition to the religious frame of mind which is more or less sentimental, overcomes and transcends sentimentality. Although I thought in religious terms, more oft en than not, this did not get beyond the merely sentimental.25 He stated that at a time when the “Japanese world of thought” tended towards introspection, this kind of sentimentality was very widespread among his peers.26 Eventually Miki struck up a close friendship with Miyajima Toshimi with whom he shared his religious sentiments and went with him one summer to the Zen temple of Engaku-ji in Kamakura to meditate. Th ere is otherwise little information in Wanderings through the World of Books about the nature of this friendship or others. Indeed, there is a palpable sense of unease about discussing the oft en intense youthful emotions surrounding interpersonal relationships. It could be that the immediacy and intensity of his emotions had simply become dimmed by the mists of time, since in Th e Unspoken Philosophy the twenty- three year old was painfully frank about the intensity of his emotions, stating that: Perhaps through the whole of my conscious existence, I have been an idealist. I have lived with a heart (kokoro) which, rather than seeing an apple fall from a tree and experiencing a sense of wonder, sees a star glittering in the sky and experiences awesome sympathy. [. . .] In the midst of the embrace of my youthful melancholy, even a single white fl ower just beginning to bloom was, in reality, born out of this heart. For me nothing was more worth living for than acquiring a taste for the beauties of art, or being engrossed in a good book. Oh! To live eternally in my dreaming, childlike heart!27

24 MKZ, I, 381–2. 25 Ibid., 382. 26 Ibid. 27 MKZ, XVIII, 22. 58 chapter two

It could be that the middle-aged Miki simply chose to omit many personal details from his published autobiography. The Unspoken Philosophy, on the other hand, also reveals that Miki’s problems with authority and his increasing rebelliousness were at the root of his struggle to adjust at the First Higher School. He confessed that his antagonistic attitudes towards people had become a habit, causing him to lash out thoughtlessly “for whatever motive or whatever reason.” Since this antagonism was a response to external events and forces, he had diffi culty in understanding its point of origin, even feeling opposition when, in fact, there was none: In the midst of my truly wretched loneliness, I became aware of my own spitefulness, but it was not easy for me to break the habit and to consider it from the outside. My friends termed this characteristic of mine “overbearing” (oshi ga tsuyoi). [. . .] Two or three of them counselled: “You are not good at coping with misfortune. You must face up to it and deal it a great blow.”28 Th rough the criticism of his friends, Miki began to learn the lesson of humility returning oft en to these words in his eff orts to mend his ways.29 Th ese descriptions of his relationships with his peer group suggest that the mental anguish of being excluded from the group posed enormous psychological problems. He found diffi culty in achieving an awareness of self as an insider of a group or network. On the outside, therefore, he became aggressive, perhaps in an eff ort to protect himself. These psychological factors may explain his motivation in joining a group such as the Shōwa Research Association later in life.

Further excursions into the world of books

Eventually, Miki sought friendship and belonging through the Reading Circle [Dokushokai] which, along with the infl uential Debating Club [Benronbu], was important in fostering networks and a sense of camara- derie which oft en continued into university and beyond. Miki recalled, for example, that fellow Reading Circle member Kuraishi Takeshirō, who became a lecturer in Chinese Studies at Kyōdai, had obtained a newly published book called Shinago kyōiku no riron to jissai (Th e

28 Ibid., 19. 29 Ibid. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 59 theory and practice of education in Chinese). He remembered him as a purist who was opposed to reading old texts translated into modern Japanese, preferring instead to “read the original whilst listening to Chinese music.” Others in this circle included Kawabata Shimurō who was, at the time Miki was writing, studying at Tōdai, and Yamamoto Yoshiryū who later became a lecturer in Indian philosophy.30 Miki’s contemporaries at the First Higher School also included the political scientist Rōyama Masamichi (1895–1980) who was just two years older than Miki and had already established a formidable reputation as a student of Western learning: It was rumoured that Rōyama had read absolutely all the translations of books of Western learning which had been published by Dai Nippon Bunmei Kyōkai founded by Okuma Shigenobu. Now, whenever I see Rōyama, an image of his fi gure passing through the library of our school at a certain time every day fl oats before my eyes.31 However, Miki makes no mention of joining the Debating Club of which Yanaihara, on the other hand, was an enthusiastic member. Th is is also evidence of Miki’s outsider status and we may infer that at this stage Miki was more comfortable with books than with people. Although, as he pointed out, it was an age dominated by the literary giant Natsume Sōseki, he regarded Abe Jirō’s Santarō no Nikki [Santarō’s Diary] as truly representative of the age. Apparently, “Iwamoto sensei”, an infl uential tutor of economics and law was a well-known socialist and responsible for introducing his students to the political thought of Nakae Chōmin (1847–1901), Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), Tokutomi Sohō and to the literary fi gure Miyake Setsurei (1860–1945). Th ese intellectual giants of the Meiji period, Miki stated, belonged to the “Age of Eloquence” (yūben jidai) when political oratory was highly valued and reported in magazines such as Yūben (Eloquence)32 which began as a vehicle for disseminating the speeches of political orators. He described a great passion for and pride in the eloquence and beauty of the written form of the Japanese language. Th rough these books, he stated, he began to

30 MKZ, I, 391. 31 Ibid. 32 Th is magazine and other popular high circulation magazines such as Kingu, Kōdan Kurabu, and Shōnen Kurabu were published by Kodansha and aft er 1931 quickly became “a cheering gallery for the Kwantung Army.” Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1998), 72. 60 chapter two consider “thought” as a philosophical, political, cultural and, moreover, “problematic” subject.33 Intellectually at this time there was among the Japanese intelligentsia, according to Miki, a preoccupation with kyōyō or cultural education, a concept which had been introduced and disseminated in Japan by Rafael von Koeber (1848–1923),34 a Russian of German and Swedish extraction who infl uenced a whole generation of young Japanese intellectuals. Miki stated that “we all became sons of Koeber.”35 Moreover, it was a time in which the multitudinous infl uences of Western cultural and philosophical traditions imported into Japan had begun to metamorphose, taking on new forms redolent of the host’s own unique culture. Most importantly for Miki it was “a time in which ‘humanism’, or rather ‘Japanese humanism’ was born and shaped.” Th is included a particular type of “Tolstoyan humanitarianism or religious romanticism centring on the concept of culture.”36 Miki described his three years of study at the First Higher School as “an adventurous, positive time” as he delved further into the great classics of Western literature, including Dante’s Inferno and Goethe’s Faust. Russian literature especially Chekhov’s Th e Cherry Orchard continued to be infl uential. Most importantly, he pursued an increasing interest in philosophy beginning a “journey into the lives” of Schopenhauer (1788–1860) and Nietzsche (1844–1900). As an aid to understanding, he read Watsuji Tetsurō’s studies of Nietzsche and Søren Kierkegaard.37 However, while Wanderings through the World of Books describes the beginnings of Miki’s philosophical education in purely genealogical

33 MKZ, I, 378. 34 Koeber arrived in Japan in 1893, making a great impression on Natsume Sōseki, Abe Jirō and Watsuji Tetsurō to name but a few. He is regarded as being primarily responsible for the introduction of German philosophy into Japan, especially Schopen- hauer, as well as playing a signifi cant part in introducing Western medieval thought and Greek philosophy to his young charges. According to Piovesana his students were impressed more by his personality, than his philosophy, since for them “he was an artistic type of sage-philosopher, who incarnated the almost mystical ideal of a tutor.” Gino K. Piovesana, Recent Japanese Philosophical Th ought 1862–1996: A Survey, with a new survey (1963–96) by Naoshi Yamawaki (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, Japan Library, 1997), 50. 35 MKZ, I, 390. 36 Ibid. Th e diff erences between kyōyō (cultural education) and bunka (culture) are subtle and the complexities of these concepts are discussed at length in the following chapter. 37 MKZ, I, 386. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 61 terms, Th e Unspoken Philosophy once again reveals the full emotional impact of his experience: It was as if I had fallen under the spell of darkness, rather than light; of the intractable, rather than the knowable. During this period there were days when I rebelled against all things to do with the self. I lost interest in everything lucid, logical and conceptual and became sympathetic to the irrational and wilful; and then, for the fi rst time, I had access to the philosophy of Schopenhauer. Th e beautiful but disturbing harmonies of his work were enough to steal my heart away.38 Miki stated that Schopenhauer’s philosophy, with its emphasis on denying the will in order to achieve quietude of spirit, resonated among Taishō youth during a distressing period of development when they were struggling for self-mastery. He wondered, “how many nights have I shed tears over his book?” For Miki, this encounter with philosophy marked a break with destiny causing him to branch out onto a diff erent path. He remarked, “before I knew it I had gone over to Nietzsche.”39 Both Wanderings through the World of Books and Th e Unspoken Philosophy testify to the impact of Nietzsche’s Th us Spoke Zarathustra. Miki was encouraged to read Abe Jirō’s critical study of Zarathustra which had a profound impact conceptually on his readings of the Western European classics and helped him improve his poor reading skills.40 He became so fi red with enthusiasm that in his third year he formed the Philosophical Read- ing Society which attracted around twenty members who began their journey through the Western canon of modern philosophy by reading the neo-Kantian Windelband’s What is Philosophy? However, a darker, more ominous side to the post-Russo-Japanese War years also intruded into Miki’s consciousness. Th ere was, he stated, much talk at this time about the ‘philosophical’ suicide in 1903 of the young scholar Fujimura Misao who, at the age of just seventeen, had thrown himself into the Kegon waterfall near Nikkō, aft er carving his last words on a tree.41 On the eve of the Russo-Japanese War, troubled by rising nationalism and jingoism both in the country at large and

38 MKZ, XVIII, 26. 39 Ibid. 40 MKZ, I, 390. In 1914 Abe (1883–1959) published Santarō no nikki, an expression of his particular brand of religious and ethical personalism, which swift ly became a best-seller among Japanese youth. Piovesana, 70–73. 41 MKZ, I, 386. 62 chapter two at the First Higher School in particular, Fujimura gave expression to hanmon, the spiritual anguish and agony of his generation, inscribing on the tree his belief that life is a meaningless trial not worth enduring, a riddle not to be resolved by philosophy or religion.42 Th e incident caused shock waves throughout Japan and led its youth on a quest for identity which, tragically for some young men, ended in emulating Fujimura’s philosophical suicide. Miki stated that in this atmosphere of foreboding young Japanese, through their reading, began to adopt an attitude of youthful “scepticism”.43

Miki’s period of ‘moratorium’

Gradually Miki began to settle down to the new rhythms of life as a young scholar in the city. As mentioned above, his great love of reading led him to entertain the idea of a career in the literary arts at junior high school, largely due to the encouragement of his teacher Terada Kijirō. At the First Higher School his enthusiasm for literature continued for a while and he stayed in touch with Terada.44 However, Th e Unspoken Philosophy reveals another aspect of this communication between teacher and ex-pupil: When I left junior high school, T. sensei moved to Kagoshima. My vainglorious heart sought to test myself. I wrote a letter and sent it to Kagoshima asking whether or not I had the qualities to become a writer. Now when I refl ect on this, that letter was nothing other than an attempt to satisfy my ambitions.45 Terada apparently wrote back to Miki and encouraged him by telling him “don’t stop”.46 Indeed, Miki developed strong connections with young aspiring writers and enjoyed rowing on the Sumida River with this particular group of friends and reading with them. He continued his interest in rowing even aft er entering Kyoto Imperial University

42 Anesaki Masaharu, History of Japanese Religion with Special Reference to the Social and Moral Life of the Nation (Rutland, Vermont and Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle, 1963), 68. 43 MKZ, I, 386. 44 Ibid., 385. 45 MKZ, XVIII, 43. 46 Ibid. In conversation with Miki’s biographer Uchida Hiroshi, however, it emerged that Terada later denied encouraging Miki to become a writer. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 63 when he would row with friends from the Liberal Arts Department on Lake Biwa.47 However, his ‘destiny’ in terms of his chosen career was still not clear to him and, contrary to the impression we get from Wanderings through the World of Books, it would appear that for most of his time at the First Higher School he remained in a state of both occupational and ideological moratorium. Despite his ambition to be a writer “fate intervened” giving him the opportunity to realise his philosophical quest: However one looks at it, my hopes of becoming a writer were abandoned. [. . .] In part it was because of the necessary preparation for the high school entrance examination, my life at the First Higher School and my contacts in Tokyo. Also it was partly because of going out into the wider world and coming into contact with many new things, thus revitalising my decadent life-style and my stagnant frame of mind.48 Miki viewed this process of exploration as “necessary preparation for arriving at a better level of self-consciousness” which nurtured within him the strength to escape from what he called “a surplus of intoxication with fi n-de-siècle scepticism and decadence.” Indeed, his experiences liberated a highly romantic side to his character and he cultivated an adoration of the “heroic” and the “energetic”. He stated that “I, who had spoken from within scepticism and melancholy, came to speak of dreams and deep emotions.” Not surprisingly, he described himself as a “romanticist” and an “idealist” during this period. Even though Miki abandoned his literary ambitions and “books on literature and the arts were displaced by books on the history of philosophy and outlines of philosophy,” he remained in an agony of doubt about his future. At one time he considered specialising in psychology, but “in an about-face I quickly retreated from this notion.” He turned again to the literature from which “for no good reason” he had dissociated himself. In reality, however, he harboured serious doubts about his abilities: At this time I thought that the philosopher’s greatest qualifi cation lay in his composure. I, who was trying perhaps to become a philosopher, found it impossible to deny the passions which burned at the very centre of my being. [. . .] Moreover, I had completely lost self-confi dence even with regard to my powers of logical thought.49

47 MKZ, I, 385. 48 MKZ, XVIII, 46–7. 49 Ibid., 28. 64 chapter two

He considered becoming an arts critic or even a writer again, but his doubts about his abilities made his love of literature “cowardly”. He became timid; “afraid even to take up a pen for fear of committing an evil deed.” Days came and went in this painful dilemma and his spirit (kokoro) became so weak, that he feared “even the stimulation of the crossroads.” Like Tolstoy he was lost in the wood of human knowledge, unable to fi nd the road out to, what Miki termed, “quiet nature’s embrace.” Eventually, however, the opportunity arose to revisit his interest in philosophy, but as yet he felt no special interest in pursuing an academic career.50 Faith was another area of uncertainty for Miki as he directed his reading towards religion rather than literature: In passing through my high school days much of my reading, comparatively speaking, was religious; not only in terms of what I read, but also in terms of sheer variety. I read books on both Christianity and Buddhism; on Nichirenshū and Shinshū and also on Zen. I enjoyed reading a whole variety of books, but when I think about this today, it seems to have been due to nothing other than the sweet sentimentality of youth.51 Just before he entered the First Higher School he had joined a Bible class run by an American called Strickland who worked in his village as an English teacher. He read the Bible with the initial intention of improving his English language skills, but later confessed that he enjoyed reading it even more in his native language. He stated, I read the Bible repeatedly and each time it made a deep impression on me. However, it was only much later that I came to fully appreciate the interest in the Old Testament. Even today the Bible is constantly at my side.52 However, acceptance of Christianity proved to be more than usually problematic for many Japanese. Oft en its individualism was seen as confl icting with traditional communitarian values of Japanese society and, aft er its reintroduction during the Meiji period, it was viewed with deep suspicion as providing the potential for criticism of the status quo. Christianity was thus at the centre of debates on the merits of ‘traditionalism’ versus ‘modernism’. Nevertheless, Protestantism began to exert a relatively wide infl uence advancing fairly rapidly during the

50 Ibid. 51 MKZ, I, 382. 52 Ibid. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 65

1880s and proving relatively popular among young Japanese53 who, by the end of the nineteenth century, had begun to reshape Christianity Japanese-style because of growing resentment of missionaries’ patronis- ing and pejorative attitudes towards Japanese culture and traditions. Some were appalled by the undignifi ed scramble for Japanese souls and interdenominational in-fi ghting and others, like Uchimura Kanzō, were disillusioned by their experiences abroad, particularly in the United States.54 Th ey responded by gradually taking leadership away from the missionaries, bringing a characteristic Japanese syncretism to bear on the new faith and a number of breakaway movements such as the mukyōkai sprang into being.55 Membership of these early Christian bands was drawn largely from the socially and economically dispossessed class of samurai who chan- nelled their energies into fi nding a new role for themselves in education, journalism and politics. Th ese young men were excited by Christianity’s apparent radicalism and liberalism. Th ey formed extremely close relationships within the bands as their new spiritual ties compounded their similar social and educational backgrounds and their sense of comprising but a small minority within a society oft en hostile to Christianity.56 However, at a time when many adolescents were drawn to idealistic creeds and doctrines promising clear-cut defi nitions or Utopias, Miki remained resistant to conversion to Christianity. Th e emotional process of Miki’s search for the answers to ‘who am I?’ and ‘how do I fi t into the adult world?’ is more immediate in Th e Unspoken Philosophy. Wanderings through the World of Books, on the other hand, comprises an evocative, retrospective view of Miki’s youthful idealism as he rummaged among things ideological. Th e latter is a view coloured, however, by the agenda of mid-life, which is to fi nd the answer to the question of ‘how did I become who I am?’ Th e narratives of both the twenty-three year old and forty-four year old suggest that

53 Richard Henry Drummond, A History of Christianity in Japan (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eermans, 1971), 93 and 185. 54 See, for example, an account of Uchimura’s visit to the United States in Uchimura Kanzō, “How I Became a Christian, out of my Diary” in Th e Complete Works of Kanzō Uchimura, vol. I, (Tokyo: Kyobunkwan, 1971), 105–112. 55 For further details of the founding of the Mukyōkai and its religious beliefs and practices, see Carlo Caldarola, Christianity: Th e Japanese Way, Monographs and Theo- retical Studies in Sociology and Anthropology in Honour of Lels Anderson, (Leiden, Th e Netherlands: E. J. Brill, 1979). 56 Drummond, 166–171. 66 chapter two during this period he entered a genuine stage of exploration (before making a commitment) or ‘moratorium’ common among adolescents, but the diff erences between the two accounts are signifi cant. Wanderings through the World of Books suggests that, while pulled in the direction of Christianity, he actually performed a volte-face and, through his reading of the Tannishō, made an ideological commitment to Shinshū Buddhism before proceeding to university. Rather tantalisingly, however, there is no mention of this in Th e Unspoken Philosophy, implying that his period of moratorium continued well into his years at university and that Miki’s commitment to Shinshū came much later than he would have us believe in his ‘offi cial’ autobiography. Th e question of what persuaded young men at the First Higher School to choose one religious path over another is an interesting one when placed in a cultural perspective. There is often a temptation to compare Shinshū Buddhism in particular with Protestant Christianity, and the Kamakura ‘reformation’ with the European Protestant Reformation. Although Shinran has been compared to the German religious reformer Martin Luther (1483–1546) these analogies are highly contentious and have been the subject of recent criticism. Many false analogies have arisen because of the characteristically Whig view of European Protestantism which has exaggerated the much vaunted sense of equality and freedom of conscience that the term ‘Protestant’ implies. Th is is especially so when mirrored by an equally characteristic anti-Whiggish view of Japan.57 Th ere is no room in the current work to explore the details of this debate here, but one of the most recent arguments put forward by Galen Amstutz concluded that: A perhaps unexpected outcome of investigating the Protestant analogy between Shin Buddhism and Euro-American Christianity is the discovery that from certain idealized, optimistic perspectives about what the term Protestant can convey—the principles such as individual conscience, tolerance, or freedom from the state [. . .] conceptions which do indeed capture some signifi cant messages of Dissenting and Deist Protestant- isms—the performance of Shin Buddhism was better than that of most European Christianities.58

57 Amstutz, 746. 58 Ibid., 744. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 67

Amstutz admits, however, that in Japan post-1868 visible cracks began to show in the maintenance of such freedoms and toleration. In Wan- derings through the World of Books, Miki himself criticised the analogy between Buddhism and Christianity: Of the Buddhist scriptures it was mostly Jōdo Shinshū which fi tted in with me most perfectly. Th ere are people who see an analogy between Christianity and Buddhism, but I do not think that such a case can be made. I was raised in a Buddhist family and learned through hearing the Shōshin-ge and the Gobunsho being recited by my grandparents and my mother and father. Alone I would recite them kneeling in front of the Butsudan. Reading [Buddhist teachings] formed a major part of my basic education. Bathed in his infl uence from my childhood, in my youth also, my heart was captivated by Shinran.59 Shinran’s creed of hisō hizoku (neither monk nor lay) and his plain- speaking approach to writing made his teachings accessible to youth and addressed the anxiety, alienation and sense of crisis that gripped Miki’s generation. It was precisely this appeal to the common man that attracted Miki, who was critical of the apparent “intellectualisation” of faith by philosophers, stating that, “many of our country’s philosophers like to talk about faith in terms of Eastern philosophy, but for me I fi nd the religion of the commoners Hōnen and Shinran by far the most intimate and most moving.”60 Moreover, Shinran’s ‘gospel of pure grace’, the belief that faith is a gift from Amida Buddha, freely given without any need for self-assertion did not require the overt commitment and discipline of conversion to Protestant Christianity. Sometimes conversion to Christianity was an extremely painful or even agonising experience. Converts were forced to refl ect on the implications of a belief system which rejected any hope of an aft erlife for beloved relatives and revered ancestors who had died in their traditional faiths. Yanaihara Tadao’s diary is instructive with regard to what it actually meant, in terms of ideological and emotional consequences, for a young Japanese to convert. When his mother Matsue died in 1913 from heart disease at the age of forty, the young Yanaihara was on the point of commitment to Christianity aft er a long period of moratorium. Overwhelmed by grief, he returned to Shikoku to visit his mother’s grave. More agonising for him, however, was his

59 MKZ, I, 383. 60 Ibid. 68 chapter two question: what happens to the souls of the dead who never converted to Christianity in their lifetime?: I returned home for the fi rst time to visit my mother’s grave. O mother’s tombstone! But is her soul in Heaven (hikari no kuni)? Her body lies under this stone within the earth, yet my eyes cannot see her in her new robes. Yearning, I touch the stone under which lies my mother’s body that I am so intimately accustomed to seeing—I am disappointed. Oh Mother! Th e hour of the digging of the grave and the lowering of the coffi n in this place is gone. But this tombstone is no great symbol, though some people cry, or rejoice, or live on account of such a thing.61 Th ere were few young Japanese converts who, at such a time of personal crisis, could become reconciled to the fact that, according to the more fundamentalist Christian teachings, they would never see their dear departed, but ‘heathen’, loved ones again. Indeed, when he was older, Yanaihara appears not to have attended traditional Japanese funerals with his family or revered his ancestors as was common practice in Japanese homes.62 Shin Buddhism, on the other hand, diff ers from other types of Pure Land Buddhism in allaying the acute anxiety that many common people felt over death, and especially over the need to be in possession of a clear mind and to be thinking about the Buddha at the very point of death in order to be welcomed into the Pure Land. How many people could be sure of achieving this meditative condition at any precise moment when the mind was given to waxing and waning according to mood and circumstance? If death should strike at the wrong moment the believer’s chances of salvation were in doubt since the Buddha’s promise was conditional.63 Th e Tannishō, however, promised that believers “saved by the inconceivable working of Amida’s vow” would be born into the Pure Land from the very moment they entrusted themselves to him and as soon as “the mind set upon saying the Name arises within you, you are brought to share in the benefi t of being grasped by Amida, never to be abandoned.”64 Th rough a moment of faith, therefore, the believer is reborn in a sense which is non-retrogressive.

61 Yanaihara Tadao, “Nikki” (Diaries), YTZ, XXVIII, 409. 62 Townsend (2000), 34. 63 Alfred Bloom, Shinran’s Gospel of Pure Grace (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1965), 63. 64 Cited in Esben Andreasen, Popular Buddhism in Japan: Shin Buddhist Religion & Culture (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, Japan Library, 1998), 26. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 69

Some forms of Protestantism such as mukyōkai Christianity, however, are not so accommodating in allaying the fears and anxieties of, especially, the common people about death. For Yanaihara, just one month aft er entering university, the death of his father, coming so soon aft er the traumatic experience of his mother’s death proved the severest test for his Christian faith. Wavering, he turned to his teacher, Uchimura Kanzō whose attitude, according to Fujita Wakao, was “uncompromising”. He told the young man that according to Christian tenets he would never see his beloved parents again since as “heathens” they would not be resurrected on judgement day. Although Uchimura apparently tried to soft en the blow a little by pointing out that there was an element of the unknown, Yanaihara was fi nally swayed by the example of his teacher’s own faith when, aft er Uchimura’s teenage daughter Ruth died in January 1912, he proclaimed joyfully at her graveside “this is not my daughter’s funeral but her wedding day.”65 Looked at in these terms, it is not surprising that Miki found little credence in the argument that Buddhism and Protestantism were comparable. Moreover, Yanaihara’s experience of conversion raises the question of not why so few Japanese converted to Christianity, but why so many? Miki arrived at the First Higher School just a little too late to come into close contact with powerful evangelising Christians such as Nitobe and Uchimura. It is impossible to tell whether, if he had come under their infl uence, he too would have converted to Christianity, but Yanaihara’s experience shows that such charismatic personalities, through example, could make an enormous diff erence in encouraging young men in a period of moratorium to break with traditional belief systems and make a commitment to Protestantism. For Miki, however, it was Jōdo Shinshū that “fi tted” him “most perfectly.”66 His decision can also be explained by Charles Taylor’s theory of the “incommensu- rability” of certain traditions: Human societies diff er greatly in their culture and values. Th ey represent diff erent ways of being human, we might say. But perhaps there is no way, in the end, of arbitrating between them when they clash. Perhaps they are quite incommensurable, and just as we recognize in general that the existence of certain goods is dependent on the existence of humans, so

65 Townsend, 40. 66 MKZ, I, 383. 70 chapter two

we might be forced to recognize that certain goods are only such granted the existence of humans within a certain cultural form.67 He argued that there may be diff erent kinds of human realization which are really incommensurable. In other words not only are they incompatible, but there is also no way of measuring one against the other. In such cases it would be impossible to move from one to the other without a measure of self-delusion. In other cases a sudden switch could generate incomprehension of one’s past. Although it may be possible to understand the transition in terms of net gains and net losses, there may be some of both, and, under these circumstances, an overall judgement may be hard to make.68 It is at this point, therefore, that Kierkegaard’s ‘leap of faith’ becomes necessary.

A Tolstoy-believer

However, despite his refusal to commit to Protestant Christianity, Miki evidently remained open to religious infl uences throughout his years at the First Higher School. At this time, he stated, there had been a transformation in the “spiritual air current” through the introduction of Leo Tolstoy’s works to a new generation in Japan—the generation born in the late 1890s; “it was a time when Tostoy’s A Confession had a huge infl uence among literary youth [. . .] and it impressed me deeply.” In his fi nal year, while on a school trip to the Japanese concessions along the South Manchuria Railway, Miki read What Men Live By (1882), and Th e Death of Ivan Illyitch (1886), both of which had just been published in Japanese translation by Iwanami Shoten. Later he also read What is Art? (1898).69 It was largely due to Tokutomi Sohō (1863–1957) and his brother Roka that Tolstoy’s writings were introduced to Japan through the pages of Kokumin no tomo in the Meiji period. Th e brothers came from a highly educated family which had a history of great educational endeavour. Sohō began writing successful articles on youth and education and founded Kokumin no tomo which pioneered the use of

67 Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: Th e Making of the Modern Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 60. 68 Ibid. 69 MKZ, I, 385. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 71 advertising to fi nance itself in 1886. He fi rst met Tolstoy while on a tour of England, Germany and Russia in 1896 and they struck up a close relationship. While part of War and Peace was translated as early as 1886, possibly from the English, the name of Tolstoy was fi rst mentioned in any signifi cant fashion in two general articles on literature in April and August 1889 and later, in February 1890, in “Rokoku no shōsetsu oyobi shōsetsuka” (Russian novels and novelists) in Kokumin no tomo. In 1889 “Lucerne” was translated from the German by Mori Ōgai and appeared in the Yomiuri Shinbun. In the 1890s several translations, usually of minor works, together with critical articles on Tolstoy began to appear in reviews, newspapers and magazines, but especially in Kokumin no tomo70 which, according to Brigitte Koyama-Richard, off ered the fi rst synthesis of Japanese knowledge of Tolstoy, “placing him within the wide panorama of Western civilisation and linking his literary creations to discussions about social and moral questions and spiritual refl ection.”71 In the twentieth century Tolstoy became a well-known collabora- tor with Japanese socialists such as Katayama Sen (1859–1933) and Kōtoku Shūsui in opposing the Russo-Japanese War. Katayama and Kōtoku attempted to approach Russian socialists through the pages of the Heimin Shinbun on 14 March 1904 in which they expressed their opposition to the military of both countries and their solidarity with the Russian people in calling for an end to the war. Russian journalists replied in the pages of Iskra commending the courage of their Japanese comrades for speaking out against the war during a period of extreme nationalism in Japan.72 Tolstoy’s plea for ‘Re-spiritualisation’ appeared in the London Times on 27 June 1904 calling on men to remember the words of Christ and John the Baptist who prophesied that war and its consequences would bring about the end of humanity. He recalled the words of Christ who asked men to suspend their activities; to pause

70 Another translation by Uchida Roan of Polikouchka appeared in July to August 1893 under the title Seirui. Konishi Masutarō completed other translations of Tolstoy’s minor works of which Th e Kreutzer Sonata (1889) in 1895 was the most enthusiastically received by the critics. Konishi arrived in Russia in 1886 and was working on a Russian translation of Lao-tsu’s Precepts. Tolstoy, then deeply interested in Chinese philosophy, asked to meet him and they worked together on the text. Konishi was Tolstoy’s fi rst direct contact with Japan and in 1936 wrote a biography Tolstoy. Brigitte Koyama-Richard, 21–7 and 62. 71 Ibid., 28. 72 Ibid., 52–3. 72 chapter two and ask “Who am I; Where have I come from and what is my mission?” He identifi ed his self-professed ‘Tolstoy doctrine’ as the ability to pause for thought and consider life’s mission: Before being an emperor, a soldier, minister, publicist, each of us must tell oneself that he is before everything else a man; an ephemeral being sent by a higher will into the infi nite world, in time and space, in order to live for an instant and then to die; that is to say to disappear.73 Tolstoy was excommunicated by the Orthodox Church aft er his mer- ciless exposure of its superfi ciality in the third and last of his ‘great’ novels, Resurrection, written in 1899. His pacifi sm and his attacks on the established church inspired young non-conformist Christians such as Uchimura, so much so that Tolstoy was elevated to the status of mukyōkai-shugisha, which can be translated as ‘mukyōkai believer’ but in this context is more accurately rendered as ‘mukyōkai personality’.74 By the Taishō period, Tolstoy had become especially infl uential among a group of aristocratic young men who had studied at the Peers’ School and had then founded the journal Shirakaba [White Birches] in April 1910. Although they shared a dislike of Naturalism, as did Miki, they were great admirers of modern Western art introducing artists such as Renoir, Cézanne, Van Gogh and Gauguin to the Japanese public. Th eir ultimate aim of establishing a museum of modern Western art was never realised, though the group did manage to secure some small bronzes by Rodin and drawings by British artists which were presented by the potter Bernard Leach (1887–1976).75 Inspired by Tolstoy’s writings, a particular ‘Tolstoyan’ brand of humanism attracted many young Japanese writers at the height of Shirakaba’s popularity in the 1910s.76 Miki explained Tolstoy’s popularity in Th e Unspoken Philosophy:

73 Ibid., 51. 74 Townsend (2000), 45. 75 Leach lived in Japan between 1909 and 1920 and made an important contribution to the spread of ideas among young Japanese artists about European and American appreciation of Japanese art, helping them to redefi ne their own cultural identity and ‘Japaneseness’. He was also instrumental in the introduction of the ideas of the Arts and Craft s Movement which inspired the fi rst generation of Japanese studio potters. Kikuchi Yuko and Watanabe Toshio, “Th e British Discovery of Japanese Art,” in Th e History of Anglo-Japanese Relations 1600–2000. Vol. V: Social and Cultural Perspec- tives, ed. Gordon Daniels and Chushichi Tsuzuki (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 161–2. 76 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 442–5. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 73

Tolstoy, who himself personally experienced the evils of humanity, is perhaps revered so much because he was a man who, rather than vindi- cating his sins with cunning wisdom and word-play, denied sexual desire and marriage and practised the principle called “eating by the sweat of the brow”.77 Th e movement was dominated by writers such as Mushanokōji Saneatsu (1885–1976) who later formed the New Village Movement and Shiga Naoya (1883–1971), a former pupil of Uchimura and a Christian convert. Mushanokōji and was so entranced by the legendary Russian writer that he was called “Tolstoy” by his friends.78 Undoubtedly this group helped to popularise Tolstoy and contribute both to the change in “the spiritual air current” and the spread of ideas about Western types of humanism. Other leading lights of the movement were Nagayo Yoshirō (1888–1961), Arishima Takeo (1877–1923) who attended Sap- poro Agricultural College and came under the infl uence of Nitobe Inazō and Arishima’s younger brother Satomi Ton (1888–1983). However, Miki stated that the earlier infl uence of the ‘Tolstoyan’ Tokutomi Roka was never far away: I found works such as Tolstoy’s On Life greatly moving. In fact one could say that in my case I had already been prepared, albeit unknowingly and unconsciously, by the infl uence of Tokutomi Roka whom I had read during my junior high school days. I also for a time became a Tolstoy believer (Torusutoi shugi-sha) of a certain kind.79 Inspired by his brother’s friendship with the Russian, Roka had become fascinated by Tolstoy, studying his works and writing about his life and thought. Eventually he visited Tolstoy at his home for fi ve days and wrote a long account of his experiences. On returning to Japan he abandoned his pseudonym and signed his work Tokutomi Kenjirō. In 1906 Roka left Tokyo to live and work on the land in an imitation of Tolstoy’s return to peasant life shortly before his death. Roka described his experiences in Mimizu no tawagoto (Wanderings of an earthworm) which was published in 1913. Such was his enthusiasm that, like Mushanokōji, he was also nicknamed the “Tolstoyan”. His eff orts at farming, however, were not successful and he was forced to continue writing. Tolstoy’s pacifi sm and strong sense of justice also

77 MKZ, XVIII, 73. 78 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 447. 79 MKZ, I, 386. 74 chapter two encouraged Roka to write an open letter to the emperor in the Asahi in 1911 criticising the fact that the trial of the plotters, including Kōtoku Shūsui, implicated in the High Treason incident of 1910, was not being conducted publicly. However, the death sentence was carried out on the twelve convicted activists before his letter could be published. Th is was the precursor to the delivery of his address at the First Higher School in February of that year.80 It was partly through Roka and fellow ‘Tolstoyans’, therefore, that Tolstoy’s idealism and essential humanism continued to infl uence young Japanese during the Taishō period.

Nishida’s Zen no Kenkyū (An inquiry into the good)

In his fi nal year at the First Higher School year Miki came across Nishida Kitarō’s Zen no Kenkyū (An inquiry into the good) published fi ve years earlier in 1911. According to Kosaka Kunitsugu, Zen no Kenkyū was “a point of discovery” in Miki’s life leading him to choose philosophy as a career.81 All Miki’s autobiographical accounts attest to the infl uence of this book. For example he stated in Th e Unspoken Philosophy: The book which I loved to read most was Nishida sensei’s Zen no Kenkyū—I danced for joy at the possibility of having discovered in it a total personal satisfaction which I had not felt until then. If this was philosophy—if this was what real philosophy ought to be—it was the philosophy I needed.82 However, the twenty-three year old Miki made no further claims with regard to the infl uence of this book in terms of his career as a philosopher. Indeed, in the next lines, he discusses Spinoza’s philosophy which he had the good fortune to have access to ‘both before and aft er’ and which aff ected him in much the same way as nature herself, purifying and pacifying his heart. All this, he stated, was preparation for the third stage in the development of his philosophy, his contact with Kant.83 In Wanderings through the World of Books, Zen no Kenkyū is also mentioned in connection with helping him make a decision during a

80 Koyama-Richards, 93, 99, 110 and 113. 81 Kosaka Kunitsugu, Nishida Kitarō o meguru tetsugakusha gunzō (Tokyo: Minerva shobo, 1997), 215. 82 MKZ, VIII, 29. 83 Ibid. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 75 prolonged period of vacillation.84 However, as Miki had written about it in other places, he stated that he saw no reason to repeat himself. In Miki’s reminiscences of Nishida published in 1941 he also stated that he entered into philosophical sciences at Kyoto Imperial University in order to learn directly from Nishida sensei and that it was Zen no Kenkyū that had made up his mind.85 Th e sheer frequency of the telling of this event identifi es the incident as central to Miki’s account of his early intellectual development. In another autobiographical fragment, “Th e springtime of my life” penned in 1941, however, the mental association between Nishida and other aspects of Miki’s thought leaves clues to Miki’s reordering of his past to fi t his present and future. Here Miki stated that: It was in order to learn from Nishida Kitarō sensei that I went to Kyoto. Sensei’s Zen no Kenkyū had the deepest infl uence upon me during my years at the high school and this book also inspired me to study philosophy at a time when I was wondering what to do. Another was the Tannishō, and even now it is my bedside reading. Although as a belief its popularity has declined recently, for me its appeal lies in its commoner-type of Pure Land Buddhism. I am fearful about whether or not I will die in this faith.86 Th e relationship between Miki and Nishida will be discussed in further detail in the next chapter, but suffi ce to say here, the older Miki had formed an associative psychological bond between Nishida and Shinran at a point in his life cycle when thoughts turn to death, and the question of generativity—‘what will remain of me when I am gone from this world?’—was paramount. A manuscript on the writings of Shinran was found in his death-cell four years later. However, discrepancies between Th e Unspoken Philosophy and later accounts suggest that in earlier life, as he was battling to forge his own identity, Miki was indecisive about his true relationship with Nishida. Alternatively, it may be that the younger Miki was still struggling with the problem of authority and authority fi gures. Th is latter explanation may also be connected with the absence of his father in these autobiographical accounts, apart from the enigmatic suggestion in Wanderings through the World of Books that his father, described quite literally as passing on the rusticity which ran in his blood, was somehow responsible

84 MKZ, I, 392. 85 MKZ, XVII, 296. 86 MKZ, I, 364. 76 chapter two for his narrow experience and lack of social skills.87 It is not clear here whether Miki is blaming his father personally, or his family’s inherited social status.

Th e Taishō zeitgeist

At one level, Wanderings through the World of Books illustrates the growing catholic tastes in literature of a whole generation of young educated Japanese and their willingness to experiment, swinging with apparent ease between Japanese and European cultural traditions. Miki’s experiences of reading were not unusual. Nishitani Keiji (1900–1990) who arrived at the First Higher School just as Miki was leaving for Kyoto recorded a very similar world of books: Th roughout my three years of high school I read voraciously, including whatever Russian and northern European literature I could get my hands on. While few Japanese translations were available, I was fortunate to be able to read English rather fl uently, and thus many of these books were accessible to me. [. . .] Even today I recall vividly staying behind in the dormitory and skipping lectures in order to immerse myself in Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Anna Karenina.88 However, as the relationship between Tolstoy, Roka and Miki demonstrates, a generation of Taishō youth was presented with a genealogy of Western ideas and infl uences which had been mediated by at least two previous generations of Meiji readers who brought their own cultural and ideological perspectives to bear. Protestant Christianity itself had also been ‘Japanized’ by key fi gures such as Uchimura whosemukyōkai followers viewed St. Paul as the ideal samurai in their graft ing of traditional Japanese bushidō onto Christianity. At another level, the contrast between Yanaihara’s story of these years and Miki’s reveals the potential for a wide variety of experience even among youths of a similar background, and warns of the dangers of generalisations about the impact of Taishō liberalism. Powerful personalities, such as Nitobe and Uchimura, were important in shaping life-changing commitments to ideologies which were essentially

87 Ibid., 381–2. 88 Nishitani Keiji, Nishida Kitarō, trans., Yamamoto Seisaku and James W. Heisig, (Berkely Calif.: University of California Press, 1991), 6–7. wanderings in the wood of human knowledge 77 incommensurable with Japan’s older religious traditions. We are constantly reminded that it was Abe Jirō’s personalism, Tolstoy’s brand of humanism or Uchimura’s mukyōkai movement, rather than general ideas of Western individualism or Protestant Christianity that held sway over the hearts and minds of Taishō youth. Th is is largely because the emphasis on the comparatively unrestrained, self-contained and self- directed ego and the concomitant implications of ‘selfi shness’ within Western individualism sat uncomfortably with traditional Japanese values. Personalism, on the other hand, was commensurable both with the recently introduced Western idealist philosophy and Meiji ideas about the dignity of man. Th e autobiographical writings of both Miki and Yanaihara are testament to the sentimentality, introspection and emotional intensity of the quest for identity among Taishō youth. Th ey also indicate this generation’s essential modernity. Miki’s question “what did it mean to be the only fresher to come from a particular home village?” expresses a modernity in which the individual living in a modern city is sur- rounded by others, but alienated emotionally. In an early treatise on cultural background and personality formation, Ralph Linton wrote that the desire for emotional response from other individuals was a paramount psychic need. He described the experience of loneliness in a modern city where it is quite possible for the individual to interact in formal, culturally established terms with a great number of other individuals and to obtain necessary services from them without eliciting any emotional responses. Under such circumstances his psychic need for response remains unsatisfi ed and he suff ers from feelings of loneliness and isolation which are almost as acute as though no one else were present. In fact the experience tends to be more frustrating than genuine solitude. We all know what it means to be alone in a crowd. It is this need for response, and especially for favourable response, which provides the individual with his main stimulus to socially acceptable behaviour. People abide by the mores of their societies quite as much because they desire approval as because they fear punishment.89 Th e psychological implications of a youth’s confrontation with modernity could have serious implications in terms of personal and intellectual development. Th e Unspoken Philosophy and, to a more limited extent, Wanderings through the World of Books reveal Miki’s desperate search

89 Ralph Linton, Th e Cultural Background of Personality (London: Routledge, 1998. Originally published by Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner and Co., Ltd., 1947), 5. 78 chapter two for emotional response and intimacy. In the former, he pleaded; “rather than being patted on the head and praised by the crowds, I wanted nothing more than to be embraced in the arms of just one person.”90 Th is encounter with the ‘shock of the modern’ had a profound infl uence in shaping his identity in early adulthood. His loneliness and extreme sentimentality, his protracted period of religious and occupational moratorium, his social awkwardness and problematic attitudes towards authority become highly signifi cant in explaining his later attitudes to both politics and life.

90 MKZ, XVIII, 25. CHAPTER THREE

WANDERINGS IN THE SPRINGTIME OF LIFE

A truly great man is not great because of the greatness of his exploits but because he has manifested his strong personality. If one climbs to a high place and calls out, one’s voice will probably reach a distant place, but this is not because the voice is great but because the place where one stands is high. I think that a man who skilfully exhibits the basic characteristics of himself is greater than a man who, forgetting the self’s duty, vainly runs about on behalf of others. Nishida Kitarō A Study of Good1 Great men have an amazing ability to discover a deeper meaning even in events which may seem trivial. In contrast, those with dulled hearts, no matter how big the event they encounter, possess no shining light to penetrate it and thus [their experience] has no value, neither does it illuminate the darkness. Miki Kiyoshi Th e Unspoken Philosophy (1919) Miki’s early “Kyoto period”, primarily his years at Kyoto Imperial Uni- versity as an undergraduate from 1917 until 1920, was characterised psychologically by the increasing development of an idealised image of the contemplative life personifi ed by Nishida. Th is idealized personifi cation, sometimes referred to as an ‘imago’ by personality psychologists, shaped Miki’s personal and intellectual development through his undergraduate years and into his later Kyoto period when he studied with Nishida prior to leaving for Europe in May 1922. Politically, the mid-Taishō period is oft en regarded as the zenith of ‘democratic promise’ rather than true democracy, with the rise of the party system and the rapid growth of mass organisations, particularly on the Left . Philosophically, in the universities, it was dominated by German neo-Kantianism and culturally, by German conceptions of Kultur and ‘value’ philosophy. Socially, on a national level, it was the beginning of a period of great anxiety as Meiji concepts of ‘nation’ appeared to be breaking up and Taishō youth to be entertaining very diff erent ideas about the direction of Japanese culture and society.

1 Trans., V. H. Viglielmo. 80 chapter three

In order to establish a profi le of Miki’s personality during this period it is important to understand his emerging sense of identity in terms of the functioning of the prototypical philosopher imago within his life story. We have more evidence for assessing Miki’s personality and state of mind for Miki’s undergraduate years than for any other period in his development.

Th e problem of Taishō youth and ‘whither Japan’

We begin, however, by outlining the historical background to Miki’s personal and intellectual development during his undergraduate years. Crucially, this was a time when the Meiji generation had begun to despair of the ability of Taishō youth to preserve those ideals which had served the nation so well in the recent past. Tokutomi Sohō in his famous Taishō no seinen to teikoku no zento (Taishō youth and the prospects for the empire, 1916) called upon Taishō youth to address the “illness of our times” which he saw as “the loss of state ideals and national purpose.” He found them, however, divided between the “disinterested and colourless” and the “despairing” and between those obsessed with success and those with no ambition. As Harootunian has pointed out, however, Tokutomi failed to realise that this was a generation with completely diff erent sets of ideals to their Meiji fore- fathers.2 Economically, the First World War had created an economic boom which laid the foundations for large scale industrial expansion during the 1920s and, concomitant with this, the rise of a more powerful labour movement as left -wing ideologies, including Marxism and communism, were further disseminated throughout Japan. Th e boom was also accompanied by rising infl ation which caused wage levels to fall behind prices leading to the Rice Riots of 1918. In January 1918, one koku of rice (just under 45 gallons) cost twenty-three yen, six months later it cost forty-one yen in Osaka, while in Kyoto itself it rose to fi ft y-two yen. In July the wives of fi shermen in Toyama prefecture began demonstrating and by August riots had spread to wide areas of the country involving an estimated 700,000 people, some of whom turned to violence venting their anger on the premises of rice merchants and other traders.

2 Harootunian (1999), 10. wanderings in the springtime of life 81

It is reasonable to suppose that Miki himself, whose family was known as the “rice merchants”, felt the impact of both infl ation and the ensuing riots in more than one way. Th e Rice Riots, although poorly organised and lacking a consistent ideological basis, were the largest popular protests faced by any Japanese government since 1868 and were brought under control only by military force and mass arrests followed by punitive prison sentences. For the press, the linking of the Rice Riots to the despatch of Japanese troops to Siberia to aid the Western powers in putting down the Bolshevik revolution and, in particular, the criticism of the Terauchi cabinet in the pages of the Osaka Asahi provoked the use of the Press Laws to censor newspaper articles and prosecute journalists. Th ese events culminated in the notorious ‘white rainbow’ aff air in which an Osaka Asahi journalist was arrested for suggesting, through the traditional Chinese metaphor of a ‘white rainbow’, that the government was about to collapse. Hasegawa Nyozekan himself, as the Asahi’s city editor, was forced to resign along with many other journalists and the newspaper was faced at one point with being shut down. According to Barshay, the ‘white rainbow’ incident demonstrated the vulnerability of the increasingly commercialised media to government repression and compromised their function as organs of critical opinion.3 Th e Terauchi cabinet was forced to resign and was replaced by the Seiyūkai cabinet of the so-called ‘commoner’ Prime Minister Hara Kei who formed the fi rst party cabinet in 1918. However, the spectre of Bol- shevism and the fomenting of left -wing thought and activity faced the government with a classic dilemma of tactics; either use the repressive apparatus of the state and risk mobilising large-scale worker discontent, or make concessions. During the Taishō Period, the government was generally inclined towards the latter option and there was, for a time, a relatively favourable political climate for the growth of unionism and other left -wing organisations. In a climate of rising democratic expecta- tion, however, the essentially conservative reaction of the government to workers’ demands was sure to disappoint, and the years 1921 and 1922 saw the largest strikes to date by Japanese workers. Th ese developments at home and abroad inevitably politicised the universities, sometimes in unforeseen ways, as university professors, most notably Yoshino Sakuzō (1878–1933) of Tokyo Imperial University

3 Barshay, 154. 82 chapter three began to agitate for universal suff rage. He also advocated trade unionism as a means of realising basic human rights. Students also became involved with the formation of societies such as the Shinjinkai (New Man Society) which revolved around Yoshino in 1919. Some students were radicalised by the works of Kawakami Hajime (1879–1946) at Kyoto Imperial University and others became active in Mushanokōji Saneatsu’s New Village Movement which owed its genesis to Tolstoy. All these incidents occurred within one year of Miki arriving in Kyoto and many of them, especially the White Rainbow aff air, would have repercussions for Miki in later life. It is perhaps a little surprising therefore that the impression we get from Wanderings through the World of Books is that although aware of the “great tidal movement” going on around him, these developments simply washed over Miki. He recalled his university life as a sort of calm before the storm when Kyoto Imperial University was temporarily in the lea of the great changes afoot in society. It was, indeed, a “period of relative peace” largely bypassed by the excitement caused by Yoshino’s Shinjinkai in Tokyo. Even so, he recalled that Kawakami’s Bimbō Monogatari (Tale of poverty, 1916) with its tirade against the evils of uncompromising capitalism and its message of “absolute selfl essness” had an enormous impact on fellow students.4 Miki’s major concern at the time was philosophy rather than politics. As stated in the previous chapter, Nishida Kitarō is widely acknowledged to have had the most profound infl uence on Miki’s early intellectual development at this time. But although there is plenty of evidence to suggest that Nishida was responsible for instigating Miki’s life-changing decision to study philosophy, it is all too easy to exaggerate Miki’s debt to the great philosopher. Also infl uential during this period were the philosopher and historian Hatano Sei’ichi (1877–1950), who arrived from Tokyo at the same time as Miki, the philosopher of aesthetics Fukada Yasukazu (1878–1928), and Tanabe Hajime (1885–1962) who arrived in the year following Miki’s entry. Finally, Sakaguchi Takashi (1872–1928), a specialist in Western history was, according to Miki, instrumental in shaping his sense of world history.5

4 MKZ, I, 408. 5 Ibid., 366–7. wanderings in the springtime of life 83

First encounters

In April 1917 Miki went along to hear Nishida Kitarō give a lecture entitled Shushu no sekai (Varied worlds) at an open forum of the Philo- sophical Society in Tokyo. In his essay “Nishida sensei no kotodomo” published in 1941, Miki stated that it was the fi rst time he had had the pleasure of seeing Nishida in person. Th e fact that he was not able to fully understand what Nishida said did little to dull his enjoyment of the lecture which impressed him very deeply. Th is was also an introduction to Nishida’s idiosyncratic style of lecturing. According to Miki, Nishida appeared in traditional Japanese clothing and, barely looking at his audience, walked about on the lecture platform speaking in halting phrases. He made use of the blackboard apparently to sketch out his ideas for his own clarifi cation rather than to communicate eff ectively. Yet Miki saw in Nishida not just a university lecturer, but the very embodiment of the ‘contemplative man.’6 He stated that at the time the name of Nishida Kitarō was not particularly well known but he had heard that there was something very special about him in the world of Japanese philosophy.7 Indeed, as Zen no Kenkyū was out of print, he had to obtain a second-hand copy.8 Miki’s tutor at the First Higher School, the philosopher Hayami Hiroshi (1876–1943), performed various good offi ces for his pupil, not the least of which was writing a letter of introduction for Miki to take to Nishida at his home in Kyoto a few months aft er his Tokyo lecture.9 Th ere is some confusion, however, about the date of this visit. According to Miki’s account it took place at the beginning of July.10 However, Kosaka Kunitsugu has stated that, according to Nishida’s diary, Miki fi rst visited him on Tuesday 26 June and Nishida’s eldest daughter, Yayoi, wrote vividly of her father’s immense satisfaction with the visit.11 Yusa Michiko gives a full account of the visit through

6 MKZ, XVII, 295. 7 Ibid., 296. 8 According to Nishida’s biographer Yusa Michiko, Zen no Kenkyū initially sold 750 copies which was normal for a philosophical work. Its widespread popularity began with its endorsement by Kurata Hyakuzō (1891–1943) whose work Ai to ninshiki no shuppatsu (Th e point of departure of love and cognition, 1921) was enthusiastically received by high school students. In response to the sudden demand Zen no Kenkyū was reprinted by Iwanami in 1921. Yusa (2002), 130. 9 MKZ, XVIII, 29. 10 MKZ, XVII, 297. 11 Kosaka, 253fn. 84 chapter three

Yayoi’s eyes. Apparently Miki was roughly attired and wearing a torn school cap which at the time was fashionable among First Higher School students. Yayoi continued: My father was seeing off the guest, telling him to come again to visit. When he came into the family room, I asked him: “Who was that person?” He said, with an expression of content on his face: “A bright young man who just graduated from the First Higher School at the top of his class. He heard my talk in Tokyo and decided to choose the philosophy department in Kyoto. Hayami of the First Higher School has nothing but praise for him, and I’m looking forward to having him as a student.”12 Th is short description not only confi rms Miki’s intellectual abilities, but also reveals his strong desire to fi t in with his peers through adopting emblems of ‘insider’ membership such as the torn cap. Th is fi rst encounter with Nishida presaged a warmsensei—deshi (teacher—pupil) relationship, one which Kosaka argued remained unchanged over the course of their lives.13 However, Nishitani Keiji who followed Miki to Kyoto Imperial University three years later (also on the recommendation of Hayami Hiroshi) indicated that their relationship became somewhat strained, especially aft er Miki returned from his travels in Europe in 1925.14 A more deconstructive reading of Miki’s autobiographical accounts also reveals that while Miki had enormous respect for Nishida and found him intellectually stimulating, their personal relationship was not necessarily a warm one. Nevertheless, for the present, Miki’s audience with Nishida in June evidently gave him a certain measure of self assurance and, in Sep- tember 1917, with his second-hand copy of Zen no Kenkyū tucked safely in his luggage, Miki moved from Tokyo to the old capital city of Kyoto, not with his original intention of becoming a writer but to study philosophy.

Japan’s intellectual classes

Miki aspired to membership of Japan’s elite, Western-educated intellectual class, even though for a while he was still undecided about exactly

12 Yusa (2002), 163. 13 Kosaka, 253. 14 Nishitani (1991), 9 and 20. wanderings in the springtime of life 85 which profession he would enter. In Western Europe the appearance of the intellectual “whose profession it was to write or to teach—and usually both at the same time—a man who, professionally, acted as professor and scholar,”15 was concomitant with the rise of towns and the consolidation of urban life. According to the French historian Le Goff , an intellectual class fi rst emerged in Europe during the so-called ‘twelft h-century Renaissance.’ Centred on Paris, this new elite identifi ed with the feeling of rebirth as “new men”. In the subsequent Italian Renaissance, arguably initiated in the late fourteenth century, another generation of intellectuals considered themselves moderni.16 Japan’s modern universities were founded as centres of Western learning, and young Japanese scholars also saw themselves as “new men” and ‘moderni’. Yet the position of intellectuals in Japanese society, indeed, the very defi nition of ‘intellectual’, although of great concern to the Japanese intelligentsia themselves in the pre-war period, is sometimes ignored or only fl eetingly touched on by Japanese historians today. Christopher Goto-Jones has criticised specialists in Japanese intellectual history for “defi ning intellectuals by their occupation rather than their moral stance.”17 Yet as the Italian activist-philosopher, Antonio Gramsci (1891–1937), so famously pointed out: Each man, fi nally, outside his professional activity, carries on some form of intellectual activity that is, he is a “philosopher”, an artist, a man of taste, he participates in a particular conception of the world, has a conscious line of moral conduct, and therefore contributes to sustain a conception of the world or to modify it, that is, to bring into being new modes of thought.18 Intellectuals, therefore, are defi ned by their contribution to or modi- fi cation of the conceptualised world and, most importantly, by their moral stance, rather than their ‘offi cial’ occupation in society. They are not to be distinguished by some intrinsic quality of intellectual activities in themselves but by their function within the complex system of social relations.19 Gramsci regarded the historical development of

15 Jacques Le Goff , Intellectuals in the Middle Ages, trans. Teresa Lavander Fagan, (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), 6. 16 Ibid., 10. 17 Goto-Jones (2005), 11. 18 Antonio Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci, ed. and trans. Quintin Hoare and Geoff rey Nowell Smith (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1971), 9. 19 Ibid., 8. 86 chapter three

‘traditional intellectuals’ in Japan to be similar to both England, where politico-intellectual supremacy was maintained by the joining of the old landowning classes with new industrialists, and Germany where the Prussian Junkers resembled a “priestly-military caste, with a virtual monopoly of directive-organisational functions in political society.”20 Indeed, Goto-Jones argued that the 1920s in Japan witnessed the “fi nal entrenchment” of the “intellectual as professional” as graduates from the imperial universities were actively recruited into the higher levels of the civil service through its entrance examination procedures.21 At the heart of issues facing the ‘traditional’ intellectual classes in pre-war Japan was the problem of independence of thought and the autonomy of the universities. Central to the problems of non-traditional or ‘organic’ intellectuals, such as workers and trade unionists, was state repression and control of the ideological apparatus within civil society.

Kyoto Imperial University

A College of Humanities was inaugurated at Kyoto Imperial University in 1906. At fi rst under the shadow of Tokyo Imperial University, its founders sought to design a distinctive curriculum which would draw on the talents of professors hired not only from its own ranks, as was the case exclusively with Tokyo at the time, but from further a-fi eld in a policy dubbed ‘identifying talents in the wild’.22 It was through this unprecedented hiring policy that it was possible to appoint Nishida to the faculty in 1910. Nishida had dropped out of the Fourth Higher Middle School in 1890 and had consequently been forced to enter Tokyo Imperial University as a ‘limited status’, or senka, student in 1891. Suff ering the humiliation of what was eff ectively second class citizen- ship, Nishida’s undergraduate years were far from happy. Although given to solitude and introspection, he graduated successfully in 1894, even writing a thesis on the Scottish philosopher and historian David

20 Ibid., 18–23. 21 Goto-Jones (2005), 13. Between 1887 and 1899 reforms in the civil service examination distinguished between an upper and lower civil service. Th e basic criterion for eligibility for the upper civil service was a university education in law. Bernard H. Silberman, “Th e Bureaucratic Role in Japan, 1900–1945: Th e Bureaucrat as Politician” in Japan in Crisis, ed. Silberman and Harootunian, 187–8. 22 Th is was the policy promoted by the founding dean of the college Kanō Kōkichi. Yusa (2002), 117–8. wanderings in the springtime of life 87

Hume (1711–76) which was not normally required for a senka student. However, whether due to his status or other factors, Nishida found it extremely diffi cult to obtain a post in academia, especially in Tokyo, and held a variety of teaching posts before his arrival in Kyoto.23 On New Year’s Day 1913, Nishida began a project whose end coincided with Miki’s arrival in Kyoto in 1917 and with the publication of his second book Jikaku ni okeru chokkan to hansei (Intuition and refl ection in self-consciousness). In April Nishida was appointed professor of religious studies and evidently found the transition somewhat onerous since he was forced to teach more widely outside his fi eld of philosophy, including lectures in religion and psychology.24 At the age of forty-three he found teaching exhausting, commenting in a letter to his friend, Tanabe Ryūji: I don’t have the kind of stamina that I used to have. I cannot engage in debates for a long time, for instance, and if I teach even two hours, I get so exhausted that aft er I return home I have to rest for a few hours. us,Th I can neither read many books nor can I get up early in the morning to engage in philosophical thinking.25 He added “When I think I must perform according to what is expected of my academic rank, I feel a bit strained.”26 Th e evidence from this letter helps to explain Miki’s later impressions of Nishida and, perhaps, the limits to their friendship. In December 1913 Nishida was awarded a doctorate and later appointed to the fi rst chair in the history of philosophy. His appointment coincided with the completion of a new building which brought the humanities together. Both factors provided an enormous stimulus to the intellectual life of both staff and students at Kyoto Imperial Uni- versity. Th ere were also further developments within the department of philosophy itself over the next few years, with a new generation of young and vigorous graduates and lecturers bringing the Kyoto Philo- sophical Society into being and founding a new journal to support its publications, Tetsugaku Kenkyū.27 By the time Miki arrived at Kyoto Imperial University, Nishida was presiding over a lively and successful

23 Ibid., 41. 24 Ibid., 135. 25 Ibid., 141. 26 Ibid. 27 Ibid., 144–5. 88 chapter three department and was becoming established as one of Japan’s foremost thinkers.

Nishida and the birth of Japanese philosophy

Ever since Nakae Chōmin stated that “over the ages in our country, Japan, there has been no philosophy”, Japanese intellectuals have sought to distinguish between Western and Eastern systems of rational and religious thought. Abe Masao in his introduction to his translation, with Christopher Ives, of Nishida’s Zen no Kenkyū argues that it depends on how one defi nes philosophy: If philosophy implies a purely rational and theoretical system based on logical thinking, as in the case of Descartes, Kant and Hegel, then there has been no philosophy in Japan. But if philosophy indicates an existential, religiously oriented discipline as seen in Augustine, Schopenhauer, and Kierkegaard, then there has surely been philosophy in Japan. In Japanese intellectual history a parallel to these Western thinkers’ “philosophical” works appears in the writings of Kūkai (774–855), Shinran (1173–1262), Dōgen (1200–1253), Itō Jinsai (1627–1705), and others.28 According to Abe, the problem resides in Western distinctions between philosophy as an intellectual and rational enterprise, and religion as a practice based on revelation and faith. Historically in the West the two spheres have been regarded as oppositional and contested terri- tories, one based on reason and the other on faith and the intellectual enterprise has consisted of an attempt to achieve a synthesis. In Japan, China and India, however, philosophy and religion have intellectually and historically been regarded as inseparable. Th e problem for Japanese philosophers, therefore, was “to generate a truly creative synthesis.”29 While Nishida is described as the father of Japanese philosophy, Nishi Amane (1829–97) is usually recognised as the father of Japanese Western philosophy. Perhaps one of Nishi’s most important achievements was the creation of a Japanese philosophical terminology, much of which is still in use today.30 Nishi’s work in this fi eld was added to by Inoue

28 Abe Masao, introduction to Kitarō Nishida, An Inquiry into the Good, trans. Abe Masao and Christopher Ives (Yale University Press: New Haven and London, 1990), vii–viii. 29 Ibid., viii–ix. 30 Piovesana, 11 and 42. wanderings in the springtime of life 89

Tetsujirō (1855–1944) in the 1880s, beginning with the publication of Tetsugaku Jii (Dictionary of philosophical terms) in 1881 and revised in 1912. Th ough not perfect, and criticised for its inaccuracies in some quarters, the dictionary was no doubt an important tool for Japanese students and something of a milestone in facilitating the further growth in interest in Western philosophy. Inoue was also the fi rst Japanese to be appointed to a chair of philosophy at Tokyo Imperial University in 1890.31 Up until the end of the nineteenth century Anglo-German idealism and neo-Hegelianism had dominated Japanese universities under the infl uence of the English philosopher Th omas Hill Green. Eventually, however, under Raphael von Koeber, German philosophy and, in particular, the so-called ‘new idealism’ became more widespread in Japan’s imperial universities.32 Th e introduction of German philosophy also owed much to Japanese scholars such as Katō Hiroyuki (1836–1916), a Meirokusha “Illuminist” (keimōshugisha) associated with a group of intellectuals who took the lead in diff using Western ideas throughout Japan. Th is group included Inoue Tetsujirō and Ōnishi Hajime (1864–1900) who was referred to as the ‘Japanese Kant’. By the time Miki embarked upon his studies in Germany, the so-called ‘South- western’ or ‘Marburg’ school of neo-Kantianism had exponents in both the imperial universities of Tokyo and Kyoto and private universities such as Waseda. Nishida commented that when he went to Kyoto in 1910 it was already a centre for the study of neo-Kantianism. Iwanami Shoten published collections of works in their Philosophical Library series which demonstrated the infl uence of neo-Kantianism, leading Piovesana to conclude that it became the guiding light of the philosophy of the Taishō period.33 According to its translator V. H. Viglielmo, Nishida’s Zen no Kenkyū was the “fi rst and most representative fruit” of the eff orts of Japanese philosophers to systematise their own thought.34 Piovesana has argued that the true signifi cance of Nishida’s philosophy resides in using West- ern methods of philosophical enquiry while retaining a “thoroughly

31 Ibid., 38. 32 Ibid., 49–52. 33 Ibid. 74–7. 34 V. H. Viglielmo, “Nishida Kitarō and some aspects of his philosophical thought,” in Nishida Kitarō A Study of Good, trans. V. H. Viglielmo, (Westwood: Greenwood Press, 1988), 195. 90 chapter three

Oriental” theme and approach. Other attempts to combine Buddhism and Confucianism with Western philosophies by, for example, Inoue Enryō (1858–1919) and Inoue Tetsujirō had succeeded only in a “superfi cial eclecticism.”35 For Abe, Nishida’s achievement lay in confronting cultural diff erences in thinking and attempting to demonstrate, verbally and precisely, a process of thought which had been traditionally com- municated in ways which were “oft en indirect, suggestive, and symbolic rather than descriptive and precise.” In fact, according to Abe, there is a sense in which this traditionally undemonstrative approach denies language itself: Th is separation from language and rational thought is typically found in Zen, which conveys its basic standpoint with the statement, “No reliance on words or letters; a special transmission apart from doctrinal teaching.” Th e same attitude appears in Confucius, who proclaims, “Clever talk and pretentious manner are seldom found in the Good.” We encounter it in ink drawings that negate form and color, Noh theatre with its negation of direct or external expression, and Japanese waka and haiku poetry. Th e Eastern approach must be sought in non-thinking and not-thinking.36 It is little wonder therefore, that given the diffi culties of the enterprise, Nishida’s thought is oft en considered particularly diffi cult to understand, especially for Western scholars not steeped in Buddhism.

Nishida the teacher

It is only when we consider the enormous contribution of Nishida to the fi eld of Japanese philosophy that we can fully understand the excitement that he generated among Miki’s generation despite their struggles to understand his concepts. Nishida himself was a somewhat prickly character who struck awe and occasionally fear into his students. According to Nishitani Keiji, Nishida had a fi ery temper and would occasionally subject his students to scolding and outbursts. At fi rst sight, moreover, his seminars could also be less than inspiring: Professor Nishida usually arrived at the seminar looking tired. He appeared to be bored while the students were busy translating and looked out of the window, occasionally giving way to a gaping yawn. Once a

35 Piovesana, 88–9. 36 Abe, ix–x. wanderings in the springtime of life 91

paragraph had been translated, he explained it. Because his explanations were always lengthy, he was in the habit of pacing back and forth on the platform.37 It was rumoured among the students that his general lectures were the same every year and that he even cracked the same jokes in the same places. However, Nishitani stated that Nishida’s seminars on Hegel, Aristotle and Husserl were “animated and rich” as well as occasionally enthralling.38 Nishida occasionally invited students to his house for discussions and Miki visited about twelve times every month during term. Although Miki stated that it was “relatively easy to make conversation”, reading between the lines of his reminiscences, it seems that the teacher did not always put his students at ease: Sensei would hardly ever instigate the conversation himself, so having made the eff ort to visit him, there was silence while I considered what was the best question to ask. Aft er just half an hour, time was running out and at length his patience was exhausted. When I said “I will come back”, sensei would merely say “Oh really?” I had many conversations like this with sensei.39 Looking back on these visits, Miki put Nishida’s attitude down to the fact that at the time Nishida was engaged in a struggle with his “contemplative life” and was “so to speak, haunted by philosophy.” He added that, considering these diffi culties, Nishida perhaps had little time for “a silly student” and longed instead for his solitary walks where he could truly think.40 Nishitani had such a bad experience on a home visit to Nishida that it was a case of never again: We sat on the fl oor facing each other, with a hibachi between us. He sat there grim and taciturn. Asked a question, he answered curtly and then relapsed into silence. Feeling at a loss, I quickly asked him what books I might consult on the problem of evil and then beat a hasty retreat. I was so discouraged that I never visited him again during my undergraduate years.41

37 Nishitani, 12. 38 Ibid. 39 MKZ, XVII, 298. 40 Ibid. 41 Nishitani, 17. 92 chapter three

For Nishitani, Nishida was gloomy and unapproachable, a distant “thinker”, and it was not until aft er he graduated that their relationship improved. Nishida’s lectures were always in the aft ernoon and, according to Miki, one lecture held on Friday aft ernoons had become so well-known throughout the campus that it attracted not just philosophy students but many people from other disciplines. Miki attended every one of these lectures during the fi ve years he was at Kyoto.42 Nishida taught his ‘Introduction to Philosophy’ every year between 1917 and 1920. He also taught special topics, ‘Intuition and refl ection’, ‘Contemporary philosophy’, and ‘Aesthetic consciousness’ for each academic year between 1917 and 1920 respectively. Also included were text reading and seminar classes on Leibniz’s Discourse on Metaphysics, Spinoza’s Ethica and Bergson’s L’Évolution Créatrice. Each lecture or seminar was scheduled to last for two hours.43 However, Miki recalled that oft en during his lectures, usually aft er a long period of silence while he gazed at the fl oor, Nishida would suddenly raise his eyes, and peer myopically at the audience from the bottom of his thick spectacles. Th at was usually a way, aft er an hour or so, of announcing the end of the fi rst stage of the lecture. Oft en there was no second stage, however, since Nishida would announce: “Now I am tired”. “Th ese words,” stated Miki, “always tugged at our heart-strings,” and the students would put his tiredness down to burning the candle at both ends in his research.44 While Nishida’s idiosyncratic style of teaching may raise a wry smile from today’s hard-pressed and over-regulated lecturers, nearly all accounts attest to his almost mystical power to draw the audience into his interior world of philosophy. Miki stated that: In considering sensei’s unique method of lecturing, I have a particular feeling about the matter. It was not simply the fact of giving an explanation, in sensei’s case you saw philosophy itself being made right in front of you.45 “In other words,” Miki concluded, “what made sensei’s style of lecturing so diff erent was not that he explained things to people, but that he

42 MKZ, XVII, 299. 43 Yusa (2002), 218. 44 MKZ, XVII, 299. 45 Ibid., 300. wanderings in the springtime of life 93 joined people together in a philosophical quest.”46 For Miki, Nishida’s writing had the same eff ect, and he rejected claims that Nishida’s books were diffi cult to read, stating that on the contrary; “from among the sentences, which in themselves have a tenacious logic, like a spirit suddenly emerging from out of the blue, an enlightened phrase throws a revelatory light on the whole passage.”47 For those students who had read his works and found them diffi cult to understand, Nishida’s lectures would have the same revelatory moments. Former student Yamanouchi Tokuryū compared Nishida’s style favourably to both Husserl—“too long-winded and wordy,” and Heidegger—“too spirited.” Nishida in contrast, was “by no means elegant” but had a unique quality “that would touch the most essential part of one’s being.” His lectures were unpretentious and yet “one felt as if his words were coming from his inner soul—indeed one could call his lectures a piece of art.”48 While there is no doubt about Nishida’s ability to inspire, there is nevertheless a tension, quite overt in Nishitani’s descriptions but merely hinted at in Miki’s, between the public face of Nishida and his more intimate personal contacts with his students. Although having little patience with undergraduates, he appeared to take more interest in his graduate students and both Nishitani’s and Miki’s accounts remark on his broadmindedness in allowing students to pursue their studies independently. According to Miki, “with regard to the researches of his new pupils he handed responsibility to the liberty of each individual. Th ere was no interference.” He argued that although this leniency may be enough to be considered indiff erence, this was almost certainly not the case. Nishida was also prepared to give advice about research, and Miki stated “I would try to speak to sensei who would always say, “that’s interesting,” and I was honoured to receive sensei’s thoughts relating to this.” He added: In these cases I remember a certain intimate relationship with regard to sensei which I would call that of a good father. In sensei there was always understanding. Everyone was in awe of sensei’s dignifi ed bearing but this was certainly not oppressive.49

46 Ibid., 299. 47 Ibid. 48 Cited in Yusa (2002), 133. 49 MKZ, XVII, 301. 94 chapter three

If Nishida was a “good father” to Miki, it was more as symbolic fi gure of authority and an incarnation of the contemplative life.

Hatano Sei’ichi and Fukada Yasukazu

Th e philosopher and historian Hatano Sei’ichi, who arrived from Tokyo at the same time as Miki, and the philosopher of aesthetics Fukada Yasukazu became father fi gures in a warmer, more intimate sense than Nishida.50 Hatano was a graduate of Tokyo Imperial University and was strongly infl uenced by Raphael von Koeber. His dissertation on Spinoza, originally written in German, was published in Japanese in 1910. He also published Seiyō Tetsugaku Shiyō (Outline of the history of Western philosophy) in 1901. His works were relatively widely read and enjoyed wide popularity up until the Pacifi c War. He initially taught at Tokyo Senmon Gakkō, later renamed Waseda University, and was sent to Germany to study in Berlin and Heidelberg. In 1917 he resigned suddenly from Waseda and was invited to Kyoto by Nishida among others, and off ered a chair in the science of religion. Baptised in 1902, Hatano specialised in the history of Christian thought publishing Kirisutokyō no Kigen (Th e origins of Christianity) in 1908. From the early 1920s he dedicated the rest of his career to the philosophy, rather than the history, of religion and became widely regarded as the fi rst systematic philosopher of religion in Japan.51 Miki described Hatano as a “most professor-like professor” and was deeply impressed by his historical research. Whereas Nishida personifi ed the philosopher, Hatano personifi ed the profession into which Miki hoped to be admitted. He was, Miki stated, “a teacher who argued that in researching Western philosophy, it was essential to study both Christianity and Greek philosophy which are its eternal wellsprings.”52 Under Hatano’s infl uence he began to study Greek, especially Plato, and Christian theology. He recalled: When I try to look back at myself then, with regard to the way I thought, I suppose I was most strongly infl uenced by Nishida sensei, but in the way I approached my research, I was most oft en infl uenced by Hatano

50 MKZ, I, 366–7. 51 Piovesana, 123–8. 52 MKZ, I, 400. wanderings in the springtime of life 95

sensei. My research became centred on historical philosophy, and I was interested in studying Aristotle and so on. Also the fact that I began reading about Pascal makes me think that perhaps this also was due to Hatano sensei’s inspiration.53 However, another “completely distinct infl uence” began to make itself felt from Fukada who not only taught Miki about aesthetics and, what he termed, “the meaning of culture” and the liberal arts, but introduced him to French literature and philosophy. Miki described Fukada as the “purest heir” to Koeber’s methodology and “a truly cultured person.” Fukada was passionate about all things French and introduced Miki to a wide variety of French critics, historians and novelists such as Hippolyte Taine (1828–93), Anatole France (1844–1924), George Sand (1804–76), Flaubert (1821–80), and Brunetière Ferdinand (1849–1906): At the time the scope of my reading was mainly German philosophy and I had not considered turning my hand to things French. However, I began to feel a yearning for French thought and literature and began to consider studying abroad in Paris. Such thoughts and desires were inspired by Fukada.54 Of all his teachers, Miki seemed to have genuinely enjoyed the company of Fukada and Hatano who were both partial to drinking sake. When they learned that Miki too was something of a sake connoisseur they invited him to join them and he spent many hours in their company.55 Th e two professors became intimately connected in Miki’s mind with his developing humanism and he remembered them with particular fondness: In this period of my youth there was a tide of reaction against naturalism in Japanese literature and thought, or rather a conquest of naturalism which appeared as humanism. I grew up in the middle of its fl ow as humanism spread, took shape and was manifested. I was infl uenced by it in ways both great and small. It fi rst appeared in the concept ofkyōyō (cultivation) and in this respect the writing of Abe Jirō was infl uential in my high school days. However, once at university it was the teaching of Hatano sensei and Fukada sensei, in particular their personalities and their conversation, that had such a great infl uence on me. [. . .] I was privileged

53 Ibid. 54 Ibid., 401. 55 MKZ, I, 367. 96 chapter three

to be able to talk about various things with them in an intimate and unreserved manner. I remember my student life with great pleasure.56 Both teachers were twenty years older than Miki. Touched by their openness and impressed by their scholarship, Miki regarded them as father-fi gures who were able to plug the cultural and social gaps of which he had been so keenly aware when he arrived in Tokyo. It is notable that Miki, while always careful to acknowledge his intellectual debt to Nishida, never wrote about him in the same intimate terms.

Tanabe Hajime

Another major infl uence on Miki at Kyoto Imperial University was Tanabe Hajime who was only twelve years older than Miki and had graduated from Tokyo Imperial University in 1908 aft er switching from mathematics to philosophy. His fi rst university post was in the department of natural science at Tōhoku Imperial University.57 Initially his primary interests were in the philosophy of science and mathematics and his fi rst book Saikin no Shizenkagaku (Recent natural science) was published in 1915. Aft er Nishida’s invitation to take up the position of assistant professor of philosophy in 1918, he was sent initially to Berlin in 1922 to study with the neo-Kantian Alois Riehl before developing an interest in Husserl’s phenomenology which was swift ly gaining popularity. In Freiburg he became disenchanted with Husserl and turned to Heidegger who regarded him with great favour and tutored him privately in German philosophy in Marburg.58 Aft er he returned to Kyoto in 1924 he devoted much of his time to the study of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Mind which became central to his contribution to the Kyoto School. In 1927 Tanabe became a full professor and eventually took over the chair aft er Nishida retired. For various reasons, however, Tanabe and Nishida later became estranged.59 Tanabe’s fi rst essay, “On Th etic Judgement”, was published in 1910, one year before Nishida’s Zen no Kenkyū, but was based very much on Nishida’s ideas about pure experience which had been aired publicly

56 MKZ, I, 401. 57 James W. Heisig, Philosophers of Nothingness (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001), 107. 58 Ibid., 108. 59 Ibid., 108–9. wanderings in the springtime of life 97 in journals. He soon drift ed away from Nishida, however, in his focus on objective, rather than subjective, knowledge thus acknowledging the role of mathematics and science in philosophy. At the time that Miki was studying under him, Tanabe was, according to Heisig, still trying to fi nd a direction out of the woods of the all-pervading neo-Kantian philosophy onto a clear path of his own.60 According to Takeuchi Yoshinori, Tanabe was a popular and inspiring lecturer very diff erent to Nishida: Dr. Tanabe would appear, take the podium, look slightly to the side, and greet the students in his own unique manner. [. . .] When he fi nally began to speak, it was in a slow whisper, so that not even those in the front who strained their ears could hear him very well. But this was only the beginning, like the quiet mists of an incipient storm. Eventually the powerful fl ow of his thought fi lled the room. For nearly one hour and forty minutes we were blown about by the gales of his cogitations, until we were literally left breathless at the end.61 For Miki, Tanabe was an inspiring teacher and “important as my guide.” In particular, he noted Tanabe’s deep understanding of German conceptual philosophy stating that, “under sensei, I forged and tempered my own thought, wearing it like a crown.”62 Miki became caught up in the predominantly neo-Kantian atmosphere and, under Tanabe, continued his studies of Kant and Hegel and developed an abiding interest in Dilthey’s hermeneutics. He also studied the work of Franz Brentano (1838–1917), one of the most charismatic and intellectually infl uential German philosophers of his time and his student Alexius Meinong (1853–1920), a neo-Kantian philosopher of the Marburg School.63 According to Jacques le Rider, Brentano was in the forefront of the development of a specifi cally “Austrian” philosophy which was coterminous with the emergence, between 1890 and 1910, of what historians of ideas have called “Viennese modernism”. Moreover, his

60 Ibid., 113. 61 Takeuchi Yoshinori, “Recollections of Professor Tanabe” in Th e Religious Philoso- phy of Tanabe Hajime: Th e Metanoetic Imperative, ed. James W. Heisig and Taitetsu Unno (Berkeley, Calif.: Nanzan Institute for Religion and Culture, Asian Humanities Press, 1990), 2. 62 MKZ, I, 400. 63 MKZ, XIX, 860. 98 chapter three philosophy was closer to what may be termed “English” rather than post-Kantian thinking.64 Neo-Kantianism is characterized by three major traits, the most obvious being its debt to Kant. It is also highly subjective in its attempts to reconstruct everyday and scientifi c cognition. Moreover it is notoriously abstract. Indeed, Rickert’s Das Eine, die Einheit und die Eins has been judged “almost untranslatable for its abstractness”.65 Neo-Kantian- ism with its abstractions and highly speculative constructions is thus opposed to the phenomenological slogan “to things themselves”.66 It was this subjectivity and abstractness that Tanabe rebelled against. However, although at its height in Japanese universities during Miki’s student days, the idealism of neo-Kantianism was already under attack by Husserl’s phenomenology as Miki and Tanabe would fi nd out on their travels to Europe.

Politics and humanism

Intellectually, humanism and socialism, as well as religion, vied with each other as Miki attempted to position himself in relation to the major trends and intellectual fashions of the Taishō period. Already deeply interested in the Shirakaba School whose heroes included Uchimura Kanzō, Walt Whitman, Leo Tolstoy and Auguste Rodin, he fl irted for a time with Mushanokōji’s New Village Movement, attending meetings of the New Village Lecture Society with friends who had left the First Higher School at the same time. Th ese included Tanikawa Tetsuzō (1895–1989) who went on to develop the philosophical basis of literary criticism in Japan,67 and Hidaka Daishirō (1896–1977). For a while, Miki also became a great fan of Uchimura Kanzō’s disciple Arishima Takeo, a bohemian fi gure who sometimes lectured at Doshisha Uni- versity. Miki and Tanikawa would oft en visit him at his lodgings.68 Infl uenced by Tolstoy, Mushanokōji believed that man should live by

64 Jacques le Rider, Modernity and Crises of Identity: Culture and Society in Fin-de- Siècle Vienna, trans., Rosemary Morris (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1993), 12. 65 Karl Schuhmann and Barry Smith, “Two Idealisms: Lask and Husserl,” Kant- Studien 83 (1993), http://ontology.buff alo.edu/smith//articles/LASK.PDF. (Accessed 17 March 2005), 2. 66 Ibid. 67 Piovesana, 162. 68 MKZ, I, 402. wanderings in the springtime of life 99 means of the work of his own hands by working on the land. Harmony could only be achieved through physical labour which completed and enriched our spiritual labours. In 1918, just aft er Miki entered Kyoto Imperial University, Mushanokōji established his atarashiki-mura (new village) in Kijō, Miyazaki Prefecture.69 In a declaration entitled “Atarashiki-mura ni tsuite” (On the new village, 1918) he stated his belief that “ideology cannot give life to people, but people can give life to ideology.”70 However, once again, the signs are that Miki’s interest in the burgeoning political movements during his undergraduate years was fl eeting. It seemed for a while that Miki’s humanism might take on a religious, rather than political, form exemplifi ed in the writing of his near contemporary and member of the Shirakaba School, Kurata Hyakuzō (1891–1941). Kurata’s Ai to Ninshiki to no Shuppatsu (Th e beginning of love and understanding, 1921), had been partly responsible for the greater popularity of Nishida’s Zen no Kenkyū. Kurata also wrote a play in 1919 about Shinran, Shukke to sono deshi,71 which was translated into English as Th e Priest and his Disciples three years later. However, Miki stated that Kurata’s infl uence was “only temporary.” On the other hand, what Miki liked about Kawakami Hajime was his apparent ability to marry together a political ideal with religious devotion. Kawakami had arrived in Kyoto in 1908 and the period of Miki’s undergraduate years from 1917 until 1920 were, for Kawakami, a period of transition. His Bimbō Monogatari (Tale of poverty), published shortly aft er his return from Europe in 1916 was based on the ideas of a religious sect known as Muga-En or the Garden of Selfl essness. Kawakami’s ‘absolute selfl essness’ strove to reconcile the individualist ethos of capitalism with newly-established, Buddhist-infl uenced ethics of selfl ess devotion to the common good. He argued that if the profi t motive could be replaced by altruism, it was possible to cure poverty without overthrowing the capitalist system. However, according to Kawakami’s biographer Bernstein, the ‘white rainbow’ aff air marked the moment of Kawakami’s conversion to Marxism.72 In 1919 Kawakami

69 Koyama-Richards, 213. 70 David J. Lu ed., Japan A Documentary History: Th e late Tokugawa period to the present (New York and London: M. E. Sharpe, 1997), 400. 71 Entry for Kurata Hyakuzō, in Nihonshi Daijiten, vol. II, (Tokyo: Hanamachikku Center, 1993). 72 Gail Lee Bernstein, “Kawakami Hajime: A Japanese Marxist in Search of the Way,” in Japan in Crisis, ed. Silberman and Harootunian 101. 100 chapter three repudiated his theory of poverty and declared his intention to embrace Marxism. Yet Kawakami’s history of involvement with Marxism was tortured and problematic even aft er he joined the Japan Communist Party in 1932. Bernstein views Kawakami as a bridge between two generations who had diff erent notions of knowledge and political behaviour: Like a man with one foot on each bank of a river, Kawakami tried to bridge two cultures and two views of learning. On one side lay the traditional view of learning as moral cultivation. On the other side lay the demands of the modern social sciences for a value-free body of knowledge. To stay on the fi rst side, Kawakami had to renounce the scientism that modernity implied; to cross over to the other side, he had to surrender the moralism that tradition demanded.73 In this Kawakami was emblematic of his age. Miki pointed out that there were few at the time who managed to leave humanitarian socialism behind them, and the notion of ‘absolute selfl essness’ was eventually abandoned in favour of a more general and less transcendent attempt to approach social questions with a sense of “genuine humanitarian feeling.”74 Miki also read the journal Warera which was founded by Hasegawa Nyozekan, aft er he resigned from the OsakaAsahi , and published monthly between 1919 and 1930. Warera, meaning ‘we ourselves’, largely supported the activities of Yoshino Sakuzō’s Shinjinkai (new man) movement.75 Indeed, it was students within the Shinjinkai at Tokyo Imperial University and Waseda that were mainly attracted to Warera. Another group consisted of young Marxist social scientists from Tokyo and Kyoto Imperial Universities as well as others.76 How- ever, Miki’s reaction was one of general disinterest; “with regard to these movements, while I was not uninterested I did not really enter into the spirit of it.”77 Th e question of timing was perhaps once again critical for Miki’s personal and intellectual development. Just as he arrived at the First Higher School a little too late to be infl uenced by evangelising Christians such as Uchimura Kanzō and Nitobe Inazō, he perhaps arrived at Kyoto Imperial University a little too early to experience the enthusiasm for Marxism that Kawakami generated later on in the

73 Bernstein, 108. 74 MKZ, I, 402. 75 Ibid., 408. 76 Barshay, 155–6. 77 MKZ, I, 408. wanderings in the springtime of life 101

1920s aft er his ‘conversion’. Miki admitted in Wanderings through the World of Books that he spent most of his time reading classics rather than getting involved in politics. While continuing to be infl uenced by the Shirakaba School, it appears that he had little interest in the New Village Movement either.78 Th ere are two ways in which this declared general disinterest in the burgeoning political movements of the period might be interpreted. It could be argued that in the atmosphere of wartime Japan, Miki was simply being cautious with a view to avoiding censorship. However, Th e Unspoken Philosophy, written during a time of relative freedom and not necessarily meant for publication, is similarly unenthusiastic about political trends. For the time being, his years at Kyoto Imperial University were marked by debates centred on the meaning of culture, rather than politics; bunkashugi (culturalism), rather than Marukusu- shugi (Marxism).

Th e debates about culture

Th e general humanist trend among scholars, Miki stated, changed the vocabulary of the times from kyōyō 教養 (cultivation) to bunka 文化 (culture) through the widespread use of terms such as bunkashugi (culturalism). He claimed that this change was based on the popularity of cultural philosophy and the neo-Kantian philosophy of value expounded by the philosopher Kuwaki Gen’yoku (1874–1946) and the economic theorist Sōda Kiichirō (1881–1927).79 Kuwaki was a Tokyo Imperial University graduate who encouraged the spread of bunkashugi which was grounded in German idealist philosophy. He travelled frequently to Europe and the United States working hard to introduce Japanese philosophy to the West. He established Seiyō tetsugaku kenkyū (the study of Western philosophy) within the Japanese Academy which was linked to Yoshino Sakuzō’s Taishō democracy movement. His publications included Tetsugaku gairon (An outline of philosophy, 1900) and Kanto to gendai no tetsugaku (Kant and contemporary philosophy, 1917). Sōda, on the other hand, was heavily infl uenced by Rickert’s neo-Kantian Geld und Wert (Currency and value, 1909). Th rough teachers such as

78 Ibid. 79 MKZ, I, 402. 102 chapter three these, stated Miki, sayings such as bunka jūtaku (cultural residence) and bunkamura (cultural village) became common currency among academics and students alike and bunkashugi became a symbol of the Taishō period.80 Indeed, from the 1920s Japanese intellectuals had become preoccupied with the problem of defi ning culture, particularly Japanese culture. As Tessa Morris-Suzuki has shown, the use of the word bunka, as in Nihon bunka (Japanese culture), did not infi ltrate popular consciousness until this time.81 In Japan the word bunka largely derived from the closely associated term bunmei, meaning ‘civilisation’ which from Meiji times was taken to refer to the technological and scientifi c advances exemplifi ed by the West. It was used by the Meiji advocates and enthusiasts for Westernisation, for example, in the term bunmei kaika (civilisation and enlightenment). Th e term bunka, suggested Morris-Suzuki, appeared to be merely an abbreviation of bunmei kaika at this time but gradually it metamorphosed into a concept which, by the interwar period, was commonly used in Nihonjinron or ‘theories of Japanese uniqueness’. Eventually by 1930 bunka became associated in the public imagination with social development and this new meaning of culture was symbolised by the establishment of the Asahi Cultural Awards (Asahi bunka shō) and the honouring of leading scholars in the arts and humanities through state-funded cultural awards.82 It has generally been acknowledged both by historians in the West such as Morris-Suzuki and in Japan by, for example, Ikimatsu Keizō, that the term bunka underwent a fundamental shift in nuance during the early part of the twentieth century. From its association with the bunmei kaika of the Meiji Period, in the Taishō Period bunka now became associated with individualism and kyōyōshugi which, though oft en translated as ‘culture’, bears more of a suggestion of cultivation in the sense of education and refi nement.83 Harootunian has also suggested that the transfer from bunmei to bunka implied a change from Meiji ideas of shūgyō (education), which implied discipline and self- sacrifi cing public service, to kyōyō (cultivation) referring to personal

80 Ibid. 81 Tessa Morris-Suzuki, “Th e invention and reinvention of ‘Japanese culture’,” Journal of Asian Studies 54:3 (August 1995), 761. 82 Ibid., 763. 83 Ikimatsu Keizō, Taishō-ki no shisō to bunka (Th ought and culture in the Taishō period), (Tokyo: Aoki shoten, 1971), 86. wanderings in the springtime of life 103 self-cultivation.84 According to Ikimatsu, this implied a “consumerist” approach to culture.85 It was not so much, therefore, a change from kyōyō to bunka, as Miki suggests, as an appropriation of the semantic associations of the nuances of kyōyō by the all-encompassing term bunka. Ikimatsu pointed out that in 1920, for example, Waseda University established the Cultural Enterprise Research Society (bunka jigyō kenkyūkai). Th eir aim was the dissemination of culture as defi ned by the German Kultur in the sense of the mental training or self-discipline suggested by the term shūyō. Ikimatsu concluded that their defi nition was generally assumed to be diff erent from what we would think of as ‘cultural’ or ‘high’ culture. Rather it is culture in the sense of the ‘cultivation of the liberal arts’ (geijutsuteki kyōyō).86 From around 1919 numerous books and articles appeared which attempted to defi ne the term bunka, as well as a number of lectures with bunkashugi in the title.87 Sōda Kiichirō’s lectures in 1919 on ‘theories of culturalism’, for example, also defi ned the word ‘culture’ in the sense of the German Kultur, demonstrating the infl uence of neo-Kantianism and especially Rickert on his thought. Kuwaki Gen’yoku’s earlier work Kanto to gendai no tetsugaku (Kant and modern philosophy, 1914) attempted to explain culturalism as a type of personalism ( jinkakushugi), defi ned here as the ability to develop freely as individual personalities. For Kuwaki, it was this which really distinguished the new culturalism movement from bunmei kaika of the Meiji period. According to Ikimatsu, the real signifi cance of debate about the historical signifi cance of the word kyōyō, lay in the politicisation of the term bunkashugi through its association with the Taishō democracy

84 H. D. Harootunian (1974, 1999), 15. 85 Ikimatsu, 86. 86 Ibid. According to Norbert Elias, the German conception of Kultur refers to “human products,” the “fl owers of the fi eld” in which the individuality of a people expresses itself in works of art, books and in religious or philosophical systems. It is worth noting here that in this respect the German concept of Zivilisation, though useful, is second rate comprising only the outer appearance of human beings and the surface of their existence. Kultur by comparison is the medium through which Germans expressed themselves and took pride in their achievements. Th e problem for Elias is that this German concept of culture is thus delimiting. While the English and French referred to their “civilisation” which tended to play down national diff erences and emphasised what was common to all human beings, the Germans referred to their Kultur which emphasised national diff erences. Norbert Elias,Th e Civilizing Process: Th e History of Manners and State Formation and Civilization, trans., Edmond Jephcott (Oxford and Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1994), 4–5. 87 Ibid. 104 chapter three movement.88 Yet these debates were also highly signifi cant for Miki in as much as the adoption of this German concept of Kultur, which could not but be reinforced by his studies in Germany, was arguably partly responsible for his own cultural particularism in the 1930s.

History

Along with his deep interest in the bunkashugi debates, Miki was naturally drawn to studying cultural history. At junior high school he was inspired by the works of the social commentator and popular historian Yamaji Aizan (1864–1917), the one time leader of the Kokka shakaitō (National Socialist Party). Miki’s studies followed in the direction of two new trends in the history of teaching at Kyoto Imperial University. Th e fi rst was the movement, following German trends, away from political history and towards cultural history. According to Miki this entailed “a new trend in methodology [. . .] centred on the work of Watsuji Tetsurō.”89 In July 1920 shortly before his graduation, Miki was hospi- talised with a fractured left shoulder. He was hit by a car when crossing a road while engaged in a discussion with a friend.90 Tanabe Hajime thoughtfully provided him with a new edition of Watsuji’s translation of Lamprecht’s Modern Historical Studies to help him pass the time. Aft erwards Miki became deeply interested in Watsuji’s works on cultural history, especially, Koji junrei (Pilgrimages to ancient temples, 1920) and Nihon kodai bunka (Ancient Japanese culture).91 Th is last, researched in 1917 with succeeding volumes published in 1926 and 1934, was widely read and made a vivid impression on the Japanese public.92

88 Ikimatsu, 88–93. Ikimatsu also acknowledged the importance of Miki’s Wanderings through the World of Books as a source of information about these trends. 89 MKZ, I, 404. 90 MKZ, XIX, 861. 91 MKZ, I, p. 404. 92 Robert E. Carter, introduction to Watsuji Tetsurō, Watsuji Tetsurō’s Rinrigaku: Ethics in Japan, trans. Yamamoto Seisaku and Robert E. Carter (Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press, 1996). In 1935 Watsuji published his famous Fūdo, an account of cultural uniqueness based on the concept of ‘climaticity’ or fūdosei. Th is was an attempt to combine the temporal historicity (rekishisei) with a spatial equivalent. Subtitled “Ningengaku-teki kōsatsu” (An essay in the study of man), ultimately this was to become a basis for a phenomenological theory of man to complement Heidegger’s Sein und Seit (Being and time). See also Augustin Berque, “Identifi cation of the self in relation to the environment,” in Japanese Sense of Self, ed. Nancy R. Rosenberger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 93. wanderings in the springtime of life 105

Sakaguchi Takashi’s lectures on the Italian Renaissance proved immensely popular with students and were central in the teaching of world history at Kyoto Imperial University, and Hatano taught Miki diff erent methodologies for studying world history. Th e well-known scholar of Chinese history Naitō Konan (1866–1934), and historians Hara Katsurō (1871–1924) and Miura Kaneyuki93 (1871–1931) were all lecturing at Kyoto at the time and were, as Miki put it, “of the generation of historical science.”94 Economic history, on the other hand, held no fascination for Miki who remarked that at Kyoto Imperial Univer- sity; “despite the fact that Uchida Ginzō sensei [1872–1919] was doing a splendid job teaching Japanese economic history and all its other aspects, I regret that I paid little attention.”95 In fact Uchida’s course on Japanese economic history was the fi rst of its kind in Japan, but he obviously failed to enthuse at least one of his undergraduates. Instead Miki began to develop an interest in historical philosophy: I thus began to get a feel for the problems of historical philosophy and Japanese philosophy at the time. Th ese were infl uenced by Windelband and Rickert and so on as well as by neo-Kantianism. Consequently it was in the main the problem of the methodology relating to history and the formal logic problems of epistemology which were central to historical philosophy at the time, rather than the historical philosophy which concerns itself with content like the philosophy of world history contemplated by Hegel.96 Th e European thinkers who were most infl uential among students in this respect at the time were Rudolf Christoph Eucken (1846–1926), a professor at Basel in 1871 and Jena in 1874, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1908, and Henri Bergson (1859–1941), one of the most infl uential philosophers of his age, who was also awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1927. Bergson’s most notable works are Essai sur les donnés immédiates de la conscience (1889) which addressed the problem of our experience of time, space and change, Matière et mémoire (1896), L’Évolution créatrice (1907) and his last major work Les deux sources de la morale et de la religion (1932). Miki stated that: “I was introduced to philosophic life through the infl uence of Nishida sensei and learned about Bergson aft er he encouraged me

93 Also known as Miura Hiroyuki. 94 MKZ, I, 405. 95 Ibid. 96 Ibid. 106 chapter three to read L’Évolution créatrice, though I read hardly any of Eucken.”97 Indeed, according to Miki, there was a split among the students between bungakuha (culturalist school) and gakkyuha (scholastic school). His close friends, Hayashi Tatsuo, Tanigawa Tetsuzō and Oda Shigeru all belonged to the bungakuha. Along with the latter two, Miki was also infl uenced by the ‘Philosophy of Life’ school because of its close association with cultural and historical philosophy and eventually Miki chose to write his undergraduate dissertation on the topic of historical philosophy.98

Th e Unspoken Philosophy

Th e account of Miki’s university life above is largely derived from his perspective in 1941. However, once again Th e Unspoken Philosophy provides a more deeply personal and emotional account. In July 1919, the year before he graduated, Miki was evidently struggling to position himself intellectually and philosophically in space and time. In space he saw himself located somewhere between East and West. In time, not only did he stand between his past and his future, but he saw himself located between mortality and eternity, between the transient and the immutable. At the age of twenty three, Miki decided that it was time to wipe the slate clean by revisiting “the fi rst half of my life” and then putting it behind him. The Unspoken Philosophy, which remained unpublished until aft er his death, charts his quest for identity amid the multifarious infl uences of his voracious reading. He defi ned ‘unspoken philosophy’ in the following terms: In opposition to spoken philosophy’s pursuit of the praiseworthy which many people will be able to read about, unspoken philosophy seeks an understanding with which only a very few people can truly empathise. For this reason unspoken philosophy is a philosophy which neither aims for glory nor is it tested through displaying an acute intellect. Th is is because the essence of unspoken philosophy lies in profundity rather than acuity and in purity rather than ingenuity. It is founded not upon its ability to satisfy the spirit of honour and glory, but rather upon the denial of such things.99

97 Ibid., 403. 98 Ibid. 99 MKZ, XVIII, 3. wanderings in the springtime of life 107

Th e Unspoken Philosophy, begins with a declaration: “Confession (zange) is the unspoken philosophy.”100 In this creative and religious expression of his sense of ‘becoming’, his stated aim was to “try and think truthfully about what I am, what I am not and what I want to be; or what I have, what I do not have and what I want to have.”101 Miki referred to the agony of his youthful transformation; his “poverty of experience”, “weak powers of meditation” and his failed attempts to make an accurate written account of the fi rst half of his life in order to “wipe clean the slate of the past” and discover himself anew. He expressed embarrassment at his feelings of impatience and anxiety aft er his failures, especially since it was clear “that among my motives for these undertakings, some were impure.” Of these, the worst was “vain-gloriousness”. Frequently in these early endeavours, before he had even read ten pages of his manuscript, he would rip them up and burn them.102 It was only when Miki had reached a certain level of maturity, and had reorganised his past life in a way which would bind it to the present and the future, that he could begin to realise the fulfi lment of his task: In my failure, while not regrettable in as much as it exposed my hidden vanity, I felt like a person whose secret plot had been discovered, or whose ambitions had been destroyed from the outset. It was exasperating and I roamed about in the midst of anxious melancholy. At that time I was not yet aware that my task was not at all to make friends with other people, but to make friends with myself. [. . .] In responding seriously to our poverty of experience and our weak powers of contemplation we are not necessarily goaded into anxiety and irritation, but on the contrary, are led to serenity and safety.103 Th e narrative style is very revealing. Its peculiar stylistic disjuncture, fl owery prose and eff usive use of metaphor, in themselves perhaps remnants of Miki’s quashed ambitions to become a writer, are in stark contrast to Miki’s later style of writing which became admired for its clarity and plain-speaking simplicity. Although clearly inspired in its format by Tolstoy’s A Confession, it also contains elements of St Augustine’s Confessions and Goethe’s Faust. On the other hand it also shows the infl uence of Nishida and it is infl uenced by Buddhist more than Christian notions of confession. It is also perhaps no coincidence

100 Ibid. 101 Ibid., 42. 102 Ibid., 3–4. 103 Ibid., 5. 108 chapter three two years earlier (a few days before Miki’s fi rst visit to Nishida in 1917) Nishida’s student Nozaki Hiroyoshi died leaving a manuscript behind. His friends edited the manuscript and published it as a book to which Nishida added a foreword as well as a postscript. Its title was Zange toshite no tetsugaku (Philosophy as confession).104 According to Ueda Yoshifumi, the term zange derives from the Sanskrit ksama or ksamana and means to regret and make changes in one’s life or to seek forgiveness. In many Buddhist sects, rather like Christianity, it implies the elimination of evil and has connotations of experiencing “repentance” or “contrition” for sins committed and thus of “penitence”. It is interesting to note, however, that this particular concept of zange is not present in Shinran’s Tannishō. His roughly equivalent term zangi has the sense merely of being humbled or ashamed. If a sinner is ashamed of his deeds, the implication is that he will simply refrain from repeating such an action quite naturally without consciously repenting or necessarily feeling contrition. In zangi evil is to be avoided rather than consciously eliminated.105 For many Japanese philosophers the concept of zange off ered possibilities for genuine dialogue with Western theology, and Tanabe Hajime’s Philosophy as Metanoetics (1946) is certainly the most well- known example of this type of endeavour. Based on lectures presented during the Pacifi c War, Tanabe’s “confession” was produced aft er he had become caught up in the classic intellectual dilemma of confrontation or capitulation with a state which, in Yanaihara Tadao’s words, had “gone mad”.106 Although Tanabe wrote Philosophy as Metanoetics at a much later time in his life cycle, it shares with Miki’s Th e Unspoken Philosophy an insistence on unfl inching self-awareness and refl ection. Written during a time of acute self-doubt and identity crisis, Tanabe believed that his indecision during a period of national crisis had made him unworthy to be called a philosopher. Tortured with questions and doubts, he was fi nally forced to confront his own weakness and powerlessness: At that moment something astonishing happened. In the midst of my distress I let go and surrendered myself humbly to my own inability. I was suddenly brought to new insight! My penitent confession—metanoesis—

104 Yusa (2002), 162–3. 105 Ueda Yoshifumi, “Tanabe’s Metanoetics and Shinran’s Th ought,” in Th e Religious Philosophy of Tanabe Hajime, ed. Heisig and Unno, 135. 106 Townsend, 243. wanderings in the springtime of life 109

unexpectedly threw me back on my own interiority and away from things external. Th ere was no longer any question of my teaching and correcting others under the circumstances—I who could not deliver myself to do the correct thing. Th e only thing for me to do in the situation was to resign myself honestly to my weakness, to examine my own inner self with humility, and to explore the depths of my powerlessness and lack of freedom.107 James Fredericks described Tanabe’s Philosophy as Metanoetics as “uncharacteristically self-revealing for this private, intense and at times somewhat unapproachable man.”108 Although there is no room here for an in-depth comparison between Miki’s and Tanabe’s notions of philosophy as zange, suffi ce to say that the most notable diff erence is Tanabe’s very public act of “repentance” on the one hand, and Miki’s more private self-examination on the other. Miki stays truer to Shinran in as much as, for him, the actual fact of giving an accurate account of his past life, whether or not it was committed to paper, and whether or not it was published, was enough.109 According to Miki, for any type of philosophy the starting point had to be a proper method of enquiry, as shown by Kant, and a correct point of departure as shown by Descartes: Without a proper method of enquiry, we cannot be sure of the point to be decided, the target a player must aim at and hit in order to win. All his endeavours will simply bring about fatigue causing him to fail in achieving a good result. Without the correct point of departure, the player will embark upon the wrong course. Whether or not he achieves his life’s destiny will depend on how far out from the point of decision he approaches.110 He sought the answer fi rstly to the question; “In what is the good life possible?” and secondly; “What is the good life?” Th e fi rst was a problem of the form—the conditio sine qua non—of the good life, and the second was a problem of the content of the good life. For Miki the good life should be thought of less in terms of a “moral life” and more in terms of a “proper” or “beautiful” life. Th is is a refl ection of Nishida’s statement that: “Beauty is felt when things are realized like

107 James Fredericks, “Philosophy as Metanoetics: An Analysis” in Th e Religious Philosophy of Tanabe Hajime, ed. Heisig and Unno, 47. 108 Ibid. 109 MKZ, XVIII, 6. 110 Ibid., 6–7. 110 chapter three ideals are realized, which means for things to display their original nature.” Good conduct arises from a person’s own innate talents, thus evoking beauty.111 Perhaps infl uenced by Tanabe’s less subjective notions of good, Miki stated that: Knowledge which does not reform life and ideals which do not dominate reality are meaningless to the student of unspoken philosophy in the same way that bullets which only make a sound but do not necessarily kill the prey are meaningless to the hunter. Th is view privileges life over knowledge. But this is not to say that knowledge relating to truth can only be gained through life.112 In Miki’s unspoken philosophy, therefore, truth lives in obedience to the realisation of our ideals and in the affi rmation of the whole personality.113 For Nishida, the good is the development and completion—the self-realization—of the self.114 According to Miki, within any man who tries to truly live there exists the opposition of two selves which are constantly at war with each other. He cited St. Paul: For I delight in the law of God aft er the inward man: But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. Oh wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death.115 Miki was aware of the presence of these two selves through his friends’ appraisal of him as, at the same time, “scholar” and “poet”; “rational” and “emotional”; “clever” and “foolhardy”; or “obedient” and “fl ighty”. With regard to these judgements of him, he stated, it is impossible to tell “who is right and who is wrong” or where there is fl attery or true criticism: What I do know is that a single individual, in paradoxical terms, is one human being who at the same time has a heart [kokoro] in which mutually relative positions and contradictions collide, as they would among several human beings. When an individual attempts to analyse, abstract, describe or defi ne these, he loses his special characteristics as an individual. For this reason it is not possible to go beyond the proposition “A is A”; the

111 Nishida, trans. Abe & Ives, 125. 112 MKZ, XVIII, 8. 113 Ibid. 114 Nishida, trans. Abe & Ives, 125. 115 Romans IV: 22–24 wanderings in the springtime of life 111

appraisal of an individual is done best only through the intuition with which we can confront these as a whole.116 Like Nishida, Miki sought good in the unity of the personality and harmony between its parts. Such a quest cannot be based on rationally seeking out and destroying those parts of the personality which are not valued as good. Rather we must intuitively confront and satisfy the demands of the various parts for the sake of the development of our personalities as a whole. For Miki this was to be achieved through love not through the rule of law. Th e truth demanded by the unspoken philosophy is faithful to the whole personality which is self-affi rming and “brimming over with goodness.”117 For Nishida too “good conduct is love” which he describes as “the feeling of congruence between self and other, the feeling of the union of subject and object”. In this respect love exists not only between two people but also in the encounter between, for example, a painter and nature.118 In his consideration of the opposing forces within the individual, Miki insisted that the possibility of the good was dependent on two things; the existence of a set of eternal values and the possibility of perfection: If the belief in the existence of eternal values is false then our good life is not possible. Th e great scientists, artists, moralists, philosophers and religionists, night and day uphold truth, good and beauty. Th ey give meaning to our lives and endeavours through their sincerity and the purity of their love.119 Th e existence of a set of eternal values and the possibility of perfection are predicated on the existence of an absolute being (zentaisha). Th e following perhaps demonstrates the infl uence of Kierkegaard on both Miki and his teacher: If our belief in eternal values and our hope for the possibility of perfection is not to become empty, an absolute being must exist as something which gives lasting stability to these. Th e absolute being is assumed to be the creator and maintainer of eternal values. He is also a manifestation of ourselves in our lives and, through our lives, makes possible our fi nal perfection. Th us the absolute being whom we call God or Buddha; reason,

116 MKZ, XVIII, 61. 117 Ibid. 118 Nishida, trans. Abe & Ives, 134–5. 119 MKZ, XVIII, 64. 112 chapter three

say, or value-consciousness, is the freedom of man. If an absolute being does not exist in any sense, all becomes false; consequently we ourselves, our lives, learning, art and morality also become falsehoods. [. . .] For this reason faith is not something arising simply from our curiosity, vanity, arrogance, instinct or social needs. Rather we must have faith for our own sakes and for our lives’ sakes in order that the learning, art and morality which we have come to love will not end in futility.120 God, rather than transcending the universe, unifi es it and gives it meaning. Th is is unmistakeably a refl ection of Nishida’s concept of God as the “the greatest and fi nal unifi er of our consciousness.”121 Miki also related the good to direct experience of the world. What was important was not what we experience but how we experience things and the fact that people experience the same events diff erently. It is in the diverse ways of experiencing the same things, therefore, that the diff erence between genius and the unimaginativeness of “duller intel- lects” lies. Out of two people standing in front of a work of art, only one may truly be able to appreciate it. What distinguishes great men, Miki argued, is their ability to discover a deeper meaning, even within events we may consider trivial. Miki here referred to Newton’s famous metaphor of picking up shells off a vast beach and putting them in a little basket. Some people pick up shells unconsciously, others carefully select which shells to pick up, but in so doing risk getting caught in a huge wave. He added: “We call this wide beach society; we call the little basket our life span; we call the great ocean fate and the strong wave death.”122 He believed that in this metaphor lay the distinction between humanism and idealism: Th ere are those of us who dream of and aspire to things eternal glittering in the beautiful blue sky and there are those of us who dream that even in the growing gloom we may yet bump into the light of eternity and come to love it. I call the former “idealists” and name the latter “humanists”. While the former yearn for things eternal which transcend the things of this world, the latter say they have discovered God living among a humanity that has sinned.123 Miki’s greatest fear was that he would be accused of “dilettantism” which he defi ned as failing to act in accordance with what is gleaned

120 Ibid., 66. 121 Nishida, trans., Abe & Ives, 161. 122 MKZ, XVIII, 69. 123 Ibid., 79. wanderings in the springtime of life 113 from knowledge and experience and being motivated instead by idle curiosity and vanity.124 He referred constantly to self-correction and the need to drive out vanity and selfi shness, thus indicating those things which he most hated in himself and other people. For him the good life was only attainable through humility, and zange was only possible for the meek, childlike heart.125

Nostalgia for a lost generation

Miki’s account of his student days at Kyoto is, to say the least, nostalgic. However, he recognised the privileged status of the imperial universities such as Kyoto and Tokyo which attracted the best minds from all over the country. Th ere were very few students specialising in philosophy at that time, in fact there were just two other students in his class together with Morikawa Reijirō with whom he shared lodgings.126 Looking back on these happy years in “Th e Springtime of my Life” Miki appeared to grieve for the lost innocence of his student days. Th ere is also some implied criticism of the recent roundups and persecutions of both lecturers and students as he compared his life as a student with the trials and tribulations of students in the 1930s: Compared with today’s students, my student life though, at any rate, was romantic. It was a time devoid of the vicissitudes of life, a time of peace in which the romanticism of the springtime of life could be set free.127 It was in other words, a world without politics. His narrative about who he was then was ultimately coloured by the bitterness of the intervening years. In his nostalgia for his university years lies his disillusionment at the failure of the intelligentsia, himself included, to cultivate the “meek heart” of childhood and thus withstand the “great tidal movements” of the 1930s.

124 Ibid., 73. 125 Ibid., 76. 126 MKZ, I, 365. 127 Ibid.

CHAPTER FOUR

MIKI’S WANDERJAHRE

Our squire arriving as a youth in Europe, felt himself another man. Th is inestimable culture, that had been called into being several thousand years ago; which had grown, expanded, been curbed, oppressed, never entirely suppressed; breathing afresh, reviving, and aft erwards as before displaying itself in infi nite forms of activity—gave him quite diff erent notions respecting the goal which humanity is able to reach. Goethe Wilhelm Meister’s Travels: Book I In Germany, what have I learned? What experiences have I had? What can I say? Th ese questions still linger. From now on I’m a traveller. Miki Kiyoshi (Letter to Hani Gorō, 31 July 1924) Miki remembered Taishō Nine (1920), the year of his graduation, as a time of “great unprecedented panic.”1 A short-lived, post-war boom had sunk into depression, people fl ocked from the impoverished rural areas into the cities causing high levels of unemployment and swell- ing the urban population enormously. In the cloistered atmosphere of the ancient former capital, however, Miki’s head remained fi rmly stuck in his books. In the intervening two years between graduating and embarking upon his journey to Europe in May 1922, he registered as a graduate student in order to continue his studies in historical philosophy supporting himself by lecturing part-time at Otani and Ryūkoku universities in Kyoto. His studies were interrupted by a brief spell of national service in the 10th Battalion as a student conscript in the Imperial Army in August 1920. For much of the time Miki worked with Hatano Sei’ichi organizing and editing Hatano’s lecture notes which were fi nally published by Iwanami Shoten as Shūkyō tetsugaku no honshitsu oyobi sono kompon mondai (Th e essence of religious philosophy and its basic problems). In his spare time he prepared for his European tour by reading George Grote’s monumental History of Greece (1846–1856),2 although it is

1 MKZ, I, 407. 2 George Grote (1794–1871) was born in Kent and left a career in politics in order to devote himself to the study of history and philosophy. 116 chapter four doubtful whether he managed all twelve volumes. Miki’s view of Euro- pean history at this time was infl uenced by Jacob Burckhardt’s Th e Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy (1860) and he was fascinated by Dante (1265–1321) and Leonardo da Vinci (1442–1519). He also read the works of the Jewish poet and essayist Heinrich Heine (1797–1856) and continued to study Goethe. However, through Fukada’s infl uence he was introduced to Anatole France (1844–1924) and Gustave Flaubert (1821–80) and came to admire the ‘naturist’ and anti-Symbolist Francis Jammes (1868–1938) whose poems about nature and religion, such as De l’angélus de l’aube à l’angélus du soir (1898), Deuil des primevères (1901) and Triomphe de la vie (1904) undoubtedly appealed to Miki’s developing humanism and love of nature.3 He was also interested in saints’ lives and read a biography of Joan of Arc, and the fourteenth- century, partly legendary, narrative history of St. Francis of Assisi Fio- retti de San Francisco (Little fl owers of St. Francis). He supplemented his study of St. Francis by reading Johannes Jorgensen’s (1866–1956) biography which had been recently translated into Japanese. Indeed, he read numerous biographies at this time including, among others, those of Beethoven, Michelangelo and Tolstoy.4 His continuing interest in the Shirakaba School led him to discover Walt Whitman (1819–91) and he described Leaves of Grass (1855) as “unforgettable.”5 In 1920 Miki also published a series of articles in the university’s journal Tetsugaku Kenkyū, including “On individuality” (Kosei nitsuite) and his undergraduate thesis “Critical philosophy and historical philosophy” (Hihan tetsugaku to rekishi tetsugaku). Th is was followed in April 1921 by “Problems in the laws of historical causality” (Rekishiteki ingaritsu no mondai).6 He was now living in lodgings in Kitashirakawa and had struck up several close friendships. Hamamoto Hiroshi, then a special correspondent for the journal Kaizō, oft en visited and gave advice about publishing for journals and magazines. Miki described himself as being “very poor” at the time and grateful to Hamamoto who enabled him to make a little money out of writing.7 Another frequent visitor to Miki’s lodgings was Mitsuchi Kōzō (1898–1924) who had just arrived in Kyoto from the First Higher School. Miki described him as

3 MKZ, I, 411. 4 Ibid., 408–10. 5 Ibid., 411. 6 All these early works are published in MKZ, II. 7 MKZ, I, 409. miki’s wanderjahre 117 an “eccentric genius” and credited him with introducing Kierkegaard to a Japanese audience through an article published in the journal Kōza. He was, Miki stated, “a formidable younger man.” Tragically, Mitsuchi committed suicide, apparently because of unrequited love, while Miki was in Europe.8 Nishida lamented Mitsuchi’s death along with the deaths of his two other students, Nozaki Hiroyoshi and Oka- moto Haruhiko, commenting that “three bright minds died without fulfi lling their potential.”9 He evidently hoped that Miki would fulfi l his potential and perhaps even succeed him in Kyoto, although this hope was not to be realised. Th us prepared, Miki embarked on a ship bound for southern France in May 1922. His three year study-tour, mainly in Germany and France, represented the apogee of Wanderings through the World of Books. Hatano Sei’ichi had recommended him to Iwanami Shigeo of the prestigious, liberally-minded publishing company Iwanami Shoten, and Iwanami agreed to sponsor Miki’s study in Germany from June 1922 until autumn 1924. However, Fukada encouraged Miki to extend his tour of Europe for a further year so that he could continue his study of French literature and philosophy in Paris.10 Miki went fi rst to Hei- delberg in order to study historical philosophy under Heinrich Rickert (1863–1936) and also became a student of the philosopher Eugen Her- rigel (1885–1955). In autumn 1923 he moved to Marburg where he was introduced to Martin Heidegger, a young Karl Löwith (1897–1973) and Heidegger’s student Hans Georg Gadamer (1900–2002). In summer 1924 Miki travelled to Paris via Vienna. In January 1925, in his Paris lodgings, he began work on A Study of Man in Pascal (Pasukaru ni okeru ningen no kenkyū, 1926). He returned to Kyoto in October 1925 with, to cite Goethe, “quite diff erent notions respecting the goal which humanity is able to reach.” Miki’s travels enabled him to step outside his own culture and develop a critical capacity to evaluate Japanese society as a whole. As the psychologist Ralph Linton put it; “those who know no culture other than their own cannot know their own.”11 Indeed, the ideas of the Taishō intellectual elite were shaped in fundamental ways by what H. Stuart Hughes has termed a “cluster of genius”—a long generation born in Europe around the late 1850s and

8 Ibid., 411. 9 Yusa (2002), 166. 10 MKZ, XIX, 862. 11 Linton, 81. 118 chapter four into the 1870s.12 Geographically, this ‘cluster of genius’ was located in the heartland of Europe and, indeed, of Western society. Th eir names appear regularly in Miki’s writings; Freud who was born in 1856, Durkheim (1858), Bergson (1859), Meinecke (1862), Weber (1864), Troeltsch (1865), Pirandello (1867), Alain (1868), Gide (1869) and Proust (1871). To some extent Miki and his fellow travellers became their intellectual heirs in Japan. Of the several writers identifi ed by Hughes as forming this group, however, some are notable for their absence from Miki’s work. Th ese were born in the latter period of the long generation; Péguy (1873), Jung and Mann (1875) Michels (1876) and Hesse (1877). Th is chapter charts Miki’s continuing progress through the Euro- pean philosophical and literary canons. As with Miki’s undergraduate years, there is relatively more evidence available for this period than for his later years. Of particular interest are Miki’s letters to Tanabe Hajime, Ishihara Ken and his friend Hani (Mori) Gorō giving information about conditions in Germany and France and details about his responses to people and ideas. Of his teachers during this period, the two most important infl uences on Miki’s intellectual development were undoubtedly Herrigel and, to some extent, Rickert in Heidelberg, and Heidegger in Marburg. Other tutors, such as Löwith and Gadamer were Miki’s age or younger, but were still important in helping Miki to develop his techniques of textual interpretation.

Miki and the crises in Germany

Miki sailed in the company of no less than forty-fi ve acquaintances from Japan and, aft er travelling by train from Marseilles through Swit- zerland, he and his companions arrived in Germany on 24 June 1922, the day that the Jewish Minister for Foreign Aff airs, Walther Rathenau, was assassinated by a right-wing, anti-Semitic extremist.13 Th ey read about the murder in the newspaper which reported that the “Jew and Erfüllungspolitiker (a politician who ratifi ed the Versailles Treaty) was assassinated by a National-socialist activist.”14 Nishida expressed

12 H. Stuart Hughes, Consciousness and Society: Th e Reorientation of European Social Th ought 1890–1930, (London: MacGibbon & Kee, 1959), 18. 13 MKZ, I, 412. 14 Ibid. miki’s wanderjahre 119 his concerns about the situation in Germany in a letter to one of his students in Freiburg: It sounds like a lot of activities are going on in Germany with so many Japanese there. My heart is hovering over Germany rather than over Japan these days. Miki must have already arrived in Berlin. [. . .] According to the newspaper, [the German] foreign minister [Walter Rathenau] was assassinated, and I’m worried about those of you who are studying in Germany, since any domestic change could aff ect your safety. How is it in the southern part of Germany? Is it true that universities in the south, such as in Heidelberg, do not admit foreign students? Take especially good care of yourself.15 Th e intellectual connection between Japan and Germany aft er the First World War was, as Yusa Michiko pointed out, “substantial and intimate”.16 In Heidelberg, for example, Miki met up with the historian Hani Gorō (1901–1983) and the economist Ōuchi Hyōe (1888–1980) who were both strongly Marxist.17 He was also in contact with the philosophers Abe Jirō (1883–1959), Naruse Mukyoku (1885–1958) and Kuki Shūzō (1888–1943) as well as the religious philosopher who was later to become an authority on St. Augustine, Ishihara Ken (1882–1976).18 Notably most of these ryūgakusei (students studying abroad) were some ten years older than Miki, apart from his lifelong friend Hani who was four years younger. Tanabe Hajime had also made the journey to Germany a few months before Miki in March, going fi rst to Berlin to study under the so-called ‘realist’ neo-Kantian Alois Riehl (1844–1924). Tanabe later moved to Freiburg to study with Husserl and this was where he met Heidegger.19 However, Miki rarely took the opportunity to accompany his friends on their travels around Europe, choosing instead to bury himself in his books. “During my three years abroad,” he stated, “I never read so many books in my life. In all that time I hardly travelled at all and books were my constant companions. It was an extension of my student life.”20 Indeed, he was able to take advantage

15 Cited in Yusa (2002), 181. 16 Yusa (1998), 59. 17 Ōuchi was born in 1888 in Hyōgō Prefecture and once described himself as a son of “the rural intelligentsia”. He graduated from Tokyo Imperial University in law in 1913. Having pursued a brief career in the Finance Ministry during which he visited the United States he returned to his alma mater in 1919. Marshall (1992), 103. 18 MKZ, I, 413. 19 Yusa (2002), 181. 20 MKZ, I, 412. 120 chapter four of rampant infl ation in Germany to buy a great many books, but he was aware that although it was “a heavenly time for gaikokujin (foreigners), for Germans themselves it was wretched.”21 Elsewhere in Wanderings through the World of Books Miki hints at severe fi nancial restraints. He and his companions were advised to travel to Germany with Sterling to exchange for Marks and Miki stated that the German Mark had fallen so dramatically that one pound Sterling was worth around a thousand Marks. He described himself as a “poor pupil” arriving in Germany with just fi ve pounds Sterling in his pocket. Even so the exchange rate allowed him to frequent a bookshop in front of Heidelberg University with Hani, his “most intimate acquaintance.”22 In early autumn 1923, just before Miki moved to Marburg, conditions in Germany deteriorated rapidly, resulting in a dramatic currency collapse. Infl ation spiralled out of control so that in mid-September, for example, a kilo of butter cost 168 million Marks.23 Savings vanished and insurance policies were worthless, unemployment rose and the future for industry seemed bleak. In Bavaria a state of emergency was declared on 26 September giving the General State Commissar, Gustav Ritter von Kahr, near-dictatorial powers. Conditions there were so appalling that many people were unable to feed themselves thus fuelling a growing hatred of profi teers, the government and foreigners.24 Miki described these deteriorating conditions in a letter from Heidelberg dated 20 September 1923 informing his correspondent, Ishihara Ken, of his plan to move to Marburg: Conditions here have just got worse. Today in Heidelberg there was also a general strike and even the troops have left . In the evening the restaurants were closed and it was impossible to get food. I was dumbfounded. Th e numbers of Japanese studying abroad here have dwindled remarkably. In Heidelberg there will only be two doctors this winter. As far as possible, though, I do not intend to change my original plans.25

21 Ibid., 413. 22 Ibid. 23 For comparison, on the eve of the First World War there were 4.20 Marks to the dollar, in January 1923 one dollar was worth 17,972 Marks, by August 4,620,455 Marks, one month later it was worth 98,860,000 Marks, in October 25,260,280,000 Marks spiralling to an incredible 4,200,000 million Marks by 15 November. Ian Kershaw, Hitler 1889–1936: Hubris, (London: Penguin, 1998), 200–1. 24 Ibid., 201–2. 25 MKZ, XIX, 220. miki’s wanderjahre 121

Economic chaos was accompanied by political turmoil. Two historic events took place during Miki’s study tour which undoubtedly coloured his views on proto-fascist ideologies and Nazism in the 1930s. Th e first was the ‘Deutscher Tag’ (German Day) on 1–2 September 1923. Former First World War hero, Adolf Hitler, took centre stage at a massive rally in Nuremberg and stood alongside General Ludendorf during a two- hour march-past. Th e rally succeeded in uniting the NSDAP (National Socialist German Workers Party) and two radical organisations, the Reichsfl agge and the Bund Oberland, into a newly formed organisation called the Deutscher Kampfb und (German Combat League). In just three weeks Hitler was leader of the Kamfb und.26 Over eighteen months later, in a letter to Hani, Miki noted the increasing historical signifi cance of the Deutscher Tag which he described as “the imperial- istic and militaristic movement of Ludendorf and his conspirators.”27 Th e second incident was the ‘Hitler Putsch’ which took place on 8 November 1923 when Hitler and his storm-troopers marched into the Bürgerbräukeller in Munich, deposed the Bavarian government and declared a provisional Reich government. Th e putsch ultimately failed, however, and Hitler was tried and imprisoned for 13 months during which time the völkisch Right were banished to the margins of the political scene.28 Miki did not mention the Hitler Putsch specifi cally, but in a letter written to Tanabe Hajime two days later on 25 November he remarked; “Germany appears far from making a recovery. It is so sad to have to watch in silence as the nation wastes away.”29 Th ese experiences made Miki aware for the fi rst time of the aft er- eff ects of modern warfare. His passage from childhood to young adulthood had taken place between two wars, the Russo-Japanese War which ended in 1905 when he was seven years old and the First World War which was taking place while he was at the First Higher School in Tokyo. Years later, in Wanderings through the World of Books, he refl ected on the German situation and was reminded of the fact that these two wars meant very little to him at the time. Miki stated that he was too young to understand the implications of the Russo-Japanese War for Japan’s politics and society at the time. However, during the

26 Kershaw, 199. 27 Letter to Hani Gorō dated 31 May 1924, MKZ, XIX, 271. 28 Kershaw, 201 and 224. 29 MKZ, XIX, 222. 122 chapter four

First World War, although endowed with the very “sharpest youthful receptivity,” it seemed he was always engaged in learning some great work or other and the war had very little “direct spiritual infl uence” upon him. When it ended he was “a university student for whom life just went on as normal in the research room.” With regard to his apparent lack of interest, he added, “I don’t think it was only me—was this not the case for many youths?” Yet the crisis in Germany made him realise that modern warfare encompasses the whole nation, and “none can stand outside its orbit.” Th ere was, indeed, a mechanical inevitability about modern warfare which was bereft of organic or romantic overtones. Th is surprised him since “some sort of romantic notion of war may be necessary for its conduct.” In this sense, modern wars were more “real” than their predecessors and he urged his readers (on the eve of the Pacifi c War in 1941) “to think very deeply about the essence of modern warfare.” While the First World War was, he wrote, “a great event, it was for us completely unrelated to our politics,” or rather “it was possible for it to be unrelated.” Perhaps in covert criticism of the sabre-rattling in Japan at the time, Miki attacked Taishō youth for being too preoccupied by kyōyō (culture) and criticised their contempt for politics and respect for culture as “anti-political or a-political” and nothing more than a “culturalist” way of thinking.30

Th e 1890s generation in Europe

Th ere is no doubt that the economic and political situation in Germany had a profound aff ect on Miki’s views about war, but intellectually the period from 1920 to 1923 in Europe has been described by Hughes as “years of apotheosis” in a decade which marked “a kind of caesura, a period of summing-up.”31 Miki’s study in Europe coincided with a particular period in the development of Western social thought which, in the forty years from the fi n de siècle to the beginning of the depression of the 1930s, encompassed a range of special characteristics diff erentiat- ing it from the nineteenth-century and having a signifi cant impact on following generations. Hughes argued that it was Germans, Austrians, Frenchmen and Italians rather than Americans, Russians and the Eng-

30 MKZ, I, 388–9. 31 Hughes, 392–3. miki’s wanderjahre 123 lish who really characterised the times in their contribution to thought. In particular, the generation in Europe just preceding the First World War, that of the 1890s, shared a common experience of “psychological malaise: the sense of impending doom, of old practices and institutions no longer conforming to social realities.”32 Th e sense of the demise of an old society was coupled with an agonising uncertainty about the form a new society might take. It was a period marked paradoxically by both a peculiar pathos and a heightened intellectual creativity and self-consciousness which gave rise to a wholesale re-examination of the foundations of social thought.33 When Miki arrived in Germany in 1922 the older writers of the generation of the 1860s and 70s were beginning to die out; Sorel in his old age, Weber and Troeltsch died in their fi ft ies, Péguy had been killed in the fi rst weeks of the First World War and Durkheim died at the end of the war exhausted by over-work. Although many were longer-lived and straddled the First World War, there was, according to Hughes, a noticeable “fl agging or diversion of energy”, a pause in creativity.34 Th ere was a period of pronounced cultural and spiritual crisis as the vast majority of Germans struggled to come to terms with nearly two million German dead and the shock of losing a war which it had once seemed they were destined to win by virtue of their spiritual superiority and grand historical mission. Losing the war signalled not just military defeat but the victory of one world view over another. Th e Germans had harboured a vision of particularity and cultural mission which closely resembled Nihonjinron views of Japanese uniqueness. As Klaus Scholder put it: Because of their virtues, excellences, and piety the German peoples became the vessel destined by God for the pure conservation of His truth. For the Jews and Greeks and Romans were enfeebled by their material nature (sensuality) and vices. [. . .] Th e picture of the German arose which, through mildness, earnestness, inwardness, depth and devout nature, distinguished itself from the Western way of thinking [. . .].35

32 Hughes, 14. 33 Hughes, 16. 34 Hughes, 18 fn. 35 Klaus Scholder, “Neuere deutsche Geschichte und protestant Th eologie: Aspekte und Fragen,” Evangelische Th eologie 23 (1963), 529. Cited in Bruce L. McCormack, Karl Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Th eology: Its Genesis and Development 1909–1936 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 210. 124 chapter four

For some Germans, according to Hughes, losing the war meant a tacit acknowledgement of the superiority of ‘Western’ thought and certainly so-called ‘bourgeois liberals’ such as Friedrich Meinecke, Max Weber and Th omas Mann were prepared to entertain such a conclusion. While thinkers like Ernst Troeltsch had hoped for a synthesis of Western democracy and the more authoritarian pre-war brand of German monarchy, others, especially in the younger generation, merely viewed the loss of the war as an indication that the German spirit was not yet pure enough and required a more strident radicalism.36 Arriving in Germany at a similar juncture in their own political history, Miki and his fellow travellers were ripe for dialogue with this European cluster of genius.

Heidelberg: Rickert, Herrigel and neo-Kantianism

From early summer 1922 until autumn 1923 Miki studied historical philosophy under Heinrich Rickert who had once remarked that he was more widely read in Japan than in Germany.37 Miki’s arrival in Heidelberg, however, coincided with a period of great fl ux in philosophical circles. In the mid-nineteenth century, Germany had been largely dominated by idealism, most simply defi ned as the premise that it was in the ‘spirit’ or the ‘idea’, rather than in the data of sensory perception that the ultimate reality of the universe lay. Th is conviction separated German philosophy from the Anglo-French positivist tradition which upheld the primacy of sensory perception and empirical data. Accord- ing to Hughes, however, the development of authoritarian systems, and the apparent inability of thinkers to develop humane and liberal social systems within Germany by the late nineteenth century, signalled the failure of government and began to concentrate the minds of a new generation of German philosophers. 38 Hegel’s contribution to the study of history and society had been “brief but glorious” in the fi rst half of the nineteenth century, but it was the historian Leopold von Ranke who rose to pre-eminence in Germany and the wider world, including Japan, by the end of the century.39 Ranke is usually associated with

36 McCormack, 211 fn. 37 Piovesana, 75. 38 Hughes, 183–5. 39 Ibid. miki’s wanderjahre 125 the foundations of scientifi c history, the fi rst principle of which is the assumption that historical truth exists objectively. Th e aim of individual historical studies was “to show only what happened” through the “strict presentation of the facts, conditional and unattractive though they may be.”40 A strictly empirical approach insists that knowledge can only be gained through a process of induction based on data which is received through the senses so that phenomena alone appear to be real and knowledge cannot extend beyond phenomena. However, Ranke himself, though oft en regarded as the father of ‘scientifi c’ history, saw in phenomena only a concrete expression of metaphysical forces and should not be mistaken for an empiricist.41 He belongs in spirit to the romantic as well as the idealist tradition.42 Miki was already familiar with these debates, but in Rickert’s lectures he hoped to learn more about thinkers such as Kuno Fischer (1824– 1907) and Friedrich Albert Lange (1828–75).43 Th ese belonged to the fi rst generation of neo-Kantians who sought an alternative to Hegelian idealism by exploring the application of his critical methodology across the disciplines. However, by the time Miki arrived in Heidelberg, there were further changes afoot in German philosophy described as being “of a quite peculiarly dramatic sort”. By the 1890s a group of young men had gathered around Wilhelm Windelband (1848–1915) aft er being enthused by his inaugural address at the University of Strassburg in 1894. Th ese included Rickert himself, Troeltsch, Simmel and Mei- necke.44 Th e so-called neo-Kantians diff ered from Dilthey’s positivism in directing their research towards the understanding of particular events rather than general laws.45 Neo-Kantian philosophy dominated the German universities until just aft er the First World War and, when Miki arrived in Heidelberg, the Marburg School was primarily associated with the problems of logic, epistemology and methodology and the names of Hermann Cohen

40 Leonard Krieger, Ranke: Th e Meaning of History (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1977), 4–5. 41 George G. Iggers, Th e German Conception of History: Th e National Tradition of Historical Th ought from Herder to the Present (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University, 1983), 76. 42 Hughes, 186. 43 MKZ, I, 414. 44 Hughes, 47. 45 Ibid., 190. 126 chapter four

(1842–1918) and Paul Natorp (1854–1924).46 However, Miki was soon to discover that both the Marburg neo-Kantianism of Cohen and Natorp and the Baden or Southwestern School of Windelband and Rickert, which had dominated his studies in Kyoto, were being seriously challenged by Husserl’s phenomenology. Th is challenge to neo-Kantianism was crystallised in Husserl’s Logical Investigations of 1900–1 and, later, by the existential phenomenology of Heidegger. Husserl had taken over from Rickert in Freiburg in 1916, setting out his radical ideas in an inaugural lecture in 1917 and, according to Schuhmann and Smith, the decline of neo-Kantianism was already becoming clear when Hei- degger arrived in Marburg in 1923.47 Indeed, it appears that when Miki arrived in Germany, Rickert was already regarded as very traditional. Because of his wide reading as a graduate, Miki learned nothing new from Rickert’s lectures on Hegel, Fischer and Windelband. Rather, he delighted in the “philosophical tradition” that Rickert portrayed. At the time Miki was more interested in studying Weber. On the other hand, he gave Rickert credit for infl uencing his views of history and historical philosophy. Rickert himself cut rather an eccentric fi gure and suff ered from “a variety of mental illness—an anxiety about being separated from one’s house known as Platz-angst”, clearly a type of agoraphobia. Apparently, he would arrive at the university in a horse-drawn car- riage accompanied by his wife and oft en a pupil or two, particularly one called Augustus Faust.48 Rickert’s seminars were held in his own home and Miki noted that Weber’s widow always attended. At these seminars Miki also met the sociologist Karl Mannheim (1893–1947) who was studying in Heidelberg as a private scholar before becoming a lecturer there in 1925. Miki’s letters to Hani Gorō demonstrate the infl uence of Eugen Her- rigel who introduced Miki to the thought of Rickert’s former pupil Emil Lask (1875–1915) who had been killed in the First World War. Indeed, he wrote, “when I read Lask, I think of Herrigel.” At the time Herrigel was still in the process of editing and publishing Lask’s Collected Works and would occasionally send Miki a volume.49 Lask had been deeply

46 Frederick Copleston, A History of Philosophy, vol. VII, (London: Burns and Oates, 1963), 362. 47 Cited in Schuhmann and Smith, 1. 48 MKZ, I, 413. 49 Letter to Hani Gorō, 11 February 1924, MKZ, XIX, 241–2. Th ese letters also indicate that both Hani, who was studying in Heidelberg, and Miki were caught up in some “unpleasantness” surrounding Herrigel’s decision to visit Japan in order to miki’s wanderjahre 127 infl uenced by Husserl from 1905 and his thought, according to Georg Lukács, was notable for its “drive toward concreteness”.50 He has been described as a “realist” setting out from the thesis that ‘experience’ is the locus of all value or sense of meaning, and validity itself is encountered only through acts of experience.51 In other words, it is impossible to gain access to sense and truth if separated from the factual experience of given matter. Th e world in which real life is experienced is never pure nature as objectifi ed in natural science, but rather a totality of things in interaction.52 For Lask all cognition proceeds from life, the pre-given horizon which thought cannot transcend. Th eory, on the other hand, is simply a way of picturing the world. Th e elucidation of this thesis was, for Lask in his later life, the goal of philosophy.53 Th e infl uence of Lask’s philosophy on Miki’s thought is oft en underestimated. Certainly, Miki found Lask’s treatise on Plato “splendid.”54 In Heidelberg Miki was required to present several papers in German. In Rickert’s seminar in autumn 1922 he presented “Die Logik der indi- viduellen Kausalität” (A theory of individual causality) and in Herrigel’s seminar in 1923 Miki delivered a paper entitled “Der Objectivismus in der Logik” (Objectivism in logic). Th is paper on the Catholic theologian and mathematician Bernard Bolzano (1781–1848) was later translated into Japanese and published in Shisō. In May that year he also published “Rickerts Bedeutung für die japanische Philosophie” (Rickert’s signifi cance for Japanese philosophy) in the German magazine Frank- furter Zeitung.55

take up a post in Tōhoku as visiting professor. Miki also referred to a planned visit to Heidelberg in order to attend Hani’s farewell party but stated that he did not want to meet Herrigel since “seeing people who are indecisive requires a great deal of patience.” He also quipped that Herrigel’s little drama performed by three actors was unpleasant even when seen at a distance; he could only guess what it was like for Hani who was seeing it close to. Miki did, in fact, act as an interpreter when Herrigel visited Japan in 1928. Herrigel eventually went to Sendai in 1934 for four years. His Zen in der Kunst des Begenschiessens (1948) translated as Zen and the Art of Archery is still popular today having been published in twenty-six editions and thirteen languages. 50 Schuhmann and Smith, 2. 51 Ibid., 7. 52 Ibid., 16. 53 Ibid., 18. 54 Letter to Hani Gorō, 11 February 1924, MKZ, XIX, 241. 55 MKZ, II, 1–49. 128 chapter four

Marburg: Heidegger and existential phenomenology

When Miki travelled to Marburg in the autumn of 1923, Heidegger, just twelve years Miki’s senior, had only just arrived aft er spending eight years as Privatdozent (lecturer) at the University of Freiburg, serving the last four of these as Husserl’s assistant. Heidegger, who was at the time becoming increasingly infl uential within the German philosophical tradition, had been impressed with Tanabe Hajime in Freiburg and Miki introduced himself to Heidegger as Tanabe’s student. In the half century aft er Miki’s death, Heidegger’s reputation has grown to gargantuan proportions achieving even greater prominence with the decline of Marxism and the ascendancy of postmodernism. Acknowledged as the “hidden master of modern thought,” Heidegger is cited as having assumed an “all pervasive presence which touches the bases of everything we think, assume or take for granted.”56 However, even as a young professor in the 1920s and before the publication of Being and Time in 1927, Heidegger was beginning to grip the imagination of a small group of aspiring ryūgakusei. One of Heidegger’s most famous students, Hans-Georg Gadamer, who gave Miki private tuition on Aristotle,57 recalled the enormous impact of Heidegger’s teaching in the 1920s: A generation shattered by the collapse of an epoch wanted to begin completely anew; it did not want to retain anything that had formerly been held valid. Even in the intensifi cation of the German language that took place in its concepts, Heidegger’s thought seemed to defy any comparison with what philosophy had previously meant.58 Heidegger’s thought thus embraced the sense of crisis which Europe was experiencing at the time and gave it an added intensity. Moreover, he fundamentally challenged the complacency of Western assumptions about social and economic progress as well as its cultural superiority.59 What Miki found particularly interesting about Heidegger’s lectures and seminars at the time was his original approach to the analysis of classical philosophical texts, particularly those of Aristotle, St. Augustine, Aquinas, Descartes and Kant. Miki had already developed an interest

56 Timothy Clark, Martin Heidegger (London: Routledge, 2002), 1. 57 MKZ, I, 420. 58 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Heidegger’s Ways trans. John W. Stanley, (Albany: Uni- versity of New York Press, 1994), 69. Cited in Clark, 3. 59 Clark, 2–3. miki’s wanderjahre 129 in St. Augustine through Nishida, but Heidegger’s lectures deepened his interest leading him to read the texts in Latin. Apparently the students at the house where he lodged helped Miki in this endeavour by reading Augustine’s Confessions in Latin together.60 Soon aft er arriving in Marburg, Miki wrote to Hani. He was very excited by the originality of Heidegger’s analysis of Aristotle, and added that Heidegger had also inspired his interest in the philosophy of language.61 However, in a letter to Tanabe two days earlier, he also expressed a strong desire to pursue his research independently, a sign that Miki was attempting to fi nd his own philosophical niche. He hinted to Tanabe that he found the intense atmosphere of the seminars in Marburg a little overwhelming at fi rst.62 Miki’s letters from Marburg also reveal his continuing connectivity with nature. Th ey almost always contain a weather report and they are dotted about with musings on the beauty of certain fl owers in bloom, details of the landscape and the length and nature of the seasons. In one letter he gives an account of a spectacular thunderstorm which lit up the distant mountains.63 For most of his time in Marburg his health and spirits appeared to be good. For the most part the letters comment on his attendance at seminars and lectures, his current research interests and usually supply long lists of current reading. Occasionally he delighted in snippets of gossip about one tutor or another gleaned from someone’s wife or someone else’s student. In a letter to Hani written on Christmas Day 1923 he summarised his experiences in Marburg over the past two months. He reported that he was continuing his research on Dilthey, had begun to learn Latin and was making good progress with his study of the philosophy of language. He greatly enjoyed reading Karl Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835) but confessed to fi nding the textual interpretation of Johann Georg Hamann (1730–88) and the philosophy of Friedrich von Schlegel (1772–1829) “very diffi cult”.64 In another letter he commented on his interesting experiences of Nicolai Hartmann’s (1882–1950) lectures which were well known for their theatricality. Apparently he was immensely popular, particularly with

60 MKZ, I, 421. 61 Letter to Hani Gorō, 26 November 1923, MKZ, XIX, 223. 62 Letter to Tanabe Hajime, 24 November 1923, ibid., 221–2. 63 Letter to Hani Gorō, 9 December 1923, ibid., 224. 64 Ibid., 226–7. 130 chapter four pretty young women.65 Now he was reading Hartmann’s published lectures on metaphysics and pondering the secrets of Hartmann’s success (whether he was referring to Hartman’s academic success or his prowess in attracting young women is not clear).66 While Miki was certainly infl uenced by Heidegger’s interpretative methods and approach to the philosophy of language, Gadamer’s hermeneutics also proved important in enabling him to gain critical perspectives on contemporary situations. In particular Gadamer was infl uenced by Aristotle’s concept of phronesis where knowledge, rather than being detached, instead determines “what we are in the process of our being”.67 Although his theories were more infl uential in the post war period, the fact that Miki received tuition from Gadamer is perhaps not insignifi cant. In 1995 Nakamura Shirō, who has recently translated some of Gadamer’s works, asked Gadamer if he remembered Miki Kiyoshi. Gadamer replied that he recalled teaching him Greek philosophy and remembered that Karl Löwith taught him phenomenology at the same time. Both considered Miki to be extremely intelligent.68 Löwith introduced Miki to the thought of Dilthey, Schlegel and Humboldt as well as to the psychology of Karl Jaspers (1883–1969) and the philosopher and social theorist Max Scheler (1874–1928). He also lectured on Marxism, but at this stage it appeared that Marx was to have very little impact on Miki’s thought. Indeed, Marx is not only absent from Wanderings through the World of Books, which perhaps is understandable considering the timing of Miki’s autobiography, but also from his letters at this time. Th ere is no evidence to support Akamatsu’s claim that Miki “drew closer to Marx” during his studies in Europe.69 Scheler’s phenomenology was infl uenced by Husserl but emphasised more the importance of emotions as well as reason in ethics and value philosophy.70 He was to become important in Miki’s critique of romanticism in the mid-1930s

65 Letter to Hani Gorō, 26 November 1923, ibid., 223. 66 Letter to Hani Gorō, 25 December 1923, ibid., 226–7. 67 Richard Bernstein, “History, Philosophy and the Question of Relativism,” in At the Nexus of Philosophy and History, ed., Bernard P. Dauenhauer (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1987), 13. 68 Machiguchi, 35. 69 Akamatsu, 78. 70 His theory was set out in Der Formalismus in der Ethik und die materiale Wertethik (1913, trans. in 1973 as Formalism in Ethics and Non-Formal Ethics of Values), but in 1923 he had just published Die Sinngesetze des emotionalen Lebens: Wesen und Formen der Sympathie (trans. in 1954 as Th e Nature of Sympathy). miki’s wanderjahre 131 and perhaps also infl uenced his later appeals to balance reason with emotion and the rational with the irrational. In March 1924 Miki moved lodgings to Schwanallee 41. Apparently Heidegger lived on the same street.71 His move was accompanied by a slight shift in his research interests towards “the problem of Historismus and at the same time Wissenschaft sidee.” In particular, he developed an interest in the problem of hermeneutics or interpretation and began to study René Descartes (1595–1650) in more depth, mostly his Meditationes de prima Philosophia and Regulae ad directionem ingenii. In a letter to Hani he stated that he was trying to analyse Descartes’ concept of ‘cogito ergo sum’ which he believed was at the heart of the struggle between the concept of “truth” and the idea of “scholarship”. He realised that it was “necessary for scholarship in our country to gain a new perspective on Descartes.”72 He added that “until now I had never really given much thought to the problem of what could be termed the structure of interpretation”, and recommended that Hani read Schleier- macher’s Kritik und Hermeneutik.73 Heavily involved in the German romantic movement, Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768–1834) defended religious liberalism and insisted on a historically based understanding of Christianity. He is regarded by many theologians as the founder of modern Protestant theology. Miki’s letters at this time demonstrate the importance he placed on developing a method of interpretation which was historically grounded. Th e problem of hermeneutics and discovering the “true meaning” of the “philosophy of life” would occupy Miki for most of the rest of his time in Marburg. In a letter to Tanabe on 1 June 1924, he noted that in every German university lectures were being held commemorating Immanuel Kant (1724–1804); in Marburg these were given by Hartmann, in Freiberg by Husserl and in Heidelberg by Jaspers. He found it interesting that these lectures were being given even by scholars who had no claim to Kant’s “line of descent.” For Miki this demonstrated Kant’s global and historical importance for the world of thought.74 More importantly, two weeks earlier, Miki had indicated to Hani that he had been studying Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason (1781), the Critique of Practical Reason

71 Letter to Hani Gorō, 7 March 1924, MKZ, XIX, 250. 72 Letter to Hani Gorō, 22 March 1924, ibid., 257–8. 73 Letter to Hani Gorō, 24 April 1924, ibid., 263. 74 Ibid., 273. 132 chapter four

(1788) as well as Groundwork to a Metaphysic of Morals (1785). From his reading, Miki had come to the conclusion that: In general, the aim of interpretation lies in illuminating the “Grunder- fahrung” (basic experience) which gives rise to a general idea. Th e aim of interpretation is to investigate “What is it that one has encountered?” One’s general idea is no diff erent to that which has arisen from the basic experience (kihonteki keiken) of any basic thing. We must destroy the general idea, and seize this basic experience (Grunderfahrung). Conse- quently, we can say that interpretation is destruction. When seizing this basic experience in a personal sense it is possible to ascertain the possibilities (Möglichkeiten) apparent in the term basic experience (kihonteki keiken). Moreover, it can be said that understanding the internal relationship between basic experiences and their revelation is the aim of interpretation. [Our understanding] is also dependent upon it being made clear whether, in due course, one has constructed one’s general ideas in accordance with one possibility (Möglichkeit) from among these possibilities (Möglichkeiten).75 While it is diffi cult to trace the genealogy of Miki’s ideas with pinpoint accuracy, it would appear that in his attempt to arrive at an independent understanding of Kant during the bicentennial of the birth of the great philosopher, Miki was beginning to formulate his own unique contribution to Japanese philosophy. Here Miki uses the German Grunderfah- rung and Japanese kihonteki keiken interchangeably. Later, in 1927, he used the Japanese concept of kiso keiken which, also translated as ‘basic experience’, underpinned his theory of Marxism as a type of anthropology. Th is concept will be discussed in detail in the next chapter, but while we know that kiso keiken also owes a debt to Nishida’s concept of ‘pure experience’ it is possible to discern the kernel of an idea here which has been overlooked by other biographers. Moreover, in his letter to Hani, Miki added that he did not want to be too hasty in adopting a particular system. Th is was not why he read so many books, rather, he read books “in order to understand for myself the basic experience (Grunderfahrung) which others have encountered.”76 A few days later, on 31 May he wrote that he was considering the importance of

75 Letter to Hani Gorō, 14 May 1924, Ibid., 269. I have maintained, as far as possible, Miki’s diff erentiation between Japanese terms such as kihonteki keiken and German terms such as Grundefahrung and Möglichkeiten by placing them in brackets aft er the English translation since these indicate the subtleties through which he is attempting to grasp the terms. 76 Ibid., 270. miki’s wanderjahre 133 philosophy “in its widest sense as a critique of civilisation” and “in its rightful sense of the Philosophy of Life.” He added: We must seize a new possibility (Möglichkeit) through analysing ‘concrete’ life. Th e interpretation of life is at the heart of the problem for philosophy. I am wondering whether at this juncture my own philosophical thinking cannot be nurtured through reading the works of important educators. I most certainly want to try and study Pestalozzi.77 When I go to France I basically intend to study Rousseau.78 Th ese plans, as we shall see, did not quite work out. On 18 July, shortly before leaving Marburg, he was “considering further the ways in which we can learn from life itself.” While within himself he was able to discern the deep infl uence of denial in Hegel’s philosophy, and Socrates’ and Plato’s dialectics, he had “learned more from the thought of Augustine than anyone else. I learned many things, for example, his analysis of the concept of time.”79 Indeed, for most of his time in Marburg, he either “consciously or unconsciously” read about Christianity, talking about it constantly to fellow non-Japanese students and the Augustinian concept of time is at the heart of his philosophy of history. In one of Heidegger’s lectures he was informed by another student that “the [young man] over there is Bultman.”80 Rudolf Bultman (1884–1946) was Professor of New Testament at Marburg between 1921 and 1951 and had just published Th e History of the Synoptic Tradition (1921). His view was that criticism of the Gospels had showed that it was impossible to know anything about the historical Jesus Christ. His argument, that what mattered was faith in Christ rather than belief about him, was highly controversial. Th e existentialist challenge was, for Bultman, to demythologise the gospels by lift ing the mystifying veils signifi ed by the accounts of miracles.81 It seemed to Miki that Bultman’s rational Christianity, “based ideologically on hermeneutic theology,” was in some ways similar to Heidegger’s philosophy. Th is encounter with Bultman made a very strong impression on Miki, heightening his interest in theology and leading him to read the works of the Swiss

77 Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746–1827) was born in Zurich and devoted his life to the care and education of poor children. His methods were outlined in How Gertrude Educates her Children published in 1801. 78 MKZ, XIX, 272. 79 Letter to Hani Gorō, 18 July 1925, ibid., 286–7. 80 MKZ, I, 422. 81 John MacQuarrie, An Existentialist Th eology: A Comparison of Heidegger and Bultman (London: SCM Press, 1955), 45. 134 chapter four theologian Karl Barth (1886–1968), especially his Book of Rome and Th e Language and Th eology of God.82 His experience of reading about Christian theology in Marburg meant that he was well prepared for his life-changing encounter with Blaise Pascal.

Paris and the discovery of Pascal

His letters show that by early summer 1924 Miki was becoming restless. He seemed plagued by self-doubt and was beginning to pose similar identity-questions to those articulated in Th e Unspoken Philosophy written just a few years earlier. Moreover, he was beginning to think that his studies in Germany had given him too narrow a view; indeed, a view that was “too German”. On 4 May he wrote that although he had planned to spend the last nine months of his study tour in France, he was interested in the possibility of spending a term at Oxford or Cambridge in England or even in Rome in order to gain a diff erent perspective. Rome attracted him because of the beauty of its art.83 On 22 June he informed Hani that he was reading the biographies of George Grote and J. S. Mill and was struck by the beauty of “these English scholars’ harmonization of theory and practice.” His reading had strengthened his opinion that “the primary problem of philosophy is not so much concerned with the basis of philosophical truth, as the study of the relationship between learning and life itself.” He added, “learning is nothing other than a possibility (Möglichkeit) of life itself,” and we learn best while being in the midst of life. What philosophy must make clear is the fundamental fact that knowledge corresponds to our analysis of life. It was important to escape from the “present” emphasis on learning for the sake of learning and to resurrect the idea of “learning in order to live,” a notion he believed had fi rst appeared in England. Indeed, he considered that he had much in common with the English way of thinking.84 Miki travelled to Paris via Vienna where, browsing the shelves of a bookshop, he came across the works of André Gide. On the train to Paris he began to peruse Gide’s tale of oppressed ego, latent homo-

82 MKZ, I, 422. 83 Letter to Hani Gorō, 4 May 1924, MKZ, XIX, 265. 84 Ibid., 280. miki’s wanderjahre 135 sexuality and destruction, L’Immoraliste (1902). He arrived in Paris in August and took lodgings with Mme Gouillerot, 26 rue Le Sueur in the prestigious Sixteenth Arrondissement. Apparently, Anatole France lived near by, so Miki read Jardin d’Épicure (1894). When France died on 13 October 1924 Miki joined a throng of over two-hundred thousand people, including senior government offi cials, to attend the funeral on 18 October. Since Fukada had recommended that he read France’s novels the two men would forever remain linked in Miki’s mind, especially aft er Fukada’s death in 1928.85 Like Germany, France was still struggling to recover from the dev- astating eff ects of the First World War. Th e Treaty of Versailles had restored the lost provinces of Alsace and Lorraine in 1919, but despite the addition of over one and a half million citizens that this brought, the country was still reeling from the eff ects of population stagna- tion having lost 1.3 million soldiers, the highest proportion of deaths among the warring nations. Some of this loss was made up through the immigration of around 2.5 million people by 1930 which lent France’s urban populations, Paris in particular, a distinctly cosmopolitan air. Despite the fact that the French economy was growing faster than any of its rivals in the early 1920s political discontent was rife and to many people it seemed that France’s economy was almost in the same ruinous state as Germany’s. Shortly before Miki arrived in Paris the Left had won a major electoral victory under Edouard Herriot who was prime minister from 1924 to 1926. However, Herriot soon found himself presiding over a drastic economic and fi nancial collapse and it took the return of a Centre-Right coalition in 1926 to restore business confi dence, although this only added to charges that politicians were in the pockets of big business. Intellectually and artistically, amidst strin- gent attacks on the political establishment, movements which engaged in political provocation and the subversion and rejection of so-called ‘bourgeois’ values thrived. Some of these movements gravitated to the extreme right or left of the political spectrum. Th e art world saw the rise of the Dada movement and Surrealism. Th e Surrealist Manifesto of 1924, drawn up by the poet André Breton, described the philosophy of the movement as “based on a belief of the superior reality of certain

85 MKZ, I, 411. 136 chapter four associations, neglected hitherto, on the all-powerfulness of dream, and of the disinterested play of thought.”86 Miki spent much of his time walking the streets, absorbing the artistic and cultural atmosphere of interwar Paris. On 27 August he wrote to Hani to tell him “a little about my life in Paris.” Although he found that it was not particularly quiet, his lodgings were centrally located close to the Étoile. “At any rate,” he added, “it is very convenient so I intend to stay here.” He had taken the opportunity to improve his French by employing a female teacher from a local primary school (referred to in his letters as “Mademoiselle”) as a private language tutor. He joked to Hani about sitting in front of her and having to conjugate the verb ‘aimer’, to love.87 Th e fi rst few weeks in Paris appeared idyllic apart from the weather. He noted that during the summer there had been a lot of rain in Europe. Indeed, it seemed to him that rain had fallen almost continuously while he was in Marburg, and from the fi rst day of his arrival in Paris the skies had turned dull and there had been hardly a day without some rain. He wrote that “the spirit of autumn seemed overwhelmed by rain falling from the skies” and he was reminded of the poetry of Paul Verlaine, well-known for its lyricism and evocation of mood. Nevertheless, he appeared to be in good health and was enjoying himself by taking the opportunity to do some sight-seeing. If it wasn’t closed, he stated, he went around the Louvre and there were many other art galleries to visit. He had clearly discovered the charms of the Parisian café and oft en visited his ‘local’ across the street from his rooms. Most of all he liked to walk in the nearby Bois du Boulogne. From the Étoile, he “truly enjoyed” walking down the Champs-Élysées through the Place de la Concorde as far as the Louvre. However, although a visit to the Folies-Bergére was considered essential for foreigners by the Parisians, he had not yet had an opportunity to avail himself of that pleasure, 88 perhaps preferring to walk along the banks of the Seine which were lined with antiquarian book shops.89 On one exceptionally fi ne day he travelled outside Paris, southwest to Meudon. He took a trip down the river and was struck by the beauty of the poplars along the banks.

86 Colin Jones, Th e Cambridge Illustrated History of France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 254. 87 MKZ, XIX, 294. 88 Ibid., 297. 89 Letter to Hani Gorō, 28 March 1925, ibid., 302. miki’s wanderjahre 137

He found it interesting that “Meudon’s Château Neuf Forest” (Forêt de Meudon) was very diff erent in aspect to the forests he had seen in Germany.90 No doubt Miki was attracted to Meudon because of its association with a number of famous artists and intellectuals such as Rodin, a favourite of the Shirakaba School. Apart from this day trip, however, there is no indication that Miki travelled extensively in either France or Germany, thus bearing out his earlier claim to have buried himself once more in his books. His schedule of research in Paris seemed slightly less intense than in the pressured atmosphere of his seminars in Germany. With “Made- moiselle” he was “reading something of Molière”, but his main task at the time was studying Bergson’s Matière et Mémoire (1896) and he appears to have made a concerted eff ort to move away from the Ger- man infl uence. He also began to research the psychology of William James, particularly his Pragmatism (1907). While he could not grasp the theories of the American philosopher and educational theorist John Dewey (1859–1952), he enjoyed reading James’s Letters and was studying the idealist philosopher Josiah Royce (1855–1916).91 Th ere is quite a gap in the correspondence during the late autumn and winter months, but we learn from a letter to Tanabe dated 3 Janu- ary 1925 that Miki had begun work on Pascal at the end of the previous year.92 By 12 February, he reported to Hani that the fi rst part of his study of Pascal was complete.93 According to his reminiscences in “Th e Springtime of Life” (1941), in the aft ernoons in his Paris lodgings, aft er he had fi nished his research on Pascal, he thought deeply about Shinran’s approach to disseminating religious ideas and decided that he would be guided by his example.94 It would appear, therefore, that at this point he made a conscious decision to rescue philosophy from the sometimes incomprehensible language in which it was couched. In Wanderings through the World of Books, Miki stated that Pascal’s Pensées had “gripped me and not let go.” In thinking about the Pensées, everything he had learned from Heidegger’s lectures came alive.95 His letters show the extent to which he was completely absorbed by his

90 Ibid., 297. 91 Letter to Hani Gorō, 14 September 1925, ibid., 296–7. 92 Ibid., 299. 93 Ibid. 94 MKZ, I, 364. 95 Ibid., 492. 138 chapter four research on Pascal, almost to the exclusion of anything else, especially in the early months of 1925. Indeed, in a letter to Hani dated 12 Febru- ary, he stated that he had bought Pascal’s complete works and that, “at present, for me, researching anything other than Pascal is impossible”.96 A week later Miki appeared to be experiencing some diffi culty, stating that compared to his previous work, his essays on Pascal appeared to be rather nebulous or “incomplete”. However, while it was not what an author might wish for, recognising this fact was important. Before his discovery of Pascal, his thought was characterised by a form which was almost tangible, now it was in fl ux. “Whence am I falling? I don’t know,” he wrote, “but this fl uctuation is an important episode.” Also important was the realisation that in studying the existential meaning of life in Pascal, it was necessary to be absolutely clear about the “existential meaning of the problem of death.”97 Perhaps it was this discovery which led him years later to begin his existential Notes on Life with a section on death. At this stage Miki was planning to go to Oxford in April. Aft er that, he confessed he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, but he also considered visiting Greece.98 However, in a letter to Hani dated 10 May Miki revealed that he had been suff ering from chronic toothache since the beginning of the year. Th ese toothaches were accompanied by fevers, indicating that he was probably suff ering from an abscess. Continu- ing bad weather with rain almost every day did little to keep him in good spirits and he complained that even now he was having to light the stove everyday to keep himself warm. Reading between the lines it appears that he may have been suff ering from depression. In any event he decided to abandon his plan to go to Oxford and stayed in Paris to continue his research on Pascal. His spirits were temporarily lift ed by the beautiful sight of fl ower candles appearing on the horse chestnut trees, but even these reminded him of home. He thought of his friend’s life in Tokyo and the many conversations he longed to have with him.99 Homesick and suff ering from chronic ill health, Miki sought solace in his studies. In June he wrote:

96 Miki’s emphasis. MKZ, XIX, 300. 97 Letter to Hani Gorō, 20 February 1925, ibid., 301–2. 98 Letter to Hani Gorō, 12 February 1925, ibid., 300. 99 Ibid., 303. miki’s wanderjahre 139

Lately, nothing moves me more deeply than Pascal. Researching his thought and introducing it [into Japan] is not simply a matter of academic interest, but is a duty for me as an individual. People will rejoice at his narrative regarding the object of his aff ection. It is for this reason that I have taken on the task of researching Pascal.100 Miki is probably referring here to Pascal’s Discours sur les passions de l’amour which he began reading in late March.101 It is a refl ection on a passionate relationship with Charlotte Roannez, daughter of the duc de Roannez, with whom Pascal had struck up a friendship. However, there is some doubt as to whether Pascal really was the author. Miki also read the works of the critic and historian Hippolyte Taine, whose theories were important in the development of his later defi nition of anthropology, as well as Ernst Renan’s (1823–92) controversial Vie de Jésus (1863).102 However, there is no doubt that Miki’s discovery of Pascal changed his understanding of the ‘philosophy of life’ in ways that perhaps no other thinker had.

Th e legacy of the ryūgakusei years

By the time Miki returned to Kyoto in October 1925 he had become profoundly infl uenced by the generation of 1890s Europe. He had sat at the feet of some of the world’s most infl uential thinkers at the time; Rickert, Heidegger, Löwith and Gadamer and had become fi rmly acquainted with other respected and up-and-coming Japanese intellectuals of the Taishō generation. Rarely in history could there ever have been such a remarkable collection of brains from both sides of the East-West cultural divide concentrated in the heart of Europe. Th ese thinkers inspired Miki’s early philosophy, particularly his historical philosophy, and opened his mind to new possibilities of synthesis. Moreover, his travels and experiences allowed a measure of independence from Nishida whose infl uence and reputation towered above him. Akamatsu has identifi ed four key words associated with what he learned during this time; anthropology, ontology, Lebensphilosophie

100 Letter to Hani Gorō, 5 June 1925, Ibid., 304. 101 Letter to Hani Gorō, 28 March 1925, Ibid., 302. 102 Ibid. 140 chapter four and hermeneutics.103 All were absolutely essential to Miki’s self-identity as a philosopher. However, prior to Miki’s travels, Nishida’s infl uence in introducing Miki to these trends in Western philosophy cannot be overestimated. Indeed, Miki credited Nishida with introducing the philosophy of Bergson, Rickert and Cohen as well as Brentano and Meinong into Japan as well as “Husserl’s phenomenology and Barthes’ dialectical theology.” Miki stated that the infl uence of Nishida on his reading of these philosophers was enormous.104 According to Akamatsu, however, despite the fact that Miki dutifully acknowledges his debt to Nishida’s thinking at this time, his studies in Europe had begun to infl uence his basic defi nition of terms such aslogos which owed much to Heidegger’s lectures on Aristotle.105 Th e evidence provided by Miki’s letters certainly seems to support this hypothesis. Miki’s experiences in Europe were also central in the metamorphosis of his concept of ‘basic experience’ into the mature philosophical anthropology of the mid-1930s and were instrumental in Miki’s role not only as an interpreter of European thought, but also as a synthesiser of two great traditions of thought and culture. He became a conduit allowing these infl uences to pass in both directions until fi nally developing a humanism which was uniquely his.

103 Akamatsu, 61. 104 MKZ, XVII, 302. 105 Akamatsu, 76. PART TWO

WANDERINGS THROUGH THE WORLD OF THOUGHT

CHAPTER FIVE

A STUDY OF MAN: LATE 1925 TO EARLY 1932

I do not know who put me into the world, or what the world is, or what I am. I am in a terrible ignorance of everything. I do not know what my body is, or my senses, or my soul, or even that part of me which thinks what I am saying, which refl ects on everything and on itself, and knows itself no better than anything else. [. . .] I see nothing but infi nites on all sides which surround me as if I were an atom or a shadow that endures for an instant and returns no more. Blaise Pascal Pensées Modern man lives in a boundless world. I do not know who made the tools I use or where they were made; neither do I know from whence or from whom comes the knowledge and intelligence within which I am grounded. Th ese are all nameless things; anonymous and amorphous. Th us the modern self, existing in the midst of such living conditions, has become an anonymous, amorphous, characterless thing. Miki Kiyoshi Notes on life From the perspective of 1941–2, it must have seemed to Miki that the years from 1920 until 1925 belonged to a golden age of reading and study. Wanderings through the World of Books suggests closure with the end of his physical tour of Europe. However, this sense of closure is illusory. His wanderings through the world of thought (shisō henreki) were only just beginning. Th is chapter examines Miki’s interpretation of the existential nature of man, based primarily on infl uences from Dilthey, Heidegger, Pascal and Marx, between autumn 1925 and the early part of 1932. During this period his thought is characterised by a gradual process in which French Enlightenment humanism is synthesised with (or indeed sublated by) German historical materialism. Historically and culturally this period marks a transition from the relative optimism and liberalism of the Taishō period to the beginnings of a sense of crisis and anxiety during the fi rst years of the Shōwa period, leading to a questioning of Japan’s place in the world and what it meant to be Japanese. 144 chapter five

Dreaming (a)spires

Th e intervening years from Miki’s return to Kyoto in 1925 up until 1932, although marked by loss and turbulence, also represented a high point in Miki’s career as a university academic. Any reader familiar with Th omas Hardy cannot help but be reminded of Jude, the rude country boy who aspired to the ivory towers of academe. Miki’s career, like Jude’s, could also have ended in scandal and obscurity. Th e image which Miki portrays of himself in Wanderings through the World of Books, of the withdrawn scholarly type, the lonely individual buried in his books, is only partially accurate. As we have seen in Chapter Two, Miki smarted under the ‘inheritance’ of his family’s background as the increasing consumerism of the cities served to increase the divisions between urban sophistication and rural ‘backwardness’. Moreover, in Th e Unspoken Philosophy Miki hinted at a barely controlled sensuality: My friends frequently use the term “energetic” in referring to me. Blessed with a more than ordinarily robust constitution, having never once been ill, the life forces overfl ow within me urging me unceasingly to life. I can eat the food of several people. It was said by both friends and acquaintances of his that Goethe ate one meal aft er another, on this point I am not necessarily inferior to him.1 By his own account there was more than a little hedonism in Miki’s personality and, although he reveals nothing of his sexual experiences in his autobiographical accounts, Yusa Michiko’s examination of correspondence between Nishida and Tanabe uncovered the fact that Miki was having an aff air with a widow some thirty years his senior before he left for Europe. Th e resumption of this affair upon his return to Japan and his reckless behaviour in Kyoto bars and night clubs, which he frequented with Tanigawa Tetsuzō and Tosaka Jun among others, caused a resounding scandal and, according to some accounts, a cooling of his relationship with Nishida. While drinking with friends Miki was in the habit of joking about Japanese university professors whom he compared, oft en unfavourably, with well-known European personalities. What seemed to be harmless fun at the time cruelly backfi red when his apparently disrespectful behaviour became known to infl uential persons outside his own circle. Both Nishida and Hatano had cherished hopes of placing Miki in a post at Kyoto Imperial University, but the

1 MKZ, XVIII, 16. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 145 resulting scandal so damaged his reputation that this became impossible. Nishida felt responsible for allowing him to go off the rails and summoned Miki to a meeting and severely admonished him “for his own sake”.2 Th at something untoward had occurred between Nishida and Miki is confi rmed by Nishitani who described Miki as emerging pale-faced and shaken from an interview with Nishida at around this time. Although he gave no hint as to the reason for this falling out, Nishitani linked this incident to a cooling of the sensei-deshi (teacher- pupil) relationship between Nishida and Miki thereaft er.3 While in temporary limbo early in 1926 Miki founded a reading circle among Kyoto graduates for discussions on Aristotle’s Metaphysics. Th e circle was joined by Tosaka Jun (1900–45) with whom Miki became close friends.4 Tosaka had graduated from Kyoto four years aft er Miki in 1924. He was trained in neo-Kantianism and phenomenology and had already published a translation of Windelband’s work.5 Nishitani Keiji and Toda Saburō were also among the circle’s members. At this time Miki was working as a peripatetic scholar, becoming a lecturer at the Th ird Higher School while also teaching on Husserl at Ryūkoku University and Hegel at Kyoto. On the morning of 30 June 1926, Miki received a telegram to say that his mother was seriously ill. He hurried to his home in Issai-mura to fi nd her unconscious and close to death. Although the death of his mother was a sharp reminder of the mortality of the physical self, in later years it also augured the possibility of the survival of the soul aft er death and helped him to come to terms with the untimely death of his fi rst wife ten years later. In that month he also published A Study of Man in Pascal (Pasukaru ni okeru ningen no kenkyū) and one year later, in June 1927, Miki fi nally obtained a post in the Faculty of Letters in Hōsei University and moved to Tokyo. From the end of December 1927 until mid-January 1928, he travelled to Manchuria, Korea and North China with Iwanami Shigeo and, at the request of the South Manchuria Railway, returned to Manchuria for a brief lecture tour in July and August 1928.6 Th e apparent fi nancial security and social standing provided by his professorship allowed him, or may even have compelled him, to

2 Yusa (2002), 212–3. 3 Nishitani, 20. 4 MKZ, XIX, 865. 5 Piovesana, 190. 6 MKZ, XIX, 869. 146 chapter five fi nally consider marriage. He became engaged to Kimiko, the younger sister of the Tokyo Imperial University professor of economics and agriculture, Tōhata Sei’ichi, in March 1928. When they married on 5 April 1929, Miki was then thirty-two years old and Kimiko twenty fi ve. For the fi rst time, Miki settled down to enjoy a measure of security in both his career and personal life. However, just when it appeared that Miki’s aspirations were fi nally being realised, the situation in Japan’s universities vis-à-vis the government began rapidly to deteriorate. As the realisation dawned that words could, indeed, be dangerous, the happily anarchic reader and hopeful traveller of but a few years before was gradually drawn into a world of care and anxiety as a series of crises began to cloud the bright dawn of the Shōwa period.

Japan’s universities and the struggle for autonomy

Th e crisis that was to aff ect Miki most profoundly in the short term began with a struggle for autonomy within Japan’s newly-established imperial universities. Europe’s universities which had so impressed the young scholar had enjoyed long and illustrious histories, yet not without struggle. In Paris, for example, the autonomy of the university was achieved only aft er the bloody events of 1229 in which students physically fought with royal soldiers. Oxford University, which Miki was hoping to visit the year before, only achieved its liberties aft er Henry III relented aft er a series of struggles with scholars in the 1230s.7 As relatively new institutions, Japan’s universities had undergone a fundamental transition during the Taishō period, beginning with massive expansion. When Miki entered Kyoto Imperial University in 1917 there were fewer than 9,000 students in offi cially recognised universities, colleges and higher schools. By the time he returned from Europe this number had more than quadrupled to 38,731 and continued to increase steadily up until the Manchurian Incident in 1931. Similarly, the number of faculty members grew from just 815 in 1918 to 3,224 in 1923 and 6,285 by 1933. Th is rapid growth was accompanied by the formalising of the systems and procedures within the Ministry of Education leading inevitably to greater bureaucracy. On the other

7 Le Goff , 67–8. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 147 hand, faculties within the universities themselves jealously guarded the autonomy they had gained. Inevitably, communication and co-ordination between the universities and the Ministry of Education, which had once been run on informal channels, began to break down to be replaced by a plethora of formal, standardised rules for governing the universities.8 Moreover, where once there had been a close association, there was now increasing diff erentiation between government staff and university faculty. Reforms in civil service recruitment and the rise of political parties also caused changes in the political role of academics. Academics now discovered that opportunities for making their opinions felt in social policy were considerably reduced. In the 1920s, therefore, an increasing number of academics involved themselves instead in the burgeoning popular political movements.9 Miki himself, in Wanderings through the World of Books, described how these kinds of activities extended to the organisation of student groups in the imperial universities. While they may not have made much impression on him at the time, these movements became increasingly anti-establishment, politicising the campuses and antagonising the government. Just as their Western European counter- parts had done in the thirteenth century in their struggle against kings, clerics and laity, Japan’s fl edgling universities came under increasing pressure to protect what they took to be autonomy but others, especially the government, took to be privilege. According to Byron K. Marshall, two very diff erent, confl icting ideas about the function of the university began to emerge in the 1920s. On the one hand, the imperial universities were regarded by some members of the authorities as responsible for fi nding out and then disposing of ‘harmful thought’. On the other hand, they were regarded by scholars as bastions of academic freedom which should not be unduly interfered with by the state.10 By the time Miki managed to gain a post at Hōsei University, there were ominous signs that the universities were beginning to lose the battle for autonomy. In the midst of a series of national political and fi nancial crises which had begun in 1927, a purge of academics suspected of harbouring ‘dangerous thoughts’ culminated in what became known as the March 15 Communist Incident in 1928. Th is nation-wide round-up

8 Marshall (1992), 80–3. 9 Ibid., 92–4. 10 Ibid., 105 and 129. 148 chapter five of some sixteen hundred suspected subversives was centred on Kyoto Imperial University but, in the months that followed, presidents of all universities were pressurised to purge their ranks of ‘subversives’. Miki soon became entangled in the government’s net.

Miki’s early career and Marxism in context

Between 1926 and 1930 Miki produced a steady outpouring of books and articles. In January 1927, for example, he published “Th e basic concept of hermeneutic phenomenology” (Kaisokugakuteki genshōgaku no kiso gainen) in the journal Shisō.11 Other publications, however, demonstrated an increasing interest in Marxist thought which would ultimately bring him into confl ict with the authorities. His best known analysis of Marxism, “Th e Marxist form of anthropology” (Ningen- gaku no Marukusuteki keitai)12 was published in Shisō in June 1927,13 thrusting him into the vanguard of the intellectual wing of the Marxist movement and placing him at the centre of major debates taking place in Japan at the time. Th e debate in academia and in the Japan Communist Party (JCP) itself focussed on the signifi cance of the Meiji Restoration and the best way to end the perceived ‘deadlock’ or yukizumari in Japan’s capitalist development. However, during the late 1920s Japanese Marxists became split into two factions aft er Yamakawa Hitoshi lost his battle for leadership of the JCP to Fukumoto Kazuo (1894–1983) who, like Miki, had just returned from Germany. Yamakawa became the leader of a dissident faction called the Rōnō-ha (Labour-Farmer Faction) which left the JCP aft er it adopted the Comintern’s July 1927 Th esis on Japan. Th e Soviet leadership of the Comintern had decreed that Japan was relatively ‘backward’ compared with Russia in 1917 and the

11 MKZ, III, 186–220. 12 Miki’s use of the term ningengaku (anthropology) derives from Heidegger’s usage to refer to ‘philosophical’ anthropology meaning the study of man in the widest sense and should not be confused with the empirically-based scientifi c categories of ‘cultural’ or ‘physical’ anthropology. 13 Th is was followed by “Marukusushugi to yuibutsuron” (Marxism and materialism) in August and “Puragumachizumu to Marukishizumu no tetsugaku” (Th e philosophy of Marxism and pragmatism) in December. Th ese articles appear in MKZ, III as Yuibutsushiron to gendai no ishiki (Th e materialist conception of history and modern consciousness), 1–119. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 149

Th esis argued that since ‘feudal remnants’ persisted in both the agrarian sector of the Japanese economy and in the political superstructure, a two stage revolution was necessary. Firstly a bourgeois-democratic revolution was required to complete the bourgeois revolution begun by the Meiji Restoration, aft er which the social revolution could take place. Yamakawa’s group rejected the Comintern’s view that Japan was too backward for an immediate socialist revolution and argued for a single proletarian socialist revolution.14 In 1932 JCP loyalists who supported the Comintern’s fi ndings produced the seven-volume Nihon Shihonshugi Hattatsushi Kōza (Symposium on the History of the Development of Japanese Capitalism) that gave the Kōza-ha its name and set the parameters of the debate. However, Goto-Jones has pointed out that Fukumoto’s argument, that a bourgeois revolution was needed in Japan in order to remove the ‘vestiges of feudalism’ from its society, had eff ectively won the day even before the Comintern’s Th esis on Japan.15 Miki and Hani Gorō became involved in Fukumoto’s faction and in 1928 they founded the New Science Association (Shinkō kagakusha) and its journal Under the Banner of the New Science (Shinkō kagaku no hata no moto ni).16 As an economic historian Hani was actively involved in Kōza-ha debates about the importance of the so-called ‘Asiatic mode of production,’17 while Miki was more concerned with the fi ner ontological details of Marxist theory, what we might call the ‘mode of being’. Kevin Doak places the debate surrounding Japanese Marxism within the framework of diff ering views of ‘specifi city’ and ‘particularity’ versus ‘modernisation’ and ‘universalism.’ Th e traditional view is that the cultural particularism of the 1920s and 30s was a remnant of premodern Japanese traditions and that the modernisation of Japanese culture would lead necessarily to a more universalistic Japanese philosophy based on the Western model. Doak, on the other hand, argues that:

14 Germaine A. Hoston, Marxism and the Crisis of Development in Pre-war Japan (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1986), 32. 15 Goto-Jones (2006), 6. 16 MKZ, XIX, 867. 17 It should be noted that the Kōza-ha was by no means united on these issues and Hani was involved with a long-running argument with historian Hattori Shisō. For further details see Germaine A. Hoston, “Conceptualizing Bourgeois Revolution: Th e Prewar Japanese Left and the Meiji Restoration,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 33:3 (July, 1991): 555–578. 150 chapter five

A closer view will show that at least some elements of the modern philosophic discourse on particularity in Japan were not indigenous, and in fact were introduced to Japan and heralded by intellectuals working in the Marxist philosophic tradition.18 Indeed, he traces the origins of the discourse of historical ‘specifi city’ (tokushusei) to the experiences of young ryūgakusei studying in Europe, and particularly to Hani who had returned from Europe in 1924.19 Miki and Hani were joined at the end of August 1928 by Tettō Shoin and Kobayashi Isamu who had just founded a new publishing company aft er resigning from Iwanami Shoten.20 According to Doak, the founding of both the New Science Association and its journal was in part a response to the round-ups of left ists the previous March, and the desire of Miki and Hani “to reevaluate the signifi cance of the specifi city of social formations without accepting the necessity of cultural exceptionalism.”21 Miki wrote “On the Th eme of Scientifi c Criticism” (Kagaku hihan no kadai), the lead article to the fi rst issue of Under the Banner of the New Science in which he emphasised the need for a multidisciplinary approach to the problems of real human existence which are embedded socially, culturally and historically and not just economically, in everyday life.22 Miki contributed to all thirteen issues of the journal with articles such as “Th eory, history, policy” (Riron, rekishi, seisaku, November, 1928), “Materialism and its actual forms” (Yuibutsuron to sono genjitsu keitai, February, 1929) and “Th e problem of historicism” (Rekishishugi no mondai, July, 1929). All these articles are heavily theoretical and deeply philosophical which, perhaps for a while, warded off the attentions of the authorities. Indeed, the Comintern had criticised the JCP for its abstract, theoretical and dogmatic approach in its Th esis on Japan.23 However, the journal was struggling fi nancially and was forced to turn to its readers for more support. In 1929 it began to attract the attention of the censor and in October an issue featuring essays on Marx and Lenin

18 Doak (1998): 232. 19 Ibid., 234. 20 Ibid. and MKZ, XIX, 867. 21 Doak (1998): 234. 22 Published in Unter dem Banner des Marxismus, MKZ, III, 250. Unter dem Banner des Marxismus was the infl uential journal of Soviet Marxism from which Fukumoto had modelled a short-lived journal in 1926 Marukusushizumu no hata no moto ni (Under the banner of Marxism). MKZ, III, 251. 23 Goto-Jones (2006), 7. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 151 was banned. Miki’s last contribution to the journal “Hegel’s dialectics and Lenin” (Hēguru no benshōhō to Lenin, November 1929) could be seen as an act of defi ance. Th e journal fi nally closed in December with the announcement that it was time for the editors to “carry out their mission of producing a Marxist science in a broader context.” Accord- ing to Doak, although the New Science Association and its journal could be seen as a complete failure, its true impact is diffi cult to assess. Miki and Hani succeeded in broadening the scope of the debate about particularity and specifi city within scientifi c studies of social existence through introducing their own perspectives and methodologies which originated in Europe.24 However, in March 1930 criticism of Miki’s philosophy appeared in Shisō and other magazines and newspapers. Th ese attacks were led by the Marxist economist and historian Hattori Shisō (1901–56) and alleged that Miki’s philosophy was no more than an “embellished form of idealism” and “relativism” and accused him of peddling “vagabond dialectics”.25 Moreover, according to Kevin Doak, when Miki and Hani led the New Science Association into the Proletarian Science Research Institute (Puroretaria kagaku kenkyūjo) aft er the journal was forced to close, Hattori denounced Miki as a “bourgeois social democrat” and he was eventually forced out.26 In May 1930 Miki was suspected of making fi nancial contributions to the Japan Communist Party through an intermediary. He was arrested and spent some time in detention but his original sentence of one year imprisonment was commuted to a two year suspended sentence. He was released in July 1930 but forced to continue reporting to the police until November. Kuno Osamu, who had also suff ered detention, described the experience for Miki as a “calamity” and gave some indication of what conditions were like for prisoners: It was impossible to get a good night’s sleep because of the infestations of fl eas, lice and bedbugs and the comings and goings of people being taken from cells to the observation room and then back again. We all lived together in one cell where it was forbidden to read a book or newspaper. Th e only way of escape was by way of the isolation cell where at least one was allowed to read ‘offi cial’ books.27

24 Doak (1998): 15. 25 MKZ, XIX, 869. 26 Doak (1998): 14. 27 Kuno, 12. 152 chapter five

Th e police also exerted pressure on prisoners through their families. Let- ters and other items sent from the families of detainees could, as Kuno stated, “almost never be hoped for” and the police exploited the granting or withholding of permission to send items or messages to coerce the family into recommending that the detainee ‘re-orient’ his thought.28 Aft er the Manchurian Incident the pressure to tenkō increased. In one of the more startling incidents in June 1933 two writers and Communist Party leaders, Sano Manabu and Nabeyama Sadachika, issued a declaration from prison renouncing their communist beliefs aft er the death in prison of the leader of the proletarian literary movement Kobayashi Takiji the previous February. One estimate is that almost ninety-fi ve percent of those imprisoned during the communist round-ups of 1933 made declarations of tenkō.29 In the increasingly restrictive climate of the time, Miki’s arrest and detention caused severe repercussions within the university and, like so many others before and aft erwards, he was forced to resign and support himself through his writings in newspapers, journals and popular monthlies. Th e timing was unfortunate since on 8 October 1930 his only daughter Yoko was born bringing further fi nancial responsibili- ties. Although academic salaries were not particularly generous, they provided at least a regular income and he and his wife had moved to a larger house in Nakano-ku in March of that year.30 However, Miki’s involvement with the New Science Association and its journal must be placed in the context of his other activities at the time. At the time he was heavily involved in popularising the works of Hermann Cohen through a series of translations beginning in July 1927 and continuing throughout 1928 which were published in the journal Gakuen. He had also begun to make a name for himself as a populariser of the thought of Søren Kierkegaard, although Miki himself credited Mitsuchi Kōzō with introducing Kierkegaard to a Japanese audience.31 Kierkegaard’s name was already known in Japan by the late 1880s, but it was Watsuji Tetsurō who published the fi rst book on Kierkegaard’s thought in 1915, just as Kierkegaard’s works were beginning to be published in German. It was only aft er the so-called

28 Ibid. 29 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction (1984), 846–7. 30 MKZ, XIX, 869–70. 31 MKZ, I, 411. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 153

‘Kierkegaard renaissance’ in the 1920s in Germany, that Miki brought the works and criticism of Kierkegaard to a new audience in Japan; fi rstly in 1928 in “Trends in Contemporary Th ought” (Gendai shichō)32 published in six parts between April and December 1928 and then in a short essay entitled “Kierkegaard and the Present Day” (Kierukegaaru to gendai)33 in 1931. In 1935 Miki also supervised the publication of the Selected Works of Kierkegaard.34 In January 1929 Miki published an important article in which he examined the poverty of theory in a time of national and international crisis in the journal Kaizō,35 as well as a book, Preparatory Concepts in the Social Sciences (Shakaigaku no yobigainen) in April. In January 1930 he published “Heidegger’s ontology” (Haidegga no sonzairon) in Chūōkōron,36 and in March contributed a chapter on Nietzsche to the Iwanami Kōza series. Miki was also busy popularising the works of Hegel, contributing “Hegel’s Philosophy of History” (Hēguru no rekishi tetsugaku)37 to Shisō in March 1929. In February 1931, he was asked to represent the Japanese branch of the International Hegel Society which had just been inaugurated to celebrate the centenary of Hegel’s death. He edited its journal Hegel and Hegelianism (Hēgeru to Hēgerushugi) and in May contributed an article entitled “An Ontologi- cal Elucidation of Dialectics” (Benshōhō no sonzaironteki kaimei).38 He also published a short article on Hegel for the general reader in the daily newspaper Yomiuri Shinbun in November 1931.39 He also edited Nishida’s essays for volume 18 of Philosophy (Tetsugaku) in the Iwanami Kōza series.

32 MKZ, IV, 187–323. 33 MKZ, X, 220–8. 34 Kierkegaard was popular because his thought, in some ways, off ered a synthesis with aspects of Buddhist thought. Indeed, Nishida’s “Th e Logic of the Place of Noth- ingness and the Religious Worldview,” for example, has been viewed as a counterpart to certain passages of Kierkegaard’s journals. Heinrich Dumoulin, Zen Buddhism in the 20th Century, trans. Joseph S. O’Leary (New York and Tokyo: Weatherhill, 1992), 23. 35 MKZ, II, 241–254. 36 MKZ, X, 83–90. 37 MKZ, II, 205–240. 38 MKZ, IV, 140–183. 39 “Hēguru wa ikaga ni gendai ni ikiru ka” (In what way does Hegel live in the present day?), MKZ, X, 213–9. 154 chapter five

In December 1931 he published “Th e Historical Nature of Being” (Sonzai no rekishisei)40 in Shisō, and his book Philosophy of History (Rekishi tetsugaku)41 appeared in April 1932. Another important article, “Man and State in Spinoza” (Supinoza ni okeru ningen to kokka) appeared as part of an edited volume Spinoza and Hegel (Supinoza to Heeguru) published for the International Hegel Society in July 1932.42 In this month he also began collaborating with Nishida in a high-profi le symposium to discuss the relationship between philosophy, religion and culture. Th e discussions, which took place near Nishida’s home in Kamakura, were reported in the Yomiuri Shinbun from the 21st until the 25th June. Another symposium took place in July with the addition of Ishihara Ken and was reported daily in the Yomiuri from 14th to the 20th July.43 Th e list of publications and activities for the years 1928 until 1932 provided above is by no means exhaustive, yet this relatively small selection is suffi cient to illustrate the astonishing breadth of Miki’s interests and to give an indication of the sheer volume of his output.44 Even the most casual perusal helps to put into perspective the amount of time which Miki dedicated to researching and publishing specifi cally on Marx. Th e afore-mentioned three essays on Marxism published in Shisō in June, August and December 1927 are the only ones which specify Marx, Marxist or Marxism in the title. Indeed, even his contributions to Under the Banner of the New Science do not have ‘Marx’ in the titles. It could be that Miki was simply exercising caution. However, as we shall see below, Miki’s analysis of Marx was idealistic and deeply philosophical rather than populist or political which is perhaps why, in March 1930, Shisō and other journals and newspapers began carrying articles severely criticising Miki’s philosophy. Miki’s association with the Marxist movement was neither particularly deep in the political sense nor happy, but before addressing the historiographical debate over his involvement any further it is necessary to examine his philosophical works in some detail.

40 MKZ, VI, 59–101. 41 MKZ, VI, 1–288. 42 MKZ, II, 292–333. 43 On a more personal note, aft er escaping the heat of the city in August, Miki and his family moved to Suginami-Ku in Tokyo. MKZ, XIX, 870–1. 44 Complete lists of publications as well as a chronological record of Miki’s activities can be found in MKZ, XIX. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 155

Th e philosophy of history

Th roughout his career Miki insisted on grounding the study of man in history. Th e starting point for Miki’s defi nition of historical ‘meaning’ was Dilthey who argued that: Th e connectedness of history is that of life itself, integrated under the conditions of its natural environment. A part has meaning for the whole to which it belongs only if it is linked to it by a relationship found in life; for it is not intrinsic to the relationship of the whole and part that the part should have a meaning for the whole. In this lies what appears to be an insoluble riddle. We must construct the whole from its parts and, yet, the whole must contain the reason for the meaning given to the part and the place assigned to it. [. . .] History must teach what life is; yet, because it is the course of life in time, history is dependent on life and derives its content from it.45 Th is view, that “history must teach what life is”, has been identifi ed as “fundamental to Miki’s view of history as a criticism of life.”46 Th e full development and synthesis of Miki’s notions of history and life would be realised in his Philosophical Anthropology (Tetsugakuteki ningengaku) in which he referred to the: almost infi nite range of literature [. . .], the concrete things connected to our life experiences and the linguistic expressions of our own human wisdom and philosophy; the diaries, letters, travel journals, autobiographies and essays. Such works show us the roots of human understanding, giving concrete expression to the intellect. Moreover, to a large extent, they are the transmitters of anthropological expression. In giving us a subjective grasp of human beings, such things can transform anthropologists into moralists. Th is is what Dilthey meant when he spoke of understanding life from life itself.47 Miki’s major work on this topic, Philosophy of History, was begun aft er his release from detention and published in April 1932 by Iwanami Shoten. History (Geschichte, histoire), as Miki pointed out, was an essentially ‘foreign term’ used both subjectively and objectively. Th e term implied a relative unity between history as existence and history as logos (word).48 “Simply put,” Miki stated, “history can only be written

45 Cited in H. P. Rickman, Meaning in History: W. Dilthey’s Th oughts on History and Society (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1961), 148. 46 MKZ, XIX, 862–4. 47 MKZ, XVIII, 136. 48 MKZ, VI, 6. 156 chapter five from the perspective of the present.”49 Much of the book comprises a description of the development of the ‘idea of history’ from classical times, through romanticism, idealism and positivism into the twentieth century. However, for Miki, “the problem of time must stand at the centre of the philosophy of history.” He argued that it was important to diff erentiate “historical time” from both “natural time” and “natural scientifi c time”. As an example of this separation, Miki cited the concept of a ‘generation’ (sedai) which is “an expression of natural time but not true natural scientifi c time”. Natural scientifi c time is based on the time-space relationship. Natural time, however, has its basis in human history and man’s environment. Since man lives in the present and history can only be written from the perspective of the present, it was necessary to understand precisely what is meant by ‘the present’. Central to Miki’s study is St. Augustine’s famous precept concerning the human experience of time: Your years are one day, yet your day does not come daily but is always today, because your day does not give place to any tomorrow nor does it take the place of yesterday. Your today is eternity.50 And Augustine’s defi nition of the ‘three times’: From what we have said it is abundantly clear that neither the future nor the past exist, and therefore it is not strictly correct to say that there are three times, past, present and future. It might be correct to say that there are three times, a present of past things, a present of present things, and a present of future things.51 According to Miki, Augustine was “crucial in advancing towards a method which grasped the present (encompassing a sense of eternity) as truly in the present (eternal)”. Augustinian philosophy was representative of the philosophy of “inwardness” (naimensei) based on the Christian idea of the vita contemplativa, and had infl uenced notions of time in the work of Husserl, Kierkegaard and Heidegger.52 Th ere is nothing particularly original about Miki’s Philosophy of History but it was important in introducing Japanese students to Western historiography and concepts of time. Indeed, as Nagatomo Shigenori has pointed out,

49 Ibid., 17. 50 St. Augustine, Confessions, trans. R. S. Pine-Coffi n (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961), XI:13, 263. Cited in MKZ, VI, 160. 51 Augustine, XI:20, 269. Cited in MKZ, VI, 161–2. 52 MKZ, VI, 163–5. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 157 while the 1971 edition of the Tetsugaku jiten [Dictionary of Philosophy] exalts Miki’s role in developing the fi eld of the philosophy of history in Japan, this is perhaps to underestimate his other achievements.53 However, Miki’s view of history as a discipline can be seen in his study of the monumental fi gure of Johann Wolfgang Goethe (1749–1832), which was published at around the same time as Philosophy of History. Miki arrived in Germany at an important juncture in Goethe studies. Muramoto Shoji regarded Goethe as instrumental in the shift from the ‘philosophy of history’ to ‘humanism’ in Miki’s intellectual development. At the same time, Miki’s analysis of Goethe was manifestly infl uenced by his Philosophy of History and there was a continuing intimate relationship between these two phases of Miki’s thought.54 Still regarded today as the “fi rst German writer of unquestioned European stature” and by many as unequalled in the sheer range and breadth of his work, Goethe was destined to become a national icon and the embodiment of Germany’s cultural aspirations.55 His position in the history and culture of Germany appears just as fascinating and contentious today as it was for Miki in the 1920s and 30s. Current controversies are exacerbated by the fact that German literary history views him as most closely associated with ‘Klassik’ (classicism) whereas, seen from outside Germany, he is viewed as an integral part of the ‘Age of European romanticism’ and as breaking down classicist conventions in his early masterpieces. Moreover, he is regarded as pivotal in the creation of a German identity, and fundamental in undermining the supremacy of the French literary tradition.56 An enormous tide of enthusiasm for Goethe swept through Germany at the turn of the twentieth century. Th e Goethe Society was founded in the 1880s and between 1895 and 1909 eight major biographies were published. Th e first local group of Goethe enthusiasts was established in 1917. Miki was swept along on this tide of Goethe enthusiasm and read Friedrich Gundolf ’s Goethe (1916). Th omas Mann (1875–1955) published his comparative

53 Nagatomo, xix. 54 Muramoto Shoji, “Miki Kiyoshi to Gēte,” Moruforogia: Gēte to Shizen kagaku 19 (1997), 46. 55 Goethe remains a highly controversial fi gure with the 250th anniversary of the year of his birth in 1999 prompting a huge outpouring of scholarship. Lesley Sharpe, introduction to Th e Cambridge Companion to Goethe, ed. Lesley Sharpe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 1–2. 56 Gerhart Hoff meister, “Reception in Germany and Abroad,” in Th e Cambridge Companion, ed. Sharpe, 233–4. 158 chapter five study Goethe und Tolstoi in 1922 and was to become regarded as one of the most articulate of Goethe specialists.57 However, in a letter to Hani dated 4 July 1924 Miki stated that: “Today in the morning I read Goethe und Tolstoi. It is pedantic. Th omas Mann is possessed of the characteristic pedantry of fi n de siécle man.”58 In “Nature and History in Goethe” (Gēte ni okeru shizen to rekishi, May 1932)59 Miki took Gundolf’s hugely infl uential and, according to some critics, still unsurpassed biography as a point of departure. Infl uenced by Dilthey and described by critics as bio-centric rather than biographical, Gundolf’s Goethe is more concerned with the author’s inner structures as revealed in his works rather than with the details of Goethe’s external life. On the other hand, he is also concerned with historical infl uences such as the ‘discovery’ of the German past and Goethe’s discovery of classical Italy during his tour there.60 Miki’s essay followed a similar pattern to Gundolf ’s biography placing Goethe’s Italian journey at its centre and responding to a number of academic debates, not least to those within the discipline of history itself. Miki’s focus was on Faust and the Wilhelm Meister novels, Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (Wilhem Meister’s Apprenticeship, 1795–6) and Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre (Wilhelm Meister’s Journeyman Years, 1821). Shortly before Miki arrived in Germany the second of these two, the Wanderjahre, had recently arrived at the centre of academic attention aft er years of unfavourable criticism or neglect. In 1913, Max Wundt contributed enormously to an academic understanding of the philosophical and humanist content of the Wanderjahre in his monograph Goethes Wilhelm Meister und die Entwicklung des modernen Lebensideals in which he analysed the novels from the point of view of a “totality of the view of life”. His interpretation became the keystone of the German Geistesgeschichte (intellectual history) in Wanderjahre scholarship.61 At the heart of Miki’s article is an analysis of Goethe’s apparent transformation from a romantic, or perhaps more accurately a proto- romantic, to a leader of the Weimar classicism of the 1780s and early

57 Wolfgang Leppmann, Th e German Image of Goethe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1961), 85, 129, 160 and 165. 58 MKZ, XIX, 284. 59 Th is article appeared in Gēte Kenkyū (Studies on Goethe) published by Iwanami Shoten. Reprinted in MKZ, II, 334–383. 60 Leppmann, 182. 61 Erhard Bahr, Th e Novel as Archive: the Genesis, Reception, and Criticism of Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre (Columbia: Camden House, 1998), 46. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 159

1790s. Goethe’s Italian journey, begun around his thirty-seventh birthday, was, according to his letters and journals, a spiritual and poetic rebirth inspired by the classical splendours of Rome. As a result, upon his return home, Goethe conformed to a more severe aesthetic which was far removed from the romanticism of the Sturm und Drang period.62 Miki regarded this transformation in Goethe’s writing in an entirely negative light with regard to both history and politics. He illustrated his point by comparing Faust (begun in 1773) and Th e Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) with Wilhem Meisters Wanderjahre written aft er Goethe returned from Italy. He argued that in Faust, especially in its original version the Urfaust, it is possible to see Goethe the (proto-) romantic as a social realist, but in the Wilhelm Meister novels, it is diffi cult to discern any real social or political thought. He added that whilst Goethe still combined romanticism and classicism in his later works, these now stood in opposition to history. While Goethe’s romanticism was merely alienated from history, his classicism was truly an enemy of history.63 However, in more general terms, Miki also stated that “history must stand on top of things that are handed down to us, that is to say historical data (shiryō)”. He attacked the scepticism of Barthold Niebuhr (1776–1831), considered at the time to be one of the most original and philosophical of modern historians. In particular he regarded Niebuhr’s statement that “it is only in the works of the ancients that there is greatness” as “destructive and degrading” to the discipline.64 Th us Miki defended history on epistemological as well as ethical grounds from the point of view of historical ‘realism’. On the controversial question of Goethe’s reputation as a historian, Miki pointed out that whilst Ranke and Gundolf regarded Goethe as one of Germany’s great historians, Scheler refused to acknowledge Goethe as belonging in the historical canon.65 Goethe’s relationship to history, Miki argued, must be understood not from the outside but from the inside in terms of his spiritual originality. A study of Goethe, he wrote, demands that we view him through his concrete achievements rather than through theory; not simply in the “immanent value” of his historical and biographical

62 Nicholas Saul, “Goethe the writer and literary history,” in Th e Cambridge Com- panion, ed. Sharpe, 32. 63 MKZ, II, 339. 64 Ibid., 334–6. 65 Ibid. 160 chapter five works, but also in the infl uence he exerted upon generations of admirers, researchers and historians.66 Today, however, with the exception of Muramoto’s essay, Miki’s work on Goethe remains largely forgotten and Goethe’s infl uence on Miki’s philosophy of history has been largely overlooked. It could be, however, that in the Japan of the immediate post-war period, it was perhaps considered best to downplay Miki’s connection to Goethe and concentrate on his debt to the humanist Pascal instead.

Pascal’s analysis of man

Miki began to elaborate his own philosophical style in A Study of Man in Pascal published in June 1926 that. However, in the preface, he acknowledged the infl uence of Nishida, stating that his specifi c task was to relate the question of “basic experience”, which he had derived from Nishida’s “pure experience”, to Pascal’s work.67 Th e book is divided into six chapters. Th e fi rst chapter sets out before the reader the essence of Pascal’s “unique method” which so imbued “his thought with vivid individuality and lustre” that it had utterly gripped Miki in Paris.68 Much of Miki’s book is a distillation or paraphrasing of large sections of Pensées with the exception of Chapter Th ree which introducesDiscours des passions de l’amour attributed to Pascal. Miki’s analysis is closely focussed on the fi rst part of Pensées ‘Man without God’, especially Chapter One, ‘Man’s Place in Nature: Th e Two Infi nities’. Miki’s second chapter, ‘the Wager’, examines Pascal’s attempt to convince the unbeliever, through the mathematics of chance, that by accepting Christianity he stands to gain, even though he risks being in error. In the rest of the book Miki examines Pascal’s notion of the ‘three orders’ and gives further thought to Pascal’s methodology in relation to his skills as mathematician and scientist as well as religious “realist” which, according to Miki, contribute to the sense of “conviction” which makes Pascal’s method so special.69 Also inspirational was

66 Ibid. 67 MKZ, I, 5–6. 68 MKZ, I, 9. An English translation of this chapter with an introduction by A. Jacinto Zavala can be found in Sourcebook for Modern Japanese Philosophy, ed. David A. Dilworth, Valdo H. Viglielmo and Agustin Jacinto Zavala (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1998), 289–320. 69 MKZ, I. 130. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 161 the “furious intensity, gentleness, fear and compassion”; the full range of emotions through which Pascal pursued answers to the question “what is a man?” For Pascal, stated Miki, man is not a “concept” to be found in psychology, the natural sciences or cultural studies, but an “absolutely concrete actuality.” While the terms used in scientifi c psychology are not adequate to a full understanding of human existence, Pascal’s terms are neither objectifying nor isolated, but belong to the “existential quality of human existence itself ”.70 Miki learned four things from Pascal. First, is the notion that “our existence in nature is our milieu (chūkansha)” from Pascal’s famous dictum that man exists as “a central point between nothing and all” ( pensée 80). Th is state, argued Miki, is not accidental but arises necessarily out of man’s condition as a creature of destiny. Pascal’s defi nition of man as a mean between “nothing and all”71 and his statement that “he is neither angel nor beast but man” ( pensée 176) is, Miki argued, “a fundamental revelation (hyōgen) relating to humanity itself.”72 However, it was a mistake to think that because Pascal was also an ingenious geometer and physician he was referring to the ‘mean’ in some sort of geometrical sense. He analysed man not as a scientist or mathematician, but viewed humanity through the lens of, what Miki termed, “natural knowledge”.73 Secondly, Pascal confirmed the importance of recognising our emotional responses to our true state as part of the human condition and as providing a way of encountering the world and negotiating our existence within it. Miki argued that, ultimately, our goal is to take ownership of the world in order to feel ourselves at one with it. Pascal’s concept of nature does not simply refer to the objective natural world, and his concept of nothingness (kyōmu) does not give rise to non-existence or the inconceivable since we respond to these on an emotional, subjective level. Miki cited Pascal’s famous pensée; “Th e eternal silence of those infi nite spaces strikes me with terror” (pensée 91). Th at man, suspended between the twin abysses of the infi nite and nothingness, contemplates his condition in fear and trembling must be

70 Th e references to pensées here are taken from Blaise Pascal, Th e Pensées, trans. J. M. Cohen (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961). 71 Miki paraphrases pensée 84: “For, aft er all, what is man in nature? A nothing in comparison with the infi nite”. 72 MKZ, I, 12. 73 Ibid., 12–3. 162 chapter five understood as a fundamental principle of Pascal’s existentialism. “We contemplate nature and nothingness in amazement and wonder, fear and trembling,” stated Miki, but these reactions cannot be considered as mere sentiment or emotion: “Indeed, I would call them the natural condition of human existence. To use Pascal’s own words [they] are the condition humaine”. Th is state is nothing other than the “manner of our being” in the world or our way of encountering (dekiawaseru) the world and negotiating with it: “Th e relationship between the world as it exists and man’s natural condition within it is a direct one and we may, so to speak, feel the self to be at one with it.”74 In this way, Miki argued, man is able to take ownership of the world rather than simply objectifying it. When we truly own the world and understand our natural condition within it, the affi rmation of its existence does not require an abstract process of deduction, rather the world is “being there together with ourselves as human beings.” Th e world is thus neither substance (hontai) nor phenomenon ( gensō). Indeed, according to Miki, “it is nothing other than the mode of existence of a particular existence. We should escape from the prejudiced view which considers “existence” to be, above all else, an objective category.” Rather, existence is a range of possibilities which become actualized, and the human condition is the name we give to just one of these possibilities. Th us, stated Miki, “existence signifi es fi rst and foremost a particular ownership. We are interspersed in nature’s existence and nature’s existence is interspersed within us.”75 According to Miki, this second point is pivotal to understanding the full implications of Pascal’s notion of man as a mean between infi nity and nothing. According to Pascal, “this middle state between two extremes pervades all our functions” ( pensée 84) which for Miki became; “Our natural state of occupying a median existence is our prescribed manner of encountering the world.”76 Th irdly, Miki realised that for Pascal this median existence does not mean that man maintains equilibrium. According to Pascal; “Our nature is one of movement; to be completely still is to be dead” ( pensée 198). Our true state is not fi xed, and constant movement is a natural part of the human condition. Pascal posited that:

74 MKZ, I, 14. 75 Th is is an interpretation of Pascal’s dictum: “Man, for example, is related to all that he knows. He needs a place to hold him, time to exist in, motion in order to live, elements to form, warmth and food to nourish him, air to breathe. He sees light, he feels bodies; in short he has a relationship with everything.” ( pensée 84). 76 MKZ, I, 14–5. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 163

We sail on a vast expanse, always drift ing in uncertainty, and carried hither and thither. If there is any point to which we think we can attach ourselves, to steady our position, it shift s and leaves us; if we pursue it, it escapes our grasp [. . .] we burn with desire to fi nd fi rm ground, and a fi nal fi xed foundation on which we can build a tower to ride to infi n- ity. But our whole foundation cracks, and the earth opens upon abysses ( pensée 84).77 From this, Miki concluded that movement is thus “a fundamental existentialist principle of human existence” and man’s task, therefore, is to try and fi nd a secure grip.78 Indeed, the anxiety ( fuan) of human existence resides in man’s relationship to time. Paraphrasing Pascal, he stated that in our concern to actualize something we are hasty. In looking forward to the future, time seems to pass too slowly. Yet we also have a desire to stop time passing while also imagining that it is something that passes too quickly. Th us, all our hopes and desires are cast into the future. Pascal’s statement that we “never work for the present; the past and the present are our means; we work only for the future. So we never live, but hope to live” ( pensée 168), means that we remain tied to a past which no longer exists and a future which may not exist. Miki argued, therefore, that human existence is always “on the move” and we cannot, therefore, grasp the present; “We seek life whilst living in the midst of it,” he stated, “and thus we are robbed of our present.”79 Th is relationship of man’s existence to time leads to the notion of inconstancy. Miki explained that proof that our basic nature lies in inconstancy ( fuantei) is provided by the phenomenon of ennui. How- ever, for Miki this inconstancy also provides the fi rst “opportunity,” or chance, for life’s movement. Indeed, the sheer complexity of things interacting with us provides us with innumerable opportunities and possibilities which maintain life’s momentum. But inherent in this complexity and variety is the contradictory nature of existence, to cite Pascal; “Man is by nature credulous and incredulous, fearful and bold” ( pensée 159). Miki concluded that since “nothing that interacts with the soul is simple,” the soul (âme) possesses “diversity” and “man is an existence fi lled with contradictions (mujun)”.80

77 Cited in MKZ, I, 17. 78 Ibid., 18. 79 Ibid., 20–1. 80 Ibid., 23. 164 chapter five

Th e fourth important infl uence on Miki’s writing is Pascal’s notion that the imagination, as the “dominant” part of man is “the mistress of error and falsity” ( pensée 104). Miki cited Pascal’s dictum that: We are not content with the life we have in ourselves and in our own being; we want to live an imaginary life in the minds of others [. . .] We labour incessantly to embellish and preserve our imaginary existence, and neglect our real one (Pensée 145). Our constant need for diversion, stated Miki, means that “fi rstly, the world of life is degraded in diversion, and secondly, life is degraded to the world of the imagination.” Moreover, “man does not exist in isolation, but together with other human beings and it is indisputable that his concerns are intimately related to the world in which he belongs, that is to say the human world.”81 Man’s tendency to live his life through his imagination is dangerous since, Miki argued, “through imagination we prevent ourselves from seeing things the way they really are. Error, therefore, is a state of being in which things are concealed.” On the other hand, “whereas falsehood is a state of being in which existence is concealed, truth is the manner of being in which our existence is not concealed but openly revealed.” What Miki found “interesting” was that “in contrast to Aristotle’s anthropos pseudes”, Pascal’s honest man not only sees the true state of himself and others in all their defi ciencies, ignorance and misery, but is not afraid to speak of it. “What I think is important for us to understand today,” Miki concluded, “is that truth and error are not related primarily and basically to the adequacy of theoretical propositions,” but seeing things the way they really are and telling the world about it is nothing less than to embody “the concept of the mode of being” in existence itself.82 Philosophically, Pascal’s existentialism is fundamental to Miki’s theory of Marxism as a form of anthropology. Politically, it is also at the root, I would ague, of Miki’s anti-dogmatic approach. As we shall see in the fi nal chapter, it had far-reaching consequences for his approach to the crises of the late 1930s and his desire to fi nd a middle-way. For the young man in Paris who, just a few years before, was battling to reconcile the two idealised images of himself as philosopher and poet, discovering Pascal was like holding a mirror to his soul. Moreover, for

81 MKZ, I, 26. 82 Ibid., 30–1. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 165

Miki, the statement that: “Nothing is so important to man as his own state, nothing so fearful to him as eternity” ( pensée, 335) articulated the modern condition.

Heidegger’s ontology and Marx’s anthropology

As stated above, Miki remarked that it was only aft er reading Pascal that Heidegger’s teaching came to life for him. In January 1930, Miki brought Heidegger’s philosophy to a wider Japanese audience in “Heidegger’s ontology”.83 Published in the light of Heidegger’s Being and Time (1927)84 it summarises what Miki believed to be the quintessence of Heidegger’s thought and sheds light on his understanding of Heidegger’s importance in the development of modern philosophy. Anticipating his massive, world-wide impact on philosophy aft er the Second World War, Miki stated that “Martin Heidegger is as yet a man of the future.” Th e most important aspect of Heidegger’s thought was his theory of logos, the most fundamental concept of Greek philosophy,85 since it was here, according to Miki, that Heidegger departed from Husserl. Th e basis of logos in Husserl’s phenomenology, Miki explained, has two facets eidos, the “eternal essence of things” and noema, the object described in phenomenological terms, while noesis is the mental act of so describing. Th e problem was that “in modern philosophy the concept of logos had metamorphosed into the concept of reason [risei] and had come to dominate it”. Miki regarded Husserl’s philosophy “as a Greek, nay, a very Greek philosophy [. . .] in which the concept of essence occupies a place of primary importance”,86 and argued that

83 MKZ, X, 83. 84 Heidegger’s famous work had been long in gestation, having published nothing between 1916 and 1927. Edmund Husserl had found himself defending Heidegger as “without a doubt the most signifi cant of those on their way up” and explaining Heidegger’s apparent silence “so as to be able to publish only what is completely mature and defi nitively compelling.” Cited in Th omas Sheehan, “Reading a life: Heidegger and hard times,” in Th e Cambridge Companion to Heidegger, ed. Charles Guignon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 83. 85 Ibid., 85. For Heidegger, the Greek word logos is etymologically related to the verb legein which has a variety of meanings including ‘laying out’, ‘telling a tale’, ‘exhibiting’ or ‘setting forth’. Th e function of logos ‘lies in merely letting something be seen, in letting entities be perceived.’ Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson (Oxford: Blackwell, 1962, reprinted 2001), 58 and fn. 86 MKZ, X, 85. 166 chapter five whereas Husserl had remained focussed on the theoretical comportment of intentionality, Heidegger was probing the pre-theoretical aspects of lived experience. Heidegger analysed man not in terms of the problem of essence, but in terms of man’s circumstances ( jōkyō)—his actual existence defi ned as ‘being-in-the-world’.87 He declared that the “essence of Dasein lies in its existence.”88 Accordingly, stated Miki, we compre- hend our being-in-the-world through the actual nature of our conditions ( jōtaisei)—our relationship to our environment. What characterises Heidegger’s philosophy as a whole, argued Miki, is his “protest” against Greek philosophy which posits ‘Being’ as a universal and empty concept defying any attempt at defi nition. It had also been assumed that ‘Being’ required no defi nition because everyone used it constantly and understood what was meant by it.89 As Heidegger himself put it: On the basis of the Greeks’ initial contributions towards an Interpreta- tion of Being, a dogma has been developed which not only declares the question about the meaning of Being to be superfl uous, but sanctions its complete neglect. [. . .] [T]hat which the ancient philosophers found continually disturbing as something obscure and hidden has taken on a clarity and self-evidence such that if anyone continues to ask about it he is charged with an error of method.90 Timothy Clark recently illuminated Heidegger’s contribution to thought in the twentieth century by asking us to imagine the signifi cance of this statement; the staggering realisation that the whole of Western philosophy has been in the grip of a prejudice that has become so self-evident that for over two millennia it remained basically unquestioned. Such prejudice was entrenched for so long in the Western psyche that it was no longer subject to individual choice, but constituted an “unavoidable heritage into which people are born and receive their most seemingly immediate sense of themselves.”91 In “Th e Marxist Form of Anthropology” published just two months aft er Being and Time Miki reformulated Nishida’s ‘pure experience’ ( junsui keiken) into his own theory of ‘basic experience’ (kiso keiken). His declaration: “I exist, I exist together with other people, and among

87 Ibid., 88. 88 Heidegger, 67. 89 Ibid. 90 Ibid., 2. 91 Clark, 2. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 167 other things,”92 is quintessentially Heidegger. Miki’s existentialism, expressed most clearly in this groundbreaking analysis of Marxism, was based on two main premises; the centrality of language (kotoba—words) and the importance of ‘basic experience’ in our understanding of existence as being: Everyday experience in the life of man is always guided by language. Under normal circumstances logos93 is predominant in the life of man. We negotiate with experience from the point of view of logos which we usually have already. We experience existence through language and through being able to narrate and being made to understand, through language, things which we are on the point of experiencing. From such a method of experience I distinguish something which I call my basic experience. Contrary to the fact that everyday experience is dominated by logos, basic experience is not so governed; on the contrary, it is this experience which guides, necessitates and produces one’s own logos. In the sense that it is independent of the domination of language, it is an experience which is completely free; it is an experience which is basic.94 He added that if we regard this as the most basic form of experience then reality outside oneself and even human existence itself is not dependent on one’s own subjectivity or consciousness.95 For Miki the metaphysical concept of being is not a pure abstraction. Th ere is no false disjuncture between what is ‘out there’ and what ‘we know to be there’. It is in challenging the tendency in Western philosophy towards theorising and ‘un-worlding’ that Miki’s theory of Marxism owes its greatest debt to Heidegger’s radicalism. Th e concept of Dasein is explained by Heidegger as: “Th is entity which each of us is himself and which includes inquiring as one of the possibilities of its Being we shall denote by the term “Dasein”.”96 Etymologically,

92 Here I have used the edition of Miki’s essay in Uchida Hiroshi ed., Miki Kiyoshi Essensu, (Tokyo: Kobushi Shobo, 2000), 178. 93 Miki defi ned logos as a borrowing from Greek philosophy meaning both ‘word’ (kotoba) and ‘reason’ (risei). Th at is to say it refers to such things as reasoned action, thought, conception and learning. Within the Christian tradition it came to mean the ‘word of God’ as can be seen in the famous opening lines of the Gospel of St. John ‘In the beginning was the word (logos), the word was with God, the word was God’. In modern times Hegel developed the philosophy of logos as either idée or ‘reason’ which dominates the world. “Tetsugaku—bungaku yōgo kaisetsu” (An explanation of the usage of philosophical and literary terms), MKZ, XII, 392–3. 94 Miki Kiyoshi Essensu, 178. 95 Ibid., 179. 96 Heidegger, 27. 168 chapter five in hyphenated form, ‘Da-sein’ means literally ‘Being-there’.97 Moreover, “Dasein is an entity which does not just occur among other entities. Rather it is ontically distinguished by the fact that, in its very Being, that Being is an issue for it,” and by the fact that Dasein explicitly in some ways understands itself in its Being.98 How Dasein understands itself ‘in its Being’ was one of Heidegger’s major concerns and Being and Time sets out to fi nd the answer to the question of what we really mean by the word ‘being’. More explicitly, Heidegger’s aim was “to work out the question of the meaning of Being and to do so concretely”.99 In Western philosophy stretching back from Descartes to Socrates and Plato it was almost axiomatic that we can only know what is truly real through the intellect and from mathematical certainties. Contrary to this, Heidegger turned to the everyday ordinariness and taken-for-granted aspects of our understanding of things and each other.100 His aim was not to resort to dogmatic or theoretical constructions which can be imposed upon Dasein, but to develop an analytic which would allow Dasein to show itself from itself: “And this means that it is to be shown as it is proximally and for the most part—in its average everydayness.”101 Th is way of interpreting or accessing Dasein so that it can be revealed is, in a sense, pre-theoretical in as much as one does not need to ‘have a theory’ to understand what ‘Being-in-the-world’ is. Our understanding arises from specifi c situations or experiences which always bring about an ‘attunement’ (Stimmung), a general sense of things as a whole which precedes the constituent parts of which it is made up. Heidegger’s view is holistic in its assertion that it is only our sense of the whole which gives meaning to the parts and that this ‘attunement’ is basic to our world-hood.102 Th is holistic and fundamentally historical approach is evident in Miki’s analysis. Man fi rst and foremost,exists . His basic experience is essentially a pre-theoretical, or perhaps we should say, a pre-self-conscious way of experiencing the world as an everyday lived experience. Th is basic experience precedes logos—the power of reason and/or theorising about the world. However, as Miki pointed out, basic experience

97 Ibid., fn. 98 Ibid., 32. 99 Ibid., 1. 100 Clark, 12–13. 101 Heidegger, 37–38. 102 Clark, 18–19. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 169 does not lead or add up to logos. It can instead be thought of as a basic hermeneutic framework, a pre-theoretical type of logos at work. Miki went on to state, however, that “experience has been rescued by the fact that it can be expressed through logos (speech).”103 Th e originality of “Th e Marxist Form of Anthropology” lies in the separation of the concept of logos into primary logos which is anthropology itself and secondary logos or ideology: Anthropology belongs primarily and fundamentally to primary-level logos as the interpretation of man himself. Th is method of analysis is defi ned primarily by [our] basic experience. However, Miki recognised that, since man exists within historically and socially conditioned contexts, “it is needless to say that our own interpretation is positioned within such historical and social limitations.” Nevertheless “that which exists is [located in] concrete historical anthropology” and can be grasped through logos as speech. Th e concept of ideology, on the other hand, belongs to secondary logos which operates within the various historical, psychological and social sciences. Th e diff erence between ideology andprimary logos lies in the fact that whereas basic experience is revealed directly through the latter, the former can only be grasped through its intervention in basic experience.104 In other words ideology mediates our basic experience and is thus secondary logos. According to Miki, this mediation “is nothing other than the public sphere ‘par excellence’ ”. Ideology works by objectively conditioning our experiences as revealed to us through the mediation of the learning and philosophy prevalent at the time. In opposition to this, “primary logos arises directly from the midst of our basic negotiation with life and directly refl ects it.” Th e ‘requirement’ to make fundamental connections between ourselves and our lives and to objectify them has not yet been made manifest in primary logos. Ideology, on the other hand, acts as a metonym for a life conditioned by its requirements.105 Miki basically reworked the fi rst part of Marx and Engel’s Th e Ger- man Ideology which is premised on the fact that “all human history is, of course, the existence of living human individuals.” Miki’s concept of primary logos appears to be related to what Marx and Engels described as

103 Miki Kiyoshi Essensu, 178. 104 Ibid., 181. 105 Ibid., 183. 170 chapter five

“real, active men” and “the basis of their real life-process.” On the other hand, they urged consideration of “the development of the ideological refl exes and the echoes of this life-process” which appear as “phantoms formed in the human brain.”106 Th is latter appears to correspond to Miki’s secondary logos. However, Miki departs from the materialist conception of history’s basic tenet that: ‘Life is not determined by consciousness, but consciousness by life.’107 For Miki basic experience possesses stability through being revealed in logos. However, proletarian basic experience, when grasped through the materialist conception of history, cannot achieve stability because the special characteristic of proletarian basic experience is interpreted as being based in praxis within the “sensuous” material world of nature.108 However, the worker is essentially alienated from his product and, according to Marx “the more the worker externalizes himself in his work, the more powerful becomes the alien, objective world that he creates opposite himself.”109 Th erefore, according to Miki, under the materialist conception of history, “changing consciousness cannot be a matter of primary concern. On the contrary, the primary concern is changing existence itself.” As a consequence, Marx’s dictum that “theory becomes material power” is compromised. Th is is because in the materialist conception of history, according to Miki, proletarian basic experience with its distinctive quality, that of praxis, is not sublated110 and thus cannot be established as theory, neither is it possible for it to remain within a changing sphere of consciousness. According to Marx’s famous dictum, stated Miki, “philosophers only interpret the world in various ways; the point is to change it.” Marxism in thus a revolutionary theory based on praxis. However, Miki argued that in order to change existing conditions through revolution, it is perhaps necessary to do so under circumstances whereby proletarian basic experience has discovered its own true nature and proletarian

106 Marx and Engels, “Th e German Ideology,” in Karl Marx: Selected Writings, ed. David McLellan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 160 and 164. 107 Marx and Engels, 164. 108 Miki Kiyoshi Essensu, 206. 109 Marx, 78–9. 110 Sublation (Aufh ebung) comes from the Hegelian concept of synthesis whereby the contradictions within history and philosophy (thesis/antithesis) are resolved. How- ever, even where synthesis involves one overcoming another, that which is overcome is somehow preserved or ‘sublated’ within the synthesised structure which arises and accumulates. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 171 basic experience can only develop through logos which is allowed to take on a developmental form: In order that ideology can come to have material power it must be an ideology which can grasp actual basic experience and make it into a guiding principle. [. . .] Moreover, for ideology to be able consciously to infl uence basic experience in a purposeful way, basic experience itself must naturally and incrementally follow a course of development dictated by this ideology.111 Miki added that while basic experience requires that the self is revealed naturally and incrementally through logos, ideology is clearly ‘the other’ (hoka no mono) in relation to basic experience. However, ‘the other’ must also be based in basic experience’s own reality. Miki’s theory chal- lenges the Marxist economic determinism of the base—superstructure relationship in order to fi nd a role for consciousness as an agent of change. He appears to suggest that by transforming into ‘the other’ or ideology, basic experience is able to be revealed through logos, but in being revealed it is able to recognise itself and then to return to itself. However, in returning to itself, basic experience has also synthesised or sublated ideology. He believed that Lenin’s theory of the relationship between the concept of natural growth and purposeful consciousness should be grasped dialectically in this way and that there is a ‘dialectical unity’ between ideology and experience. Moreover, “the development of experience and the development of ideology is mutually conditioned.”112 In “Marxism and Materialism” he argued that modern materialism has a theoretical as well as a concrete basis in actual modern proletarian basic experience: What I mean by basic experience is the whole structure of actual existence. Actual existence is always organised in a fi xed structural relationship which is historically and necessarily conditioned. Moreover, human life and nature exist in a mutually conditioned relationship. However, since basic experience is structured by us, or organised through us, neither consciousness nor experience can be revealed directly:

111 Miki Kiyoshi Essensu, 207. 112 Ibid., 208. 172 chapter five

When I say proletarian basic experience I do not refer merely to the experience of the proletariat in particular, or to a consciousness which can only be experienced by the proletariat. Rather I am pointing to their actual existence which is specially structured by this [experience]. People should understand existence itself rather than the term basic experience, and it should not be understood as conscious or conceptual.113 Th us, for Miki, existence itself should not be consciously fi xed or conceptualised since that would make its structure and organisation static. Rather, existence should always be moving and developing during which process it will, for the fi rst time, become actualised. “What structures and organizes existence,” he argued, are the methods by which humans fundamentally negotiate life. Th ese ways of negotiation are historically and socially conditioned. Th us calling a way of negotiating [life]‘proletarian’ is just one historical category and also just one characteristic of actual existence.114 Man unceasingly infl uences nature through his labour, but because of the way in which he negotiates his own existence, while he is directly sensible of it he does not understand it abstractly.115 For Miki, therefore, “the central problem of epistemology at present is consciousness.” Moreover, “unless we place ourselves in a position whereby we can control such things, it will be impossible for our lives and studies to develop.” Contrary to Marx’s dictum, philosophy had to discover a “superior standpoint in relation to the problem of consciousness” in order to progress and, at the same time, to construct a method which was not “historically destructive”. Historical consciousness should be at the centre of philosophy and recognise not only the external life of individuals but also the uniqueness of the internal life of individuals as identifi ed by St. Augustine.116 However, philosophers had to contend with two barriers to revealing “existence as existence which is discovered.”117 One was the nature of language (logos as speech) itself, and the other was the appropriation of logos as ‘reason’ by the structure and fetishisation of commodities. According to Miki, our existence is mediated by speech in the sense that it is public and thus there is a mutually conditioning relationship

113 MKZ, III, 44–5. 114 Ibid. 115 Ibid., 47. 116 Ibid., 53. 117 Ibid. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 173 between speech and the society in which we live. Since speech is social, he stated, society itself exists through speech. According to Artistotle, that man possesses logos is the reason why his existence is a particularly social one. Indeed, existence is revealed through words, but words such as ‘man’ enter the world as already established categories defi ned by a particular characteristic. Th erefore, what needs to be said must submit to a structure already pre-fi gured by the mutual relationship between language and social practice. In this sense social practice and the words (logos) which are widely and commonly used to signify these practices occupy an existence which becomes commonplace, thus allowing communication.118 However, Miki also seems to be suggesting that the associative bonds between signifi ed and signifi er become lost to consciousness through the sheer banality of their use in communication. In this way language can be appropriated by such things as universals and abstractions.119 The problem of commodities, Miki argued, “is not a particular problem of economic science as a special science, neither is it a central problem, rather it is the whole problem of capitalist society itself.” Indeed, the structure of the commodity is a mode of the objectivisa- tion of social existence within capitalist society.120 According to Marx a commodity is: [. . .] a mysterious thing, simply because in it the social character of men’s labour appears to them as an objective character stamped upon the product of that labour; because the relation of the producers to the sum total of their own labour is presented to them as a social relation, existing not between themselves, but between the products of their labour. Th is is the reason why the products of labour become commodities, social things whose qualities are at the same time perceptible and imperceptible by the senses.121 Miki regarded Marx’s analysis of commodities as one of his greatest contributions to the analysis of human society since it “showed clearly the fundamental characteristic of the whole of capitalist society.”122 Most signifi cant was Marx’s analysis of the way in which the movement of commodities controls human beings. Th rough ideology, the relationship

118 Ibid., 56–7. 119 Ibid., 59. 120 Ibid., 61. 121 Marx, 436. 122 MKZ, III, 61. 174 chapter five between man and his product is presented as a commonplace social relationship between man and man in a way which is invisible to them. While men assume that they exist in a natural social relationship to one another, the real social and, indeed, economic relationships between men are concealed under a “ghostly apparition” of what we assume to be natural social relations. In fact, men are living under a completely alien form of domination which eff ectively becomes self-alienation. Ultimately, under capitalism, man is dominated by the very things he makes.123 For Miki, the role of the intellectual, therefore, was to de-mystify man’s social relations and reveal them for what they are. It is only through altering man’s self-awareness in this way, that theory can become praxis and overcome the Marxist conundrum of the base/ superstructure relationship in the materialist conception of history. On a comparative note, what is implicit in Miki’s theory of the mystifying eff ect of commodity—the role of the intellectual in creating a counter-hegemonic force for change—is explicit in Antonio Gramsci’s philosophy.124 It is unfortunate that Miki’s analysis, like those of his colleagues, remained so fi rmly in the realm of theory. Miki would later extend this theory of self-alienation in Th e Logic of the Imagination to the notion of technology as the locus of man’s self-alienation. To some extent Miki’s theory of logos in “Th e Marxist Form of Anthropology”, although developed in isolation from it, can also be compared with Ferdinand de Saussure’s linguistic divide of langue and parole in as much as his ‘basic experience’ appears to be located in the langue, the deep structures of the brain in which our innate capacity for language exists.125 Th erefore, it is in our ability to locate our experiences within a prefi gurative fi eld (langue) prior to their narration and understanding that ‘basic experience’ resides. At this point ‘basic experience’ is independent of words, although presumably it inspires the form that our narration and understanding will take. Consequently our parole

123 Ibid., 62–3. 124 Th is is one reason why Gramsci’s theories became so infl uential among Brit- ish politicians and their advisers just aft er the Prison Notebooks were translated into English in 1971. In one way he also anticipated Louis Althusser’s theories of the role of ideology, but it should be noted here that Althusser, like Nietzsche, slipped into nihilism and insanity. 125 Neither should this be surprising since Saussure’s posthumously edited and collected Course in General Linguistics was published in 1916, although there does not appear to be any evidence which suggests that Miki read it. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 175 or speech (logos) exists in a constant dialogue with our ‘basic experience’ with the result that our actual experiences become articulated or ‘rescued’ through logos. ‘Basic experience’ is, therefore, uniquely human as well as unique to each human. Miki’s letters to Hani are evidence that Heidegger’s theory of logos and mode of interpreting Aristotle were most infl uential for him at that time. According to Akamatsu, Miki’s ‘basic experience’ is not simply a problem of epistemology, it is also a problem of ontology in which knowing becomes a way of life. Miki’s defi nition of experience in basic experience is the whole structure of the active and passive existential relationships between the beings which we call ‘human’ and various other beings. Akamatsu argued that although there is an obvious debt here to Heidegger, by conceptually moving the relationships between humans away from the concept of ‘care’ to ‘negotiation’ with the idea of ‘negotiated being’, Miki goes beyond Heidegger. Th is idea of ‘negotiated being’ owed more to Aristotle than it did to Marx.126 However, it also owes a debt to Pascal. Yuasa Yasuo argued that both Miki and Watsuji Tetsurō went “beyond Heidegger’s philosophy in their own unique ways in spite of having been strongly infl uenced by him.” One way in which he contrasts Heidegger and Miki is that while “Heidegger’s eyes were directed towards the past [. . .] Miki’s eyes were directed towards the contemporary, towards the new.” Yuasa argued that Miki failed to understand, therefore, that the existential anxiety present in Heidegger’s works was directed towards the distant past and the “origins of European spirituality” rather than contemporary Europe. Th is led Miki to dismiss Heidegger’s contemporary relevance.127 However, it is also probable that Heidegger’s all too suff ocating fi nite world may have confl icted with Miki’s essential religiosity and his yearning for the infi nite and indefi nable.

Miki in the debates on tenkō

In the light of the above, what are we to make of Miki’s alleged tenkō? Miki himself consistently denied tenkō and attacked the dogmatic

126 Akamatsu, 76. 127 Yuasa Yasuo, “Modern Japanese Philosophy and Heidegger,” in Heidegger and Asian Th ought, ed. Graham Parkes (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987), 161. 176 chapter five attitudes of his critics in ‘On Marxist Philosophy’ (Marukusushugi tetsugaku nitsuite) in September 1930. He believed that the worlds of ideas and life were inseparable stating, “I constantly strive to walk the path of my own philosophy.”128 He argued for a synthesis of active and contemplative life which was open to change over time. At fi rst, he stated, he was drawn to Nishida, at another time to Heidegger and then to Marx, but as situations change it becomes important to draw upon other infl uences in one’s life.129 Th e attacks upon him continued, however, and in 1932 he was denounced by Honda Kenzō who focused on Miki’s newly-published Philosophy of History. Once again, Miki defended the right of philosophers to develop independent views.130 However, some critics would argue that Miki’s self-defence was not far off Otsuka Kinnosuke’s statement in 1933 that: “My tenkō is the result of a natural development of my mind; it is not an act of apostasy at all.” Rikki Kersten has criticised this type of rationalisation by tenkōsha as removing the “emotive element of betrayal” in order to avoid charges of spiritual treason.131 Akamatsu has argued that, although involved in the “revolutionary cultural movement” at one time, since Miki was continually criticised “from a so-called ‘orthodox Marxist’ viewpoint” and eventually forced out, he was “neither a communist nor a socialist.”132 Running slightly counter to Uchida Hiroshi’s argument that Miki’s attitude towards Marxism remained critical thought largely positive up as far as Logic of the Imagination,133 there is some mileage in Goto-Jones’s statement that Miki’s thought, unlike that of his close friend and colleague Tosaka Jun’s, was largely anti-materialistic from the start.134 However, this is not to detract from Miki’s enormous contribution in bringing the work of Marx to the attention of a much wider audience. While Kato Shūichi has suggested that it was impossible for “the generation of 1900” to ignore Marxism, Miki was not simply carried

128 MKZ, XVIII, 100. 129 Ibid. 130 “Setcho hihan ni kotaeru” (In reply to criticism of my work), MKZ, X, 230. 131 Rikki Kersten, “Diverging Discourses: Shimizu Ikutarō, Maruyama Masao and Postwar Tenkō,” Nissan Occasional Paper Series 20 (1994), 9. 132 Akamatsu, i–ii. 133 Uchida Hiroshi, “Miki Kiyoshi no Marukusu juyō,” (Miki Kiyoshi’s reception of Marx), Seigakuin Daigaku sōgō kenkyūjo kiyō 25 (2002), 40. 134 Goto-Jones (2006), 15. a study of man: late 1925 to early 1932 177 along on an irresistible tide of general enthusiasm for Marxist thought.135 Notably, he added his voice to the attack on Yanaihara Tadao when his famous essay “Marukusushugi to kirisutokyō” (Marxism and Christian- ity) appeared in 1932. It was criticised by the Rōnō-ha (Labour-Farmer Faction) intellectual Ōmori Yoshitarō who stated that “religion and consequently Christianity today is undoubtedly a thing of the dominant classes. Professor Yanaihara in defending Christianity . . . also defends the ruling classes.”136 Miki joined the fray by condemning Yanaihara’s apparent separation of religion and politics. He argued that “religious reformers” who believed that social reform must necessarily follow religious reform demonstrated a shocking “indiff erence to the problems of the real world.” He asked “is there not in this indiff erence—in this fl ight from society—real danger?”137 For Miki there was no reason for Christianity to be antagonistic towards Marxism since both sides desired the elimination of poverty and had shown a willingness to fi ght with the courage of their convictions. Nevertheless, he found the attitudes of Christian reformers to be counterproductive and suggested that they should “break off relations with the socialist movement altogether and remain cloistered in the world of the spiritual.”138 It would appear from this criticism of Yanaihara that, at the very least, Miki still identifi ed with the theoretical aspects of the Marxist reform of society in 1932. However, both men used Marxism as an analytical tool while rejecting, explicitly or implicitly, revolutionary politics. Indeed, Miki and Hani questioned the dominance of Moscow in the JCP,139 and Uchida has pointed out that Miki associated himself with criticism of the Soviet Union in the 1930s concluding that Miki was neither a socialist nor a communist.140 While Miki regarded his critics’ insistence on blindly keeping the faith as dogmatism, they regarded as tenkō his insistence on responding intellectually to changing circumstances. Goto-Jones, moreover, has stated that by emphasising the humanist and anthropological aspects of Marxist thought, Miki eff ectively built

135 Townsend (2000), 59–62. 136 Cited in Fujita Wakao, Yanaihara Tadao: Sono Shinkō to Shōgai, (Yanaihara Tadao: His Faith and Life) (Tokyo: Kyobunkan, 1967), 126. 137 “Shukyō kaikaku ka shakai kaikaku ka,” (Religious reform or social reform?), MKZ (1986 edn.), XX, 99–101. Originally published 15 April 1932 in Tokyo teikoku daigaku shinbun. 138 Ibid., 103. 139 Goto-Jones (2006), 7. 140 Uchida (2004), 18. 178 chapter five

“a theoretic road between the Marxist Left and nationalist Right” and, therefore, he was able to change position in a way which was too subtle to be considered a signifi cant reversal or tenkō.141 In Miki’s thought we witness not so much a simple shift from historical philosophy towards hermeneutic anthropology as suggested by some of Miki’s biographers, but a subtle synthesising of two strands of thought: humanism and anthropology based on the model of French enlightenment and historical materialism grounded in German social sciences. Th ese two strands were united in Miki’s thought, however, by a characteristic type of Hegelian idealism, or even romanticism, which he was never quite able to overcome. What is certain is that in late 1932 and early 1933 a series of watershed events forced Miki to re-evaluate his intellectual and political standpoint vis-à-vis the Western literary and philosophical canons which up until now he had accepted in a relatively uncritical fashion. However, labelling Miki as a tenkōsha is too simplistic to describe his changing standpoint aft er 1932.

141 Goto-Jones (2006), 16. CHAPTER SIX

A STUDY OF MAN IN CRISIS: LATE 1932–1935

FAUST: Wings, alas, may grow Upon our soul, but still our body is Earthbound. And yet, by inborn instinct given To each of us, our hearts rise up and soar Forever onwards [. . .]. WAGNER: I never envied any bird its wings. But the pursuit of intellectual things From book to book, from page to page—what joys that yields! Goethe Faust: Part One Th e true artist is the creator of types. Types are neither merely universal nor merely particular but both at the same time. Th ey are captured within our imaginations (phantasia) and brought to life by the imaginative power of the creative artist. Without seeing the self as revealed outside the self, types cannot be formulated. Th ey are always ideally defi ned [. . .] and governed by both pathos and logos. Miki Kiyoshi Philosophical Anthropology In Th e Unspoken Philosophy Miki stated that “in philosophy Kant was my teacher, but in the arts, it was Goethe.”1 From his days at the First Higher School Miki had become fascinated by Faust’s notion that “in my breast two spirits reside alas, and their division sunders my life in two” and recognised that his own heart was also the locus of “weakness and contradiction”. On the other hand, he derived hope from Goethe’s notion that “the spirit which strives to know the heights of the self also makes use of bad experiences. [. . .] By tasting deep sadness and pain and then embracing them, our spirits can soar to new heights.”2 Th e tension between Faust’s fl ights of fancy, the irrational parts of our psyche expressed philosophically as pathos, and Wagner’s earthbound intellectualism expressed as reason or logos is refl ected in the development of Miki’s own intellectual growth, as indicated in his analyses of romanticism and irrationalism.

1 MKZ, XVIII, 48. 2 Ibid., 71. 180 chapter six

Aft er 1932, Miki appears to have successfully reinvented himself as editor, journalist and leading commentator on public aff airs. How- ever, this was a time of great personal as well as national crisis. In the mid-1930s much of his philosophy and journalism appears to be characterised by attempts to reconcile binary oppositions such as logos and pathos, classicism and romanticism, rationalism and irrationalism, nature and technology. Th ese philosophical discussions address, albeit indirectly, deeper concerns about the rise of fascism and neo-romanticism in Japan. For all those who lived by the pen rather than the sword in the Japan of the 1930s, politics began increasingly to invade the private life of the individual as well as the intellectual life of the nation. Moreover, expelled from the protective towers of academe, Miki was now an ‘outsider’ and especially vulnerable because of being identifi ed with Left ist or Marxist thought. Being attacked by the Left , he found, aff orded no protection from repression by the Right. Andrew Barshay has pointed to the importance of a subtle insider—outsider distinction determined by occupation at this time. Insiders included university lecturers, researchers, doctors and public servants working in large institutions, outsiders like Miki were freelance writers and journalists or employees working in the private sector. According to Barshay, from the state’s point of view, an outsider was further from the loci of the essential values of the kokutai which revolved around the emperor. Insiders were more easily controlled through well-defi ned roles and patterns of loyalty. While even insiders were not immune from prosecution for heretical views, outsiders were considered more dangerous since, with less status to lose, outsiders classifi ed as political dissidents were considered more liable to organise and threaten the status quo. Th e ‘dangerous thought’ of outsiders was less tolerable to the authorities and likely to be more severely punished.3 However, most writers, whether insider or outsider, felt increasingly constrained by tightening press controls and censorship which began to play a major role in the government’s attempts to suppress opposition aft er 1931. Indeed, Louise Young refers to “war-fever” and a broad, popular consensus for military action in China from this time.4 Cen- sorship, therefore, marched hand in hand with a new mood of popular nationalism. Journalists like Miki were forced to keep a weather eye on

3 Barshay, 15. 4 Young, 114. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 181 the Newspaper Law of 1909 and its subsequent revisions. Th e Home Minister was able to prevent the circulation of any publication which threatened “public order, manners or morals.” Items in the media could be banned by the army, navy or Foreign Minister for disturbing public order, manners or morals, or for violating the clauses on the imperial family, political regime, or constitution. Journals carrying such items could be terminated by the courts. More worryingly, not only the author but also the editors and, in some cases, the printer and publisher were all held legally responsible for the contents of an article. Maximum prison sentences for various off ences under the Publication Law ranged from three months to two years.5 Miki would have felt susceptible to the full force of these measures, although there is some debate about their eff ectiveness. Th ere has been a considerable amount of research conducted into the impact of these censorship controls upon freedom of expression in 1930s Japan, and Kasza expresses a general consensus of opinion that the press codes in force in Japan at the time can be considered neither particularly draconian nor radically diff erent to codes existing within most Western liberal-democracies at the time. In fact, only two provisions in the 1909 Publication Law appear to be in any way exceptionally harsh; these were the demand for a monetary deposit before publishing and the administrative right to seize off ending editions. Th ere is much evidence to suggest that before 1931, short of revolutionary rhetoric, the law allowed severe reproofs of government policies and offi cials.6 Aft er the Manchurian Incident, however, an extra-legal policy, the pre-publication warning, gave notice to journalists not to report on certain current events deemed as relating to public order. Th is policy fundamentally changed the nature of the battle to control public expressions of opposition.7 Between 1931 and 1932 there were some nineteen such warnings and the policy is judged responsible for withholding vital information from the Japanese public as well as misleading the reporting of incidents internationally. Even so, the severity of the press codes appeared to be mediated in practice. Academic journals, for example, were treated more leniently than journals founded by Left ist political groups. Evidence also suggests that journals and periodicals aimed at

5 Gregory J. Kasza, Th e State and the Mass Media in Japan, 1918–1945 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1988), 19. 6 Ibid., 20. 7 Ibid., 31. 182 chapter six either workers or young people were oft en judged more severely than, for example, high-brow publications aimed at the academic elite. As well as the nature of the readership, size was also a factor in the severity of censorship, with the publications of small radical groups being dismissed as relatively harmless or as a useful safety valve. Journals considered highly infl uential or with a substantial circulation were also carefully monitored.8 However, the persuasive picture of a heavily censored press reluc- tantly publicising the offi cial story of Japan’s military actions in Man- churia is inaccurate. Louise Young has found convincing evidence that, for the most part, publishers and the entertainment industries willingly co-operated with army propagandists oft en for commercial gain. The media were content to act as a conduit for propaganda which also allowed the government to gauge public opinion.9 Sandra Wilson has also challenged Maruyama Masao’s view that whilst the “pseudo-intellectuals” or less-cultured middle classes were overwhelmingly sympathetic to the fascism of the military and the bureaucracy, “true intellectuals” were more immune to its infectious charms. She concluded that ‘true intellectuals’, who included both academics and journalists, not only demonstrated as much passive or active support as other sections of society, but also contributed to the endorsement of fascistic imperialism in their role as mediators between the public and the government.10 Rightist intimidation and propaganda also played a part in the intimidation of intellectuals aft er 1931 and added to the sense of political crisis and disenchantment with so-called ‘Western’ ideals. Wilson has argued that, although not necessarily a new phenomenon, “this pervading sense of crisis is arguably the chief factor that marks and gives unity to the early 1930s”.11

Crisis consciousness

It was under the weight of these kinds of pressures that Miki settled into a new routine outside academia and began to build a reputation as a high-profi le discussant of public aff airs. In June and July 1932 he

8 Ibid., 34–5. 9 Young, 56. 10 Sandra Wilson, Th e Manchurian Crisis and Japanese Society, 1931–33, (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 67–8. 11 Ibid., 63. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 183 participated in two series of roundtable discussions involving Nishida which were reported in the Yomiuri Shinbun. Th e second series was held at Nishida’s home in Kamakura. Together these led to the newspaper publication entitled “On the Relationship between Philosophy, Religion and Culture” (Tetsugaku to shūkyō to bunka no musubitsuki nitsuite). However, events in the autumn of 1932 made Miki more sensitive to the growing sense of crisis in the country, in particular, the persecu- tion of Takigawa Yukitoki (1891–1962) who was eventually forced to resign from Kyoto’s law faculty aft er allegedly giving a lecture which gave off ence. Th e Takigawa case was viewed as a major turning point in the struggle for academic freedom. In particular, Nanbara Shigeru, Rōyama Masamichi, and Yabe Teiji all highlighted its signifi cance as the fi rst instance in which government suppression was aimed at a liberal, rather than avowedly Marxist, intellectual. Partly in response to this incident, in the November 1932 edition of Shisō, Miki published “A Philosophical Elucidation of Crisis-Consciousness” (Kiki ishiki no tetsugakuteki kaimei),12 in which, ostensibly, he sought to locate dif- ferent modes of ‘thought’ within particular historical milieu. Th ought, he argued, becomes highly problematic when it collides with specifi c historical events. Indeed, during a period of crisis, subtle transforma- tions in patterns of thought are accompanied by changes in the value which a society places upon ideas. In what appears to be a covert criticism of censorship, he stated that while the “value of thought is usually measured in terms of its approximation to truth [. . .] in the present era the value judgements surrounding thought and its critical characteristics have become a problem.”13 He added that, aft er the Manchurian Incident “crisis-consciousness” appeared as one of the characteristics of Japanese thought.14 His warnings about the dangers of constructing “mythe social” and utopias during a time of crisis could apply to intellectuals on both the Right and the Left . Noticeably, however, Miki does not use the term hijōji (emergency or crisis) which was in popular use in magazines, nor does he use it in later publications. According to Sandra Wilson, it was not until 1936–7 that

12 MKZ, V, 3–30. Th e article echoes Miki’s previous article “Kiki ni okeru Rironteki Ishiki” (Th eoretical consciousness in crisis) published inKaizō in January 1929 and reprinted in MKZ, II, 241–54. 13 MKZ, V, 3–4. 14 Ibid. 184 chapter six kiki (crisis) replaced hijōji as a term popularly used in the media.15 Miki uses the term kiki in a deliberately philosophical and sociological sense corresponding to the German term Krise. Th is term, Miki pointed out, refers specifi cally to the eff ects of heightened contradictions [mujun] existing in societies within certain defi ned historical periods. However, he extended the meaning of ‘crisis’ here to include normally hidden anxieties about man’s fi nite existence borne as part of our essential humanity and experienced in our everyday life.16 It is in the subtle use and defi nition of terms such as these that we can detect Miki’s re-orientation away from Marxist modes of interpretation towards the religiously-based existentialism of Pascal and Kierkegaard. In January 1933 Kawakami Hajime was arrested and subsequently tried for his alleged communist activities. Miki himself became a target for the censor and the publication of his chapter “Literature of the present class struggle” (Gendai kaikyū tōsō no bungaku) for a book on Japanese literature was forbidden.17 Th e following month the proletarian literary movement, already profoundly aff ected by the writer Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s suicide in 1927, was dealt a fi nal blow by the death of the writer and political activist Kobayashi Takiji in police custody. For Miki, these events were troubling enough, but an even greater shock was in store when Heidegger declared for the Nazi Party in April 1933.18 Miki deplored Heidegger’s decision and attacked his inaugural speech as Rector Magnifi cus in a short article “Heidegger and the Fate of Philosophy” (Haideggā to tetsugaku no unmei). Heidegger’s speech, “Th e self-assertion of the German university”, Miki stated, implied German national unity along the lines of ‘blood’ and ‘soil’. Such things belong to pathos and Heidegger appeared to be in thrall to Nietzsche’s Dionysian principles. He called upon Heidegger to restore the power of rationality in criticising and overcoming Nietzsche.19 On 13 May Miki and Hasegawa Nyozekan issued a joint statement condemning

15 For a detailed history of the terms used to describe the crisis in the early 1930s see Wilson, 62–7. 16 “Tetsugaku—bungaku yōgo kaisetsu,” (An explanation of the usage of philosophical and literary terms), MKZ, II, 308. 17 MKZ, XIX, 871. 18 Whilst his membership of the Nazi party is not in doubt, Heidegger’s part in the propagation of Nazi ideology and his continued support for the party aft er the ‘Night of the Long Knives’ in June 1933 remains a matter for contention among historians. Heidegger stated that he became disillusioned with Nazism at this time aft er the party faction to which he was most closely allied was purged. Clark, 122. 19 MKZ, X, 319–20. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 185 the bonfi re of books in Germany and Miki also assisted in the establishment of the League for Academic Freedom ( gakugei jiyū dōmei) in July. In a newspaper article entitled “Nazi cultural oppression” (Nachisu no bunka dan’atsu) published shortly aft er the joint declaration, Miki argued that censorship and oppression was essentially “non-Germanic”. He stated that it was no coincidence that the “Golden Age” of German high culture began with the man of letters Gotthold Lessing (1729–81) whose dramatic poem Nathan der Weise (1789) was recognised as one of the fi nest pleas for toleration ever written. Miki also emphasised the huge contribution made by Jews such as Hermann Cohen to German culture.20

Overcoming Angst

Miki’s experiences in Germany during the political, economic and cultural turmoil that accompanied the rise of the fl edgling Nazi party in the early 1920s had made him aware of the way in which certain factions were able to capitalise on a sense of national crisis. He began to make comparisons between interwar Europe and Japan aft er the Manchurian crisis. His article, “Th e Th ought of Angst and Overcoming it” 21 (Fuan no shisō to sono chōkoku), published in Kaizō in June 1933, is highly controversial since it appears to represent a repositioning of his thought in relation to Western culture. Indeed, while Goto-Jones and Doak recognise the ambiguities of Miki’s political standpoint with regard to Marxism, both detect within this publication a signifi cant turn to the state and kokutai (national polity) ideology. Miki’s critique of the ‘Crise de l’Esprit’ unfolding in Japan was infl u- enced primarily by the French writer and critic Benjamin Crémieux

20 Reprinted in MKZ, XIX, 594–602. 21 Although most authors have translated fuan as ‘anxiety’ or ‘anguish’ I have used the term Angst since Miki specifi cally refers to its literary, theological and philosophical genesis within the European context. Peculiar to the dialectic of modernity, the condition of Angst thus defi ned, though fi rst formulated in religious terms by Kierkegaard, was further conceptualised in sociological terms as being at the core of the condition moderne by Georg Simmel (1858–1918). Moreover, Miki thoughtfully provides us with an explanation of the term in “Tetsugaku—bungaku yōgo kaisetsu” (An explanation of the usage of philosophical and literary terms). He refers here explicitly to the Ger- man term ‘Angst’. MKZ, XII, 367. In philosophical works Angst, post-Freud, is usually translated as ‘anxiety’, although it also indicates ‘malaise’. In the works of Kierkegaard and Heidegger, however, it is oft en translated as ‘dread’. Heidegger, 227fn. 186 chapter six

(1888–1944) who in “Inquiétude et Reconstruction: Essai sur la littéra- ture d’après-guerre” identifi ed the period from 1918 to 1930 in Europe as a time of great disorder which witnessed the emergence of a spirit of anxiety.22 French historians in particular have identifi ed the post-First World War period in France as a time of ‘l’après-guerre nihiliste’ and the phrase ‘La Crise de l’Esprit’ was fi rst coined by the poet and essayist Paul Valéry (1871–1945). Another essayist and critic Julien Benda (1867–1956) described it as ‘La Fin de l’Eternel’. Yet others spoke of a ‘nouveau mal de siècle’ or, more vaguely, of a ‘malaise’.23 Miki sought to locate Japan’s current spiritual and cultural crisis historically within the context of modernity and the infl uence of European philosophical and cultural trends. In Europe before the First World War, Miki argued, “the tragedy of action” predominated and was represented in neo-Fichte philosophy. With the rise of German neo-romanticism in the 1930s, however, “the tragedy of action” was transformed into the “tragedy of knowing” and the philosophy of Angst was born. Th is change, according to Miki, was represented by new interpretations of the works of Nietzsche and a new conception of Nietzsche’s place in the genealogy of knowledge. Previ- ously regarded as a philosopher of the heroic and as an active idealist, Nietzsche was now positioned alongside Kierkegaard, the philosopher sine qua non of critical existentialism.24 Moreover, under the infl uence of

22 MKZ, X, 287. 23 Crémieux was involved in the famous La Nouvelle Revue Française or NRF founded principally by Gide along with several other literati, including the poet and critic Henri Ghéon (1875–1944), the novelist Jean Schlumberger (1877–1968), and the actor and theatre director Jacques Copeau (1879–1949). While Miki was in Paris the NRF’s articles and popular critical commentary by leading artists and critics became a refl ection of the hub of Parisian cultural life and launched the careers of a whole generation of young writers. Th e NRF sought to encourage young writers in a new form of literary enterprise which was restrained, rational and free from the constraints of dogmatic ideologies. Under the editorship of Drieu la Rochelle, the journal slipped into collaboration with the Nazis. It disappeared for a while but re-emerged in 1953. Micheline Tison-Braun, la Crise de l’Humanisme: le confl it de l’individu et de la société dans la littérature Français, tome II 1914–1939 (Paris: Nizet, 1967), 89. 24 MKZ, X, 294. Helmut Kuhn writing in 1950 identifi ed two corresponding types of existentialism; ‘critical existentialism’ in which existence is encountered through crisis and ‘social existentialism’ in which existence is met through communion. In the former, ‘crisis’ is experienced as something quite extraordinary which is clearly highlighted against the background of ordinary human life, whereas communion with other persons relates more directly to human experience and human relationships as a whole. Existence discovered through the anguish of crisis will naturally diff er more radically from that discovered through communion, and everyday life and the resulting insights will be separated by a gulf from everyday knowledge. Consequently, for Kuhn, ‘critical a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 187

Proust, Gide and Dostoevsky, there had arisen among the French literati a preoccupation with the interiority of life manifested, in particular, within “ryūdōshugi” or ‘stream of consciousness’ writing.25 Oft en mistakenly referred to as ‘interior monologue’ writing, this genre included the Dublin-based writer James Joyce as well as Proust whose a la recherche du temps perdu has been described as creating “in the reader [. . .] the impression that he has entered another world; not a world which is other by the strangeness of its customs, but by its ‘interiority’.”26 Such works were referred to in Japan as ‘European I-novels’ and were at the centre of the intense debates surrounding the Japanese I-novel in the mid-1930s.27 Miki argued that the tendency within stream of consciousness writing to portray life as merely imagined meant that “real life” appeared less signifi cant than “invented” life, thus blurring the distinction between real and imaginary. Ultimately, under the sway of acute anxiety, the French intelligentsia declared the external world “bankrupt” cutting themselves adrift from society.28 Miki perhaps had good cause for concern about the increasing infl u- ence of such works in Japan. Itō Sei (1905–1969), who was renowned for his translations of Joyce and D. H. Lawrence, stated that in the early 1930s in Japan the infl uence of Proust and Joyce could be detected in the works of all the serious novelists.29 Yokomitsu Riichi (1898–1947) was also heavily infl uenced by Joyce whose Ulysses appeared in translation in 1930 at the same time as Yokomitsu’s short story “Kikai’ (Th e

existentialism’ tended to be more violently anti-traditionalist and anti-rationalist than ‘social existentialism.’ Helmut Kuhn, “Existentialism,” in A History of Philosophical Systems, ed., Vergilius Ferm (London: Rider and Company, 1950), 408. 25 Th e term ‘stream of consciousness’ was coined by the psychologist William James whose Th e Principles of Psychology (1890) had a considerable impact on both Nishida and Miki. Th e term is applied to mental processes and the theory that memories, thoughts and feelings exist outside the primary consciousness, appearing not as a chain, but a fl ow or stream. William James, “Th e Stream of Consciousness: Th e Principles of Psychology,” (1890) in Modernism: Critical Concepts in Literary and Cultural Studies, vol. I, ed., Tim Middleton (London: Routledge, 2003), 43. 26 Everett W. Knight, Literature Considered as Philosophy: Th e French Example (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1957), 110. However, it is a common mistake to cite A la Recherche du Temps Perdu as ‘stream of consciousness’ since it is concerned with memory rather than inchoate levels of consciousness. Robert Humphrey, Stream of Consciousness in the Modern Novel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 4. 27 Indeed, Miki anticipated Kobayashi Hideo’s infl uential 1935 essay “Watakushi shōsetsu-ron” (Discussion on the I-novel) in which he referred to the ‘European I novel’ as “the true I-novel”. Suzuki, 58. 28 MKZ, X, 289–92. 29 Keene, Dawn to the West: Fiction, (1984), 669. 188 chapter six machine) caused a sensation when it appeared in the September 1930 edition of Kaizō. Although it showed some Proustian elements, “Kikai” perhaps owed more to Paul Valéry, but it established Yokomitsu’s reputation as a leading light of the Japanese literary scene.30 Hori Tat- suo (1904–1953) was also heavily infl uenced by French and German writers, including Proust, Gide, Raymond Radiguet, François Mauriac and Jean Cocteau. Th e infl uence of Proust in particular became easily recognisable in his works of the early 1930s, especially “Kaifuki” (Convalescence, 1931) and his important novella Utsukushii Mura (Th e Beautiful Village, 1933).31 According to Miki these literary infl uences were compounded by the theology of Barth and Kierkegaard, the psychology of Karl Jaspers and the philosophy of Heidegger. Th ese works gripped Japanese youth with a “spell-binding force” making it vulnerable to the mythic and romantic constructs of fascistic ideologies. Th e names of Bergson and Nietzsche had also come to assume a heavy symbolism and heroic proportions among intellectuals in Japan. Miki continued: However, because of the social and, in particular, the cultural conditions in this country, these things too were generally accepted as just new; new literature, new theology and new philosophy, and were welcomed if only because the Japanese people love new things. Even those fi ercely opposed to them did not suffi ciently understand their characteristic nature and ended up indiscriminately criticising them as ‘bourgeois literature’ or ‘fascist philosophy’. Although not necessarily mistaken it is almost meaningless to summarise in this way.32 According to Miki, therefore, the internalisation of a culture that was foreign and poorly understood rendered the Japanese intelligentsia incapable of mounting an informed critique of Western modernity. Angst, he argued, was all the more insidious because it was “stealing into the hearts of people unbeknown and will perhaps soon come to master them.”33 While this was more serious for the intellectual classes, “of course it is not that for the soldier’s servant, Angst does not exist, but it exists in a state in which it cannot be internalised.”34 Th e pre-eminent literary critic Kobayashi Hideo (1902–83), with whom

30 Ibid., 658. 31 Ibid., 697–9. 32 MKZ, X, 285–6. 33 Ibid., 286–7. 34 Ibid. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 189

Miki later collaborated, echoed these concerns two years later when he criticised the way in which European techniques were imported without fully understanding the socio-historical environments within which they were originally constructed.35 Moreover, in his famous 1933 essay “Literature of the Lost Home”, Kobayashi exposed the feelings of anxiety, dislocation and homelessness which imbued Japanese modernity with a phantasmagorical quality.36 He believed the Japanese had “grown so accustomed to this Western infl uence that we can no longer distinguish what is under the force of this infl uence and what is not.”37 Seiji M. Lippit has argued that this alien and predominantly Western culture was internalised to the extent that it dominated discourses of modernisation in Japan so that critiques of modernism were ultimately bound to or indistinguishable from criticism of the West.38 For Miki, the literature and philosophy of Angst posed more of a threat to the position of the intellectual within Japanese society, than the ‘Western’ creeds of democracy, individualism and liberalism. He regarded fascism as a symptom of the “real” diseases of malaise and introspection.39 In particular, Angst tended to de-politicise Japanese youth, the very people who should be in the vanguard of political action. What he once regarded as the “scepticism” of Taishō youth had morphed into a peculiar and debilitating introspection. As it tightened its grip, this sense of turning inwards had given rise to a paralysing anxiety. While the 1920s had been marked by enthusiasm for Marx- ism and “everywhere [. . .] the unfurling of banners and love of power,” now there was order where there should have been “reaction and social disorder” and the passion in the hearts of youth had been transformed into acute anxiety.40 Th is was no ordinary anxiety which could be explained away in simple psychological terms, stated Miki, but a cultural and spiritual Angst emanating from deep within the human condition. It was anxiety engendered by our existential awareness of the unknown and fi nite

35 Suzuki, 57–8. 36 Kobayashi Hideo, Literature of the Lost Home: Kobayashi Hideo—Literary Criti- cism 1924–1939, ed. and trans., Paul Anderer (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995), 49. 37 Ibid., 53. 38 Seiji M. Lippit, Topographies of Japanese Modernism (New York: Columbia Uni- versity Press, 2002), 8. 39 MKZ, X, 285. 40 Ibid., 290. 190 chapter six possibility of death.41 Gide himself, somewhat ironically, had criticised the mania for introspection which had developed in Europe as early as the 1890s. In his Journal of 1893, he confessed that he saw nothing but pride and pretentiousness in “that constant analysis of one’s thoughts, that lack of action.”42 It was only aft er he had succeeded in “overcoming” it that he was able lucidly to describe its enervating eff ects. It had become clear to him in later life that introspection was futile, leading only to paralysing uncertainty.43 Miki argued that while loss of faith in the intellect and reason are generally thought of as the cost of being human, “it is negation that is revealed in Angst.” Th e philosophy and literature of Angst views human beings as fundamentally limited due to the bounds in which they are placed. Among these bounds are, “according to some death, and according to others libido.” He added, “no matter how one looks at it, aff ective life is essential to the self.”44 However, Miki’s criticism of foreign infl uences must be balanced against his willingness defend Shestov who became enormously popular in the 1930s, especially among the Japan Romantic Movement (Roman-ha). Shestov’s Dostoevsky and Nietzsche: Th e Philosophy of Tragedy (1903) was translated into Japanese in 1934 by Kawakami Tetsutarō (1902–80) and Abe Rokurō (1904–57). According to Doak nearly “every leading critic of the 1930s felt compelled to address the problems raised by Shestov’s Philosophy of Tragedy,” including Kobayashi Hideo, Tosaka Jun and, in particular, Kamei Katsuichirō (1907–66)45 a leading light of the Japan Romantic Movement. In the foreword to Volume Two of An Anthology of Shestov (She- sutofu senshū), Miki argued that Shestov was inextricably linked to Japanese conceptions of the spiritual destiny of the modern world and held a rare, “marvellous fascination” in “the hearts and minds of our country’s intellectuals.”46 Th e “infectious power” of Shestov’s thought, he argued, belied his dismissal by “some critics” as merely representative

41 Ibid., 285. 42 Gide Journals, 29. 43 Knight, 112. 44 MKZ, X, 291–9. 45 A former student of aesthetics at Tokyo Imperial University, Kamei was one of those arrested during the March 15 Incident. In March 1933 he was appointed director of education in the Japan Proletarian Writer’s League (NALP) and contributed articles to Proletarian Literature. Kevin M. Doak, Dreams of Diff erence: Th e Japanese Romantic School and the Crisis of Modernity, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 78–9. 46 MKZ, XVII, 325. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 191 of fi n de siècle Angst and despair. He cited D. H. Lawrence’s statement about the longevity of Shestov’s idée fi xe enabling him to extend “new principles” across the ages. Miki admitted that there was something of the spirit of Angst in his work, but there was also something positive which acted as an antidote to despair. “All true thought,” Miki declared, “liberates the human spirit” and Shestov’s thought, while tragic, nevertheless “does not give the impression that there is no such thing as freedom and that there is no escaping fate.” Rather “its tragic spirit refl ects, in the deepest sense, the age in which we live” revealing the modern world as totally deadlocked and “fundamentally and critically” unmasking “the various principles upon which modern culture stands and the Enlightenment rationalism which underpins it.”47 For Miki, therefore, Shestov encourages us to fi nd the strength and courage to exercise the daring of faith. He fascinates and, indeed, terrifi es because he suggests that the quest for “authentic” being and freedom involves an unfl inching confrontation with the reality of death and the genuine experience of despair. Miki stated that Shestov’s “exasperated resentment and anger at the status quo,” “despairing and visible negation” and “sincere quest to the bitter end for freedom and adventure,” make us “tremble with fear.”48 What Shestov teaches us, according to Miki, is that true belief and freedom only comes through confrontation with our natural condition and, ultimately, death. “If a thinker like Shestov is to provide some positive meaning for his reader,” added Miki, “then he must be confronted absolutely, face to face.”49 Two years later the editors of the 1936 Japanese translation of Shestov’s Philosophy of Tragedy conceded that there was something in Shestov’s writing which, contrary to appearances, was able to transcend Angst and despair. However, according to Doak, this view of Shestov was rather unorthodox.50 While Miki asked his readers to confront Shestov face to face, Kamei, in his essay “Th e Living Judas: (On Shestov)” sought a way of avoiding Shestov by becoming his “accomplice” and destroying him. Ultimately he recommended overcoming Western thought by fi nding the answers from within Japanese particularism.51

47 Ibid., 326. 48 Ibid. 49 Ibid. 50 Doak (1994), 90. 51 Ibid., 95. 192 chapter six

Th e search for a ‘new man’

Miki, however, sought the opposite; a universal defi nition of man and self that would be capable of overcoming Angst: We must touch on the problem but briefl y here. From the end of the previous century man has been perplexed by his quest for a satisfactory defi nition of ‘self ’. Th ough various attempts have been made to come up with a defi nition, not even the fi rst principles for defi ning man have been discovered and it has been impossible even to arrive at a universal recognition of human laws. [. . .] In our own era, opinions relating to the origins of man and existence are even more uncertain, being vague and numerous.52 For Miki, the question of “What is man?” was central to the problem of overcoming Angst. He cited the philosopher and social theorist Max Scheler (1874–1928) who defi ned the problem thus: “In the history of almost ten thousand years, ours is the fi rst period in which man has become thoroughly problematic. In this period man does not yet know what he is. At the same time, however, he knows that he does not know.”53 Miki took up Crémieux’s clarion call for a clearly defi ned “new classical man.”54 His venture owed much to the spirit of Gide who believed that aft er centuries of unsuccessful attempts at defi ning man we are now fi nally free to create him.55 Th e “materialist philosopher,” Miki wrote, had a duty to answer the question of what is man, “properly, concretely and truthfully” and to reform society, even if that means sacrifi cing oneself in the present: For example, even if we believe that man’s present sorrow is due to social causes must I take action to reform society and sacrifi ce myself ? Even if we consider it certain that a happy society will arrive in the future, if it is also certain that I will not exist by the time I can have my share of happiness, why should I sacrifi ce myself now?56

52 MKZ, X, 302–3. 53 Cited in MKZ, X, 303. 54 Miki’s elaboration of the new man was developed in the following essays published from 1933 through to 1935; “Jiyūshugisha no tachiba” (Th e standpoint of liberals) published in Tokyo Asahi Shinbun in July 1933, MKZ, XIII, 133–142; “Bungakuteki sedai no mondai” (Th e problems of the literary generation) in Bungaku, December 1933, MKZ, XI, 245–268; “Atarashii ningen no tetsugaku” (Th e philosophy of the new man) in Bungei, July 1934, MKZ, X, 335–351. 55 Knight, 112. 56 MKZ, X, 303–4. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 193

However, it should be noted here that the question “why should I sacrifi ce myself ?” is rhetorical and not, as Miles Fletcher would have it, a declaration of tenkō. Fletcher misconstrues Miki’s question (which he translates as “Why should I sacrifi ce myself and act for a social revolution?”) to mean that Miki “explicitly rejected a Marxian strategy of revolution”.57 Th e term Miki used was shakai no kakushin meaning “reform of society”, rather than shakai kakumei which means “social revolution” with mei (命) emphasising “destiny.” Nevertheless, for Miki, the question of social reform was a moral duty to be undertaken by the intellectual class rather than a political quest undertaken by the proletariat. Reform required a new defi nition of self and the search for a universal type, which Miki defi ned as “a concentration, a summary of the characteristics and beliefs of all groups into a single human form.”58 A new type of man, or “man-as-type”, engendered from within a unity of both logos and pathos types of consciousness, would articulate and disseminate a new sense of self and belonging. Th us: objective reality and subjective truth will be mutually deep and strong and type as a living thing will appear before our eyes having the power to bring comfort, inspiration and profundity to our lives.59 Miki’s new man would unite within himself the best characteristics of Western and Eastern civilisation. Th e task for philosophy, therefore, was “precisely, clearly and concretely to defi ne a new type of man under new historical and social conditions and on top of a new philosophical basis.” Such a type is to be found in “great literature and philosophy which creates man in the same way that Plato created Socrates.”60 Th is new type of man would act as an antidote to “Shakespeare’s Hamlet,” a universal type embodying the spirit of doubt (kaigi) which, Miki argued, had characterised European thought aft er the First World War. Hamlet sees the world through dreams. He is a wakeful dreamer who looks upon the place in which he lives his life as from another shore. Th us, the other shore for him is as real as the shore he’s on but, conversely, the shore he’s on is as unreal as the other shore. [. . .] Th e world for Hamlet lacks

57 Fletcher, 47. 58 MKZ, X, 304. 59 Ibid., 309. 60 Ibid., 304–6. 194 chapter six

the sense of an immovable presence. Th erefore he is not tempted to force himself against it; rather he worries about the discordant riches of his own spirit. [. . .] External fate is merely an opportunity for revealing his internal essence and his emotional perception of the world.61 Th e problem of Hamlet-ism as a philosophy, Miki stated, was not a problem of morality or a simple evaluation of good and evil, but of the existential nature of our being. It was a problem of Hamlet’s mode of actual existence in which all is “perplexity, hesitation, procrastination and dissolution as thought trembles and volition evaporates.” Hamlet’s irresolution, Miki argued, signifi es the loneliness, melancholy and Angst of the condition moderne; “what Goethe called the ‘tragedy of thought’.” In “this marvel created by Shakespeare,” Miki concluded, is revealed “the true reality of all men.”62 Hamlet as type was dangerous, since his inability to turn thought into action led him towards irrationality; the “accidental judgements, forc’d cause and purposes mistook” 63 which may lead ultimately to fascism.64 However, the new man was not to be the revolutionary hero of Marx- ism. “Th is type of modern philosophy,” as Miki referred to Marxism, destroyed the truly universal man-as-type, “who, once lost, is replaced by the spell-binding power of a new type who goes under the name of the ‘proletariat’ ”: In order to transcend the literature of Angst, the new type of man must produce works. I am not suggesting that a portrait of human type has not been drawn in proletarian literature, rather it is not as yet satisfactory or realisable. We can perhaps see that the claim to objective realism (riarizumu) has in a sense ended up a hindrance to it. It is no accident, therefore, that recently socialist realism and revolutionary romanticism has become a problem.65 Miki feared proletarian man, the Frankenstein’s monster portrayed in Marxist socialist realism, as much as he feared the revolutionary man of destiny portrayed in German romanticism. Th e danger in extolling these types was the potential for political or ideological manipulation in the name of some cause not of their own making. While the proletarian literary movement had off ered a moment of revolutionary promise with

61 “Tetsugakusha Hamuretto” (Th e Philosopher Hamlet), MKZ, XIX, 612. 62 Ibid., 613 63 Hamlet Act III, Scene, I 64 MKZ, XIX, 613. 65 MKZ, X, 307. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 195 their “praise for contemporary art, their profession of the literature of the new socialists and the new psychology,” ultimately the movement failed to come up with a viable alternative to the man of literary and philosophical Angst.66 Miki turned, therefore, to man-as-type drawn by historians rather than novelists or revolutionaries. Later, in his Philosophical Anthro- pology begun in 1936 he stated that “historical man is always man playing a role, but if he is to act freely he must be able to write his own roles to perform. In this sense [historical man] can be considered a writer.” He continued: Types are not immutable, they change historically and thus belong to history. Th e world itself is governed by history. Type cannot be considered as simply existing, it manifests existence. Neither can it be thought of as simply fl uid. It manifestsIdée and is thus a unity of temporal fl ow and spatial form. Th ings which are truly historical are also typical. Th e epoch itself is revealed in the person. [. . .] As Montaigne wrote: “Each person has his own form, but his own form is also the form of the entire body of the human condition.”67 It was perhaps only natural that Miki should begin with a consideration of ‘Renaissance man’68 epitomised by the poet Petrarch (1304–74), oft en considered to be the ‘fi rst modern man’. In his “Philosophy of the New Man” (Atarashii ningen no tetsugaku), Miki stated that Petrarch, despite his intellectual passion for the works of the ancients, emerged as a new type of man quintessentially diff erent from medieval man. He was a humanist who had a modern feeling for the value of his own life. He wished for the immortality of his name and, in his works, aimed for glory. He spoke self-consciously about himself and tried to learn about his own multidi- mensional characteristics.69

66 Ibid., 290. 67 MKZ, XVIII, 186. 68 An early prototype of Renaissance man, for example, is found in the novels of Wilhelm Heinse, particularly his Ardinghello und die gluckseligen Inseln (Ardinghello and the Fortunate Islands, 1787). Just as his contemporary Goethe had considered himself “reborn” during his Italian tour and had turned to classicism, Heinse found his spiritual home in this land of strong personalities such as Cesare Borgia and Machi- avelli. Th us the conception of Renaissance man as a man of genius and indomitable force was born. Wallace K. Ferguson, Th e Renaissance in Historical Th ought: Five Centuries of Interpretation (Cambridge, Mass.: Th e Riverside Press, Houghton Miffl in, 1948), 128–9. 69 MKZ, X, 335. 196 chapter six

He was modern in the sense of Dilthey’s “understanding life from life itself.”70 Like medieval man, Renaissance man, “felt the dark power of destiny,” but he also recognised that while uncontrolled forces contributed to man’s unhappiness they were potentially a source of great riches and capable of stimulating great art.71 Although still “bound by the dominant ideology of Christianity,” Miki agued, Renaissance man’s ability to seize his life and wrest it from the paradigm of a common fate determined by his community and a “higher being called God”, is the mark of modern man. For medieval man, self-perception meant understanding his own fate only from the standpoint of the common fate of man as Adam’s descendent. Miki identifi ed closely with Petrarch who “confronts man as a man. Th is is what I feel. Petrarch and I speak through experience.” 72 For Miki, Petrarch was basic experience incarnate. However, a true Renaissance man-as-type was not only self-affi rming, argued Miki, but his self-consciousness was defi ned by his own condition in the world. Like Pascal’s intermediary between angels and brutes, this type of self-affi rmation does not deny the world. Rather the world is encompassed within the life of men as an essentially dynamic and motive force.73 With the Enlightenment, therefore, a new conception of man and life arose. Th is was life understood not from life itself, as Dilthey would have it, but from the world; “man as a natural creature existing and interacting within a natural environment and the relations created within that environment.” Th is new “science of man,” stated Miki, was erected upon the foundations of the new methodology of modern science begun by Galileo and Kepler. However, the problem of man as a topic of objective research “was grasped increasingly as a problem of how man could be controlled.” Moreover, modern natural science did not arise from merely contemplating nature but from its ability to address the technological problems of dominating and governing nature. Miki would later develop this theme in Th e Logic of the Imagination, but for now he concluded:

70 Ibid., 336. 71 Ibid., 342–3. 72 Ibid., 337–8. 73 Ibid., 347. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 197

Th e problem remains with us today. Can life be understood from life itself ? Must man be understood from nature? Which is correct? However, there is also a possibility of a new interpretation of man. Th at, needless to say, is the understanding of man from his relationship with God.74 Miki’s new man-as-type would occupy a middle ground between idealism and realism in which concepts of the self, as well as our understanding of the condition humaine arises through everyday practices, including religion. Th e real problem for Miki was deciding the basic moral principles upon which the new man was to be based. Kevin Doak has argued that Miki, especially in “Th e Th ought of Angst and Overcoming it”, refused to recognise the attraction that culturalism had in the 1930s because of his insistence on viewing spiritual anxiety as “merely an ‘internalization’ of Marxist anxiety” over class divisions in society. Miki thus sought to separate the type of spiritual anxiety experienced in Europe as described by Crémieux, from the Japanese experience which was more sporadic until the collapse of the proletarian literary movement.75 However, Miki used the example of interwar Europe to warn the intellectual class about the seductive power of foreign infl uences whose genesis they failed to understand. Moreover, he attacked very stridently the retreat into cultural particularism and the more extreme calls for the exclusion of Western culture.

Romanticism and classicism

In November 1934 in “The Increasing Influence of Romanticism” (Rōmanshugi no taitō) Miki criticised the leaders of the Japan Roman- tic Movement Hayashi Fusao and Kamei Katsuichirō for inculcating a spirit of irony among the younger generation in Japan.76 Referring to an article, “Nippon Rōmanha,” published in the November edition of Cogito, he stated that while the Japan Romantic Movement’s apparent rebellion against the status quo is a positive thing, it appears to have relinquished any objective awareness of what it really should be rebel- ling against. Th erefore, its rebellion is “subjective” and can only end in “romantic irony.” No one doubted the allure of the romantic dream

74 Ibid. 75 Doak (1994), xxi. 76 MKZ, XIII, 157 and 158–9. 198 chapter six and the yearning it created in the midst of miserable reality but, Miki asked: “What is the content of this dream? What the direction of this longing?”77 In the June 1935 issue of the journal Chūōkōron he developed his thoughts further in “On the Modern Romanticism” (Gendai no rōmanshugi nitsuite), stating that the Japan Romantic Movement manifested a tendency known as romantic irony.78 But how had this trend developed? Characteristically, Miki sought to locate romanticism in both historical and actual conditions and to distinguish National Socialist and fascist forms of neo-romanticism from earlier cultural milieu in Europe. Th e concept of “romantic”, Miki argued, exists in a mutual relationship with the concept of “classical”.79 However, these terms were not antithetical; the concrete world always encompasses aspects of both. However, attaching the label “romantic” to certain characteristics of thought courted “considerable danger” and possible condemnation for mistaken usage.80 Miki appears to be alluding to the opening paragraph of “Romanticism and Classicism” by the English poet, critic and philosopher, T. E. Hulme (1883–1917), possibly written as a lecture in 1911 or 1912: I know that in using the words “classic” and “romantic” I am doing a dangerous thing. Th ey represent fi ve or six diff erent kinds of antithesis, and while I may be using them in one sense you may be interpreting them in another.81

77 Ibid., 164–5. 78 MKZ, X, 373–391. 79 In fact it was the Jena School romantic A. W. Schlegel who first sought to defi ne the diff erence between ‘classic’ and ‘romantic’ in a series of lectures entitled Vorlesungen über schöne Literature und Kunst in Berlin during 1801–3. However, as with many other basic works of early German romanticism, these lectures were not published until 1884. Th eodore Ziolkowski, German Romanticism and its Institutions (Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1990), 254–5. Over time, the character of ancient poetry became known as ‘classical’ and the modern as ‘romantic’ in what developed as a conceptual antithesis of ancient and modern taste. Eventually, with the designation of the ‘Romantic School’, the term ‘romantic’ was imbued with entirely negative connotations. Ernst Behler, Romantic Literary Th eory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 29. 80 MKZ, X, 373. 81 T. E. Hulme, “Romanticism and Classicism” in Th e Collected Writings of T. E. Hulme, ed. Karen Csengeri (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 61. It was delivered in Cliff ord’s Inn Hall, London on 15 July 1912 and published posthumously in Herbert Read’s Speculations (1924). T. E. Hulme was born in Staff ordshire and led what appears to be a short, stormy, but interesting life. He was killed in action in France in 1917. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 199

According to Hulme, the root of all romanticism lies in assuming that “man the individual, is an infi nite reservoir of possibilities”. Progress arises through rearranging society by destroying “progressive order” thus giving these possibilities a chance. In classicism, however, man is “an extraordinary fi xed and limited animal whose nature is absolutely constant. It is only by tradition and organisation that anything decent can be got out of him.”82 However, Miki criticised Hulme’s defi nitions as a-historical, particularly his assumption that it is in the diff erences in interpreting humanity that the correlations between romanticism and classicism can be seen. Miki argued that while classicism should be understood as “limiting humanity”, ‘classicists’ were essentially “limited in their actions”. Romantics, on the other hand, not only see possibilities but yearn eternally for the ephemeral: Th e opposing concepts of limitation and delimitation can be used in order to make manifest the distinctions between romanticism and classicism. However, what we should pay attention to here, is the fact that romanticism and classicism, generally speaking, are each ideological formations fi tting within historically determined periods. Th us some periods will be seen as romantic and others as classical. Usually, periods of social change are romantic and periods of maturity are classical.83 Since history is constantly changing there is always a dialectic between romanticism and classicism as one emerges from within the other, and such rhythms are a general characteristic of modernity. However, Miki went on to argue that within the process of Japan’s modernisation, the much-debated problem of realism (riarizumu) had led to a schism between romanticism and realism with the latter becoming seen as representative of classicism. Miki believed this was mistaken; if the general characteristic of modernity is one of romanticism, should it not be recognised that “classical realism” is deeply entwined with romanticism and cannot be so easily diff erentiated?84 Miki argued that there were three characteristics of neo-romantic tendencies in the 1930s: the “mysticism of nature”, the “philosophy of creation” and thirdly, “romantic irony”.85 Nietzsche was the most typical romantic of modern times. In him these three elements were united uniquely and with a complexity which, Miki admitted, was

82 Ibid., 61. 83 MKZ, X, 375. 84 Ibid., 375–6. 85 Ibid., 377. 200 chapter six hard to understand. 86 Th e “mysticism of nature”, according to Miki, arose from Rousseau’s concept of nature as something “not immutable but constantly changing, moving, lyrical and mystical”. In Germany the notion of the “mysticism of nature” was very distinctive and had emerged at the heart of Nazi and fascist thought. Th us, in this context, Miki added, “fascism is romanticism.”87 Th e ‘philosophy of creation’ was exemplifi ed in Henri Bergson’s L’évolution créatrice (1907) as well as his later work Les deux sources de la morale et de la religion (1932). However, Miki argued that Bergson should not be put in the same class as the “fascist romantics” since his philosophy is exactly opposite to fascism’s traditionalism and conservatism, and included elements of the new liberalism and humanism.88 Finally ‘romantic irony’, stated Miki, is a term most commonly associated with the Jena Romantics, especially the Schlegel brothers Friedrich (1772–1829) and August Wilhelm (1767–1845) and arises out of a concept of Angst as an inevitable phenomenon accompanying economic disorder and social breakdown. Within such periods there will be human casualties in all classes of society. Some people, stated Miki, “because they but weakly endure in the violent struggle for life, cannot fi t into the new environment.” Instead of mounting large scale opposition they turn instead to visionary and emotional substitutes becoming, for example, addicted to narcotics in an attempt to fulfi l some missing part of their lives. Others, in attempting to “harmonise” with reality, waste their eff orts in futile quests or turn their backs on human life ending up in an attitude of total denial. He cited Kierkegaard who stated that “irony is the most abstract defi nition of the origins of subjectivity”. Miki stated: Th e subject of irony is free passively because the reality which should impart content to the subject is not there. Th e subject is, therefore, free from the restraints which normally bind it; it is passively free and fl oat- ing. Such freedom and buoyancy imparts certain deep feelings to people since they are, so to speak, drunk with unlimited possibility.89 Th e Jena Romantics extended the Kantian view of freedom as essentially contradictory since it can only be known negatively from confl ict with

86 Ibid., 391. 87 Ibid., 380. 88 MKZ, X, 386. 89 Ibid., 390. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 201 the world we know. Needless to say, Miki contended, modern romantic irony is not merely illusory, but nihilist and consequently tragic. Th e unlimited possibility within ourselves is experienced as nothingness and can bring not only the experience of unlimited wealth, but also the experience of profound distress. Th us: No sooner is romanticism possessed by this kind of nothingness, than its irony basically deteriorates and romanticism attempts, by its own internal principles upon which it stands, to follow a road of self-conquest. In this, romanticism is fundamentally tragic.90

Irrationalism and fascism

Miki argued that all romanticism possesses common characteristics but what distinguishes one romantic period from another is a change in social circumstances.91 For example, the French Enlightenment thinker, James Rousseau and the Prussian jurist Adam Heinrich Müller (1779–1829)92 were called “romantics” but were essentially very diff erent thinkers. According to Miki, Adam Müller, along with Othmar Spann (1878–1950), could be regarded as one of the “sect founders” of fascism, which in its early stages was more conservative than revolutionary.93 Miki was thus well aware of the complexities of the relationship between radical conservatism and neo-romanticism within the fascist

90 Ibid., 391. 91 Ibid., 376. 92 Born in Berlin, Müller converted to Catholicism in 1805. Aft er a variety of posts as tutor and lecturer on German literature, art and political science, he eventually worked for the government becoming Austrian consul-general for Saxony at Leipzig. He was ennobled in 1826 and served in the Chancery in Vienna from 1827. According to his entry in the Catholic Encyclopedia his brand of romanticism involved an ideali- sation of medieval feudalism along the lines of which, he believed, modern political institutions should be reorganised. He was ardently opposed to Adam Smith’s concept of free trade. Catholic Encyclopedia, http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/10626d.htm. Accessed 26 August 2003. 93 MKZ, X, 380. Indeed, according to Martin Travers, it is those elements now characterised as the “Conservative Revolution” experienced in Germany between 1890 and 1933 which greatly assisted the ultimate acceptance of the central tenets of National Socialism in Germany. Leading exponents of German radical conservatism included Hermann Löns, Stefan George, Ernst Jünger, Hans Grimm, Arnolt Bronnes, Ernst von Salomon and Gottfried Benn who formed an unoffi cial network. Travers sought to extricate some of these thinkers from the blanket charge of “fascism”. Martin Travers, Critics of Modernity: Th e Literature of the Conservative Revolution in Germany, 1890–1933 (New York: Peter Lang, 2001), xii. 202 chapter six movement. Typifi ed as a thinker in the conservative tradition, Adam Müller had proclaimed the rule of a “living” monarchic law based on Roman law which he greatly admired. However, he also argued that although adding greatly to our understanding of law, “a legal system whose motivating sovereign idea of Roman freedom died out almost two millennia ago” had no relevance to the needs and desires of society in the nineteenth century. Great legal conceptions were, he believed, tied to a particular region and it was essential for Germans to fi nd a system of law consistent with the particular genius of the nation.94 According to Miki, Müller linked nationalism, totalitarianism, and organicism in a species of fascism in which: “Th e state is the whole of human consequence; it is for the unity of the whole that it lives.”95 Such a premise, stated Miki, views the state as the means to do anything whatsoever. Th e foundation of the nation is understood as a type of federal Gemeinschaft and rests above all else on the nature of its “blood roots” from which the nation itself sprang.96 Added to this view of the state was the idea of racial purity, for which Miki gave credit to Wil- helm Max Wundt (1823–1920), the founder of experimental psychology at Leipzig. According to Wundt, the nation-state is a large family connected by ties of blood, the unconscious power which unifi es the nation. Ideas also live within the blood and the nobility of spirit and nobility of blood are seen as one. In the “mysticism of blood and the romanticism of blood,” concluded Miki, lay the reality: “Th e exclusion of the Jews”.97 Inevitably, romanticism tipped over into irrationalism. Marxists, however, also viewed irrationalism as a natural attribute of capitalism. Miki highlighted an essay entitled “Th e Crisis of Bourgeois Philosophy and Dialectical Materialism” (Burujowa tetsugaku no kiki to benshōhōteki

94 Ziolkovski, 96. In Japan during the Meiji period Prussian ideas of the state were fundamentally important to the draft ers of the new constitution such as Itō Hirubumi who spent over a year in Europe, taking the advice of Lorenz von Stein and Rudolf von Gneist. Th us one might expect a healthy interest in German legal theory. However, Hayashi Kentarō has argued that in Japan aft er the First World War, “German revolutionary conservatism was not noticed [. . .] because it was too German to be easily transplanted to other countries.” Hayashi Kentarō, “Japan and Germany in the Interwar Period,” in Dilemmas of Growth in Prewar Japan, ed. James W. Morley (Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1971), 462–3. 95 Unfortunately Miki rarely used standardised academic forms of reference so it is not certain to which of Müller’s works he is referring here. 96 MKZ, X, 381. 97 Ibid., 382. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 203 yuibutsuron)98 which opposed “irrationalism” as a general characteristic in a recent stage of idealism. Irrationalism, Miki stated, was viewed by Marxists as inevitable since “the bourgeoisie has to liquidate the last dregs of rational perception in its own world-view as it struggles with the proletariat.” Indeed, all forms of thought were seen as dangerous for bourgeois controls and as contradicting capitalist interests. It is in the interests of bourgeois philosophers, therefore, to oppose rationalist perceptions, mystify comprehension and replace reason with irrationalism. Th is argument, according to Miki, was also espoused by German philosophers at the time. Indeed it was characteristically German and, due to the overwhelming infl uence of German philosophy among the Japanese intelligentsia, it had gradually begun to take hold in Japan. However, Miki found this trend extremely worrying. Of course, he stated, the nexus of the rational and the irrational poses a problem for philosophy. However, he criticised Marxist theories for over-simplifying the problem. Whilst it was only natural for Marxists to take a position against the trend towards irrationalism, it was impossible to answer the question of whether Marxism itself was rational in the current climate. In particular, he attacked the Marxist Nakagawa Yoichi’s theory of the dialectic of chance and necessity, which Miki argued, attributed a certain status to the irrational. In some Marxist circles, therefore, the scramble to oppose what is taken to be “idealism” had resulted in a form of reductive and absurd Marxism which allowed no causal role at all to “chance” or idées-forces.99 Th e existence of this type of irrationality in Japanese philosophy, stated Miki, was “philosophical suicide”. Although we may recognise that philosophy has elements of the irrational within, its arguments must still be conducted through logical methods. If this is not the case it will cease to be philosophy, becoming instead “art or religion”. Even in logic there is a distinction between formal logic and dialectics, and there are diff erent ways of thinking about rationality: Of course approaching from the reasonable position of, let’s say, formal logic and/or Hegel as a standard of rationality, then both dialectics and metaphysics are problematic and, like Marxism, can be criticised. In this sense it is the philosophy of the Enlightenment period that is rational, but in today’s sense if we decide that today’s rationalism must be rejected then

98 Published in the August edition of Yuibutsuron kenkyū (Studies in materialism). 99 MKZ, X, 392–4. 204 chapter six

there must be a reason for this. Th e rationalism implicit in liberal thought might also be called a thing of the past. Philosophy does not reject logic, but its logic must adapt to existence. Materialism must take life, nature and matter as fundamental, rather than as speculation.100 Miki thus proposed a third way; a middle ground upon which adequate historical explanation could be found and courses of action planned. Because of the diffi culties in identifying the boundaries between the rational and the irrational, there was real danger in the German claim to the scientifi c validity of their fascist philosophies. Miki dismissed such philosophy as completely divorced from social and economic conditions and as “defective in both name and fact.” In much German irrationalism Miki saw the hand of Bergson who had infl uenced recent German anti-scientifi c and anti-technological thought. However, the diff erences between German and French social and economic conditions meant that Bergson’s philosophy was incompatible with German philosophical traditions. Miki was thus concerned about the reliance of Japanese intellectuals on German philosophy and encouraged more engagement with the French philosophical tradition. He warned of the “anti-cultural, irrational actions” perpetrated in the name of the “cultural struggle” by fascists in Germany under the infl uence of Nietzsche’s “will to power”. Equally important was the link between fascism and rhetoric, since “rhetoric is not simply the art of beautifying words, but reveals a way of thinking based on the social nature of human existence.”101 For Miki, therefore, irrationalism was a fundamental part of the human condition. However, fascism was a “manifestation of irrationalism in concentrated form”. If there was logic in it, it was the logic of totality; logic created not by fascism itself but anticipated in the past by other conceptions of totality such as the “totalising logic” of “Catholic cosmopolitanism”. What made fascism unique, he argued, was the unity of the logic of totality and fascist-style nationalism. Th is unity was achieved through the mystifi cation of nature and the biological irrationality of fascism’s pseudo-scientifi c justifi cations. Th is transformation from the logic of totality to biological irrationalism was guided by organicism, which Miki defi ned as “the theory of organic unity applied to things which are not, literally speaking, living organisms”. At the root of fascism, Nazism and totalitarianism, Miki concluded, lay the

100 Ibid., 395. 101 Ibid., 397–401. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 205 mystifi cation of nature. History was harnessed to idealism; nature and biogenesis become highly valued, and revivalism and traditionalism are encouraged at the same time.102 More worryingly, in Germany, the biology of race and blood had become part of the philosophical curriculum in schools mystifying both biology and nature. In propaganda directed at the young: Pupils are exhorted to follow the heart (Zehr) rather than the spirit (Geist) and the unity of these principles within nature is esteemed. Whilst it cannot be denied that every people and their culture have unique characteristics and that their point of origin is based in nature, if we see only the natural conditions of the formation of a people and are blind to their social condition, Zehr and Geist become abstractly opposed. When Geist is regarded with hostility and classifi ed as anti-scientifi c and anti-technological we fall into error and the cycle of reaction and counter-reaction. Th e people are an historical entity and their nature is subject to change. Th e strengthening of nationalism itself in modern times is regulated by existing social characteristics. Th e deadlock in modern society is a result, not of the development of science and technology, but of the actual structures of a society which obstructs their healthy development.103 Miki argued that, viewed in these terms, “the philosophy of modern irrationalism, even when seen as nothing other than the ideological expression of a social crisis within capitalism, is normal.” It was, therefore, a mistake to separate Geist and Zehr, or logos and pathos. Moreover, Miki saw Kant’s separation of the philosophy of reason into the three divisions of logic, art and morality as continuing to dominate philosophy “intellectually and non-intellectually”. Th ese divisions, he argued, were for the most part responsible for the abstract separation of intellect, emotion and will. Miki considered this separation, especially in philosophical psychology, to be very signifi cant. Human consciousness, Miki declared, is a unity of logos and pathos consciousness. Even artistic intuition must have an intellectual point of departure; neither art nor beauty exist except in the intellectual sense. Technology must also be recognised as a necessary part of human existence, since the highest laws of human discovery were not to be found outside human technological endeavour.104

102 Ibid., 403. 103 Ibid. 104 MKZ, X, 407. 206 chapter six

It made no sense to Miki, therefore, to oppose “rationalism” as West- ern thought which should be expelled, or to characterise “irrationalism” as a Japanese national characteristic. On the contrary, he attributed to the Japanese an immensely practical nature which, far from being irrational, was a type of “thoroughgoing rationalism” integral to the respect for the ordinary life or everydayness. Moreover, it was a characteristic of oriental thought.105 Miki thus elevates “everydayness” to a defi ning “oriental” characteristic, although it was given its classic existentialist defi nition by Heidegger who stated: “In this everydayness there are certain structures [. . .] not just any accidental structures, but essential ones”.106 In existentialist terms, ‘everydayness’ refers to the day to day tasks and conventions through which we routinely and habitually live out our lives. On the other hand, Miki stated, everyday life, although overwhelmingly practical, cannot be viewed as “simply rational”. Conventions and customs are important elements of everydayness and are man-made, rather than entirely natural. Miki pointed out that, for example, whether we greet each other by doffi ng hats or bowing has been decided by an accident of the past rather than by necessity or rationality. Our whole social order is founded upon such conventions, so that everydayness becomes coterminous with both chance and necessity, thereby creating its own history. 107 Th is concept of everydayness and its historicity would appear to owe something to Heidegger who saw Dasein or being-in- the-world as primarily historical.108 For Miki, history cannot be thought of as a dichotomy between free choice and necessity. Such theories, argued Miki, become deterministic. For example, “if we decide that the logic of totality is the logic of nationalism then this nationalism must end in a theory of necessity.” Yet again, there was an uncomfortable relationship with rationality since “determinism based on logic can lead to irrational motive acts”.109 In conclusion, Miki argued that human behaviour cannot be understood from the point of view of determinism. In reality it negates determinism because of the nexus between chance and necessity. Th us, human behaviour cannot be understood from a purely objective

105 Macquarrie, 83. 106 Heidegger, 38. 107 MKZ, X, 407. 108 Heidegger, 433–4. 109 MKZ, X, 407. a study of man in crisis: late 1932–1935 207 standpoint since it is essentially subjective. “If rationalism is taken to mean objectivism,” he stated, “human behaviour always exceeds the standpoint of rationalism.”110 There is no doubting the strength of Miki’s arguments against romanticism, irrationalism, and fascism. However, in the complexity of his arguments, his rejection of dogma and his refusal to see problems as simply black or white lies the potential for its misappropriation in the past and for misunderstanding in the present. It also accounts for the dichotomy of opinion about him. As he battled to maintain his intellectual integrity in the face of increasing repression aft er 1935, however, it could be that his quest to fi nd a third way was not appropriate to the predicament of his age. Th e full cost of his Faustian desire for power and infl uence would be weighed on the scales of post-war debates about tenkō.

110 Ibid., 408–9.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A STUDY OF MAN IN ACTION: 1936–1940

Th e thought of death pursues me with a strange insistence. Every time I make a gesture, I calculate: how many times already? I compute: How many times more? And, full of despair, I feel the turn of the year rushing toward me. And as I measure how the water is withdrawing around me, my thirst increases and I feel younger in proportion to the little time that remains to me to feel it. André Gide Journal 16 November 1917 I have been separated by death from my loved ones, my wife and my parents and grandparents. I can only hope that I can be reunited with them—indeed this is my greatest hope. Accepting the possibility that one can be reunited with those lost to us in this life means that we may view our own deaths with some hope. Miki Kiyoshi Notes on Life 1941 In January 1936 death was very much on Miki’s mind. His surviving diary entries show that on New Year’s Day he had just read in the daily newspaper about the death of the physicist and author Terada Torahiko (b. 1878). He pondered his own state of health: “Health is important!” he wrote, and he began to dwell on his own achievements: “Th is year, I have turned forty [. . .] it is truly time to begin the great task of laying down the foundation of my life’s work.” He worried about the fact that he “had hardly been able to work”, telling himself; “from now on, in the half of my life that is left to me, I must make up for lost time.”1 Th ere is little doubt that Miki was entering a mid-life crisis when thoughts turn to what psychologists term the generativity script. As Dan McAdams explains, whereas identity is typically understood as the central psychosocial issue of the adolescent or young adult, generativity is the issue of middle adulthood when, aft er having achieved identity, the mind turns towards what one will leave behind and how one would like to be remembered. Th e generativity script is framed in terms of established beliefs and values, idealised and personifi ed

1 Miki’s “Nikki” or diaries are published in MKZ, XIX, 133–215. Th ey begin with the very briefest of entries from January 1935 and, aft er some gaps, end on 1 May 1938. We do not know whether these were genuinely lost or destroyed. 210 chapter seven images of self, oft en it can be glimpsed in certain landmark events within a person’s life narrative.2 Psychologically, Miki’s participation in the Shōwa Research Association from 1937 can best be understood in terms of this generativity script which also formed the basis for his Wanderings through the World of Books. His diaries provide subtle clues that Miki may have been struggling with depression, or at least a measure of self doubt, throughout the winter months of 1936. On 12 January he was disturbed by reports of another death, that of the ‘bluestocking’ woman writer Ikuta Chōkō (b. 1882). “Gradually”, he wrote, “people are dying.” Th is made it more important for “us to keep our noses to the grindstone.” As the weeks roll on, frequent references to various tasks and meetings indicate that his work was gaining momentum. However, he also mentions “feeling weak in spirit” or feeling ill and, on more than one occasion, tells himself that he must be stronger.3 Nevertheless it seems he managed to fi nd time to spend with his daughter Yoko. He frequently mentions walking and reading and admits to occasional bouts of drinking. At this time he was also visiting Nishida in Kamakura and publishing their discussions on a range of subjects in the Yomiuri Shinbun. An entry for 22 February suggests that Miki was fi lled with self-doubt but, anticipating a visit to his old tutor, appeared to draw strength from the prospect of their conversation. Although preoccupied with his physical health he wrote, “for myself as a philosopher I must undertake a great task.” He was very aware of his sense of mission and his infl uence, due no doubt to his increasingly high profi le in public discussions. ereTh was, therefore, no “lessening of the burden” and that he had to do what he could. “Th ere is no point in envying others,” he told himself, “my present circumstances are what? Work! Work! Th inking about it in this way makes me happier. I will fi nd the strength within me.”4 Th is was just four days before the attempted coup by the so-called “young offi cers” of the Imperial Army on 26 February. Miki heard the reports on the radio news at twenty-past eight that evening. He was deeply alarmed and by half-past ten he had boarded the train with his wife and daughter and was heading towards his in-laws’ house in Mie Prefecture. While in temporary evacuation he read Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo and began thinking more about his next major project on “philosophical

2 McAdams (1988), 253. 3 Diary entry for 15 January, MKZ, XIX, 141. 4 MKZ, XIX, 153. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 211 anthropology”. He listened to the news constantly and, as soon as he considered the situation in Tokyo safe enough, returned to Tokyo with his family on 2 March.5 By mid-March he appears to have settled into a more stable routine of working on his Philosophical Anthropology and was re-reading Bergson’s L’Évolution créatrice and Leibnitz’s Monadology. While com- plaining about his work load, he was aware of the need to relax more and spend time with his family. Th ere is a poignant reference, on 30 March, to his wife’s love of fl owers, particularly dahlias and roses, and from late April, the “perfect spring days” heralded a change of mood. He evidently took time out of his busy schedule to be with his wife and daughter, walking in parks and going to concerts. He delighted in watching his daughter playing, describing her on one occasion as “Yoko kangaroo”.6 On 5 April he noted; “Th e moon is beautiful. It is a seductive (yūwakuteki) moon,” perhaps tempting him away from work or care. He was certainly tempted to drink on more than one occasion. Th e 6 May, for example, was “a day which for some reason or other I feel unsettled. In the aft ernoon I left for town and went for a drink.” Th ere is another brief entry for the following day and then—silence. Miki’s wife Kimiko died on 6 August 1936. In July 1937 at around the time of the fi rst anniversary of her death he edited a collection of essays entitled “A Shadow without a Shadow” (Kagenaki kage) to honour her memory. He wrote a touching essay, “For the Children” (Osanakimono no tame ni), dedicated to his seven-year-old daughter. He recalled the date of 30 June 1926 and became aware for the fi rst time that his mother had died on Kimiko’s birthday when he had turned thirty. He refl ected on the nature of the deep bonds between children and their parents and wrote this essay for all children suff ering the loss of a mother or father.7 He told his daughter: My dearest, when your dear mother was on her death bed in Tokyo you were living with your grandmother in Ise. Despairing of her life, your mother sent for you, and you travelled on the overnight train to Tokyo with your grandmother. [. . .] You were in good health when you boarded the train. But, on the morning of 6 August aft er six hours travelling you suddenly became very pale in the face and appeared unwell. Your grandmother was greatly alarmed, but you soon recovered. I wonder, was it not the precise moment that your mother’s spirit departed this world?

5 Ibid., 154–6. 6 MKZ, XIX, 170. 7 Ibid., 109. 212 chapter seven

Stranger still was the fact that the previous night Kimiko had turned to a nurse and smiled saying; “I will leave for Shikoku [in the West] as Yoko is coming East, so shall our paths cross in the middle”.8 Miki went on to tell his daughter how he had met her mother at the end of June 1927, just aft er he had moved to Tokyo to take up his post at Hōsei University. Talk of a possible marriage had apparently been going on for some time before the couple were introduced to each other. Th e marriage was brokered by the paternalistic Iwanami Shigeo, and Kiyoshi and Kimiko met formally for the fi rst time at his house. Kimiko was a naturally reserved character, and on their fi rst stroll together Miki learned little about her apart from the fact that she was a student at Tōyō University. It appears that Iwanami had to prompt Miki to pop the question and the couple married nearly two years later on 5 April 1929. Miki confessed that the wedding ceremony was a very quiet aff air since he was not much interested in all the palaver that went with “ceremonial things”. He told his daughter about the routines of their life together as a family, the places they had lived in and the holiday resorts they visited. He wanted to let the little girl know what a tender mother Kimiko was; how she had taught her the piano; how she had worried about her on her fi rst day at school and how she had cared for her when she was ill.9 Miki’s letters to Kimiko written during the period of their engagement have survived.10 Among Kimiko’s papers there were a few letters and essays remaining, as Miki put it, “in my care”. From letters Kimiko had written to Tanabe Shigeko, Miki told Yoko, “I have come to understand that your mother had thought deeply about loneliness, death and fate”. He was amazed to fi nd that an essay on the topic of mourning in English literature had survived from her student days. It was dated 25 February 1924 and included the following lines by Keats which Miki cited in English:

8 Ibid., 110. Kimiko’s family originally came from Shikoku and the Pure Land is also situated in the West. 9 MKZ, XIX, 111–2. 10 Ibid., 318–332. Th e letters and postcards are hardly romantic in tone. Miki informs her about the weather, his work and the state of his health, but he was seemingly diligent about keeping in touch with her when they were apart despite his heavy work schedule. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 213

Shed no tear—O shed no tear! Th e fl ower will bloom another year. Weep no more—O weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root’s white core. Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies— Shed no tear. Overhead—look overhead ’mong the blossoms white and red— Look up, look up—I fl utter now On this fl ush pomegranate bough— See me—“ ‘tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man’s ill— Shed no tear—O shed no tear! Th e fl ower will bloom another year. Adieu—Adieu—I fl y, adieu, I vanish in the heaven’s blue— Adieu, Adieu!11 Miki explained the meaning of these lines: “What consoles us, in this our infi nite sadness, is that the day is never far away when we meet again those we have loved and lost under our father’s roof in heaven”.12 Later in Notes on Life Miki answered the question: how can we cause the fear of death to fade? I have been separated by death from my loved ones, my wife and my parents and grandparents. I can only hope that I can be reunited with them—indeed this is my greatest hope. Accepting the possibility that one can be reunited with those lost to us in this life means that we may view our own deaths with some hope.13 For Karaki Junzō, Miki was a man who represented symbolically the realm of death and the realm of absolute life, for in him they are reunited in his thought. For Miki the story of the mother’s dying hour and the meeting with the child was concrete evidence that the powerful feelings of love which, joining people together, form a bridge between life and death. “Miki”, Karaki stated, “was a man who believed.”14

11 Ibid., 125–7. 12 Ibid., 127. 13 Cited in Karaki (2002), 38. 14 Ibid., 40. 214 chapter seven

Although evidently an arranged marriage, it seems that Miki’s relationship with his wife was marked by growing aff ection and respect. Clearly, he deplored her absence from the world, but drew enormous strength from his own humanist philosophy and his Buddhist belief in an aft erlife. As a father he showed tenderness and concern, not just for his own daughter, but for the plight of all children having to come to terms with their essential humanity and the fi nite nature of human existence. It is perhaps surprising that in the months aft er his wife’s death Miki’s output returned almost to its usual high level of production, but not so surprising that a major theme appeared to be humanism including, for example, “Th e Philosophical Basis of Humanism” (Hūmanizumu no tetsugakuteki kiso) published in Shisō in October. In the months aft er his wife’s death, he abandoned his project on philosophical anthropology. He may have intended to return to it. However, like Th e Logic of the Imagination begun in March 1937, it remained unfi nished due to his death in prison. “For the Children” was written shortly before Miki began his involvement in the Shōwa Research Association and it is important for what it reveals about both the man and the philosopher.

Philosophical Anthropology and a theory of techné

Philosophical Anthropology was fi nally published in March 1968, two years aft er the fi rst volume of Miki’s Complete Works appeared in October 1966. However, the work he had begun clearly underpins Th e Logic of the Imagination, which he described as a consideration of the “philosophy of action”.15 Both these works present considerable diffi culties for the reader because they consist of a rather haphazard collection of notes, not unlike Pascal’s Pensées. Particularly relevant is Miki’s philosophy of action, in particular, his defi nition of ‘active subjectivity’. In defi ning ‘anthropology’, Miki began with Feuerbach’s dictum that the truth about man was not to be found in the materialist conception of history or idealism, physiology or psychology, but only in anthropology. Th is was a conception of anthropology as a philosophy unifying mind and body.16 However, Miki widened its meaning to include anthropology as a philosophy of action:

15 MKZ, VIII, 6. 16 Ibid., 149. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 215

What I mean by anthropology (ningengaku) is not anthropology (anto- roporogii) in the sense of natural science but philosophical anthropology. Th us while the human sciences, including psychology and biology, seek to understand human beings from an objective viewpoint based on formal logic, anthropology seeks to grasp man subjectively and dialectically through his actions.17 For Miki the key to a dialectical understanding of man is that very self- awareness ( jikaku) which distinguishes man from the animals, more specifi cally, man’s self-awareness within his own historical time period. Th e diff erence between anthropology and other sciences, he stated, is that “in anthropology man is both the knower and the known.” Th erefore, rather than being merely a science of man, anthropology is more a “self-understanding of man”. Moreover, not only is man self-aware but he is also self-refl ective. Man understands himself through interpreting his own life experiences. “Th is interpretation,” Miki stated, “is something I use in my life’s work and lies within the immediate unity of understanding life from life. Th us we can speak of man as being both an anthropologist and a man at the same time.” Miki distinguished two aspects of primary human understanding. Th e fi rst, he referred to as “human wisdom” (ningenchi) in the form of human knowledge. Th e second form of understanding came from “one’s outlook on life” ( jinseikan). Th e former consists of an empirical knowledge of man and the latter a philosophy of life. Concrete human knowledge, he argued, is intimately connected with one’s outlook on life and vice versa. A further terrain of anthropology is located externally, between art and philosophy. Referring to Dilthey’s “knowing life from life itself,” Miki stated that such works show us the roots of human understanding and give concrete expression to the intellect. To a large extent, therefore, the arts are the transmitters of anthropological expression.18 However, Miki shared with Goethe a dislike of the expression ‘know thyself ’. He believed that self awareness should be understood ontologi- cally rather than epistemologically. Indeed, he dismissed the Cartesian cogito ergo sum (I think therefore I am) in favour of Augustine’s more concrete “I exist and know that I exist” (Scio me esse et vivere). More- over, the Augustinian notion of self-awareness opened up the existence of homo interior with, as Miki put it, “its world of unlimited riches.” Th erefore, pathos (emotion), as well as logos (reason) is always part of

17 Ibid., 128–9. 18 Ibid., 130–5. 216 chapter seven self-aware existence. Agency, stated Miki, is not simply subjective, but also objective; not simply internal but also external. He added, “but if we say that mind is the origin of agency, conversely we can also say that, perhaps, agency is the origin of mind.’19 At issue for Miki, therefore, was the problem of the subject as a self- conscious agent. To be a subject (shukan), he stated, was to be oneself, but the self as subject does not only stand in relation to objects, but against other subjects. Here Miki cited Schelling’s dictum: “Th ere is neither return without resistance, nor refl ection without object.” For Miki, therefore; “the fundamental relationship [expressed] in the concept of subject (shukan) is Ich-Es (I-it). In opposition to this the concept of active subject (shutai) is fundamentally related to Ich-Du (I-thou)”.20 Anthropology, therefore, is not just about individual self-awareness, but also about social self-awareness; it is not simply a problem of consciousness (epistemology) but a problem of existence (ontology). Th e basis of our existence is defi ned societally. Society is subject in as much as the individual can be seen as an object (in opposition to it) or as a revelation (a manifestation of it). Miki argued that “society thus transcends our ratio essendi meaning that self-awareness cannot be considered as mere self-consciousness.” At this point he rejected Dilthey’s “understanding life from life” arguing instead that anthropology must be viewed as the “standpoint of active self-awareness.”21 Th e body, stated Miki, should be thought of as not so much acted upon by the environment, “but by ‘I’ myself ”. Understood anthropo- logically, therefore, the body cannot objectifi ed. It is both thesubject of action as well as the agent: “Th e body does not exist for me as an object, rather it is possessed by me. My body belongs to me. Th e body is always placed within the formulation of saying ‘my’ body.” More- over, there is always a fundamental relationship between nature and the physicality of human existence. Indeed, our bodies are physically

19 Ibid., 140–1. 20 Th e use of shutai (active subject) and shukan (subject) appear to be interchangeable. However, Miki stated that we must distinguish between the oppositions shutai/kyakutai and shukan/kyakkan, both pairs of which can be translated as subject and object. While shukan (subject) can be thought of simply as awareness (shiki) or as the ego ( jiga) and remains in the realm of the intellect, shutai (active subject) unites subject and entity ( jittai), or physicality, and cannot be considered apart from action. While all action is physical, the body cannot be thought of as simply object (kyakutai). Here the meaning of object (kyakutai) is a communion of active subject and active subject, and of individual and individual. It is, therefore, a social entity. MKZ, XII, 334. 21 MKZ, XVIII, 146–7. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 217 defi ned by nature as the basis of our existence. However, our relationship with nature is not simply objective, but is at the root of the physicality of subjective human existence. According to Miki, “the body belongs to pathos. Pathos is the nature within subjective interiority. It has two distinct aspects: In its horizontal axis, it is a state and in its vertical axis it is action.”22 Miki’s ideas on the subjective unity of mind and body are based on Spinoza’s proposal that “when the mind imagines things which diminish or hinder the body’s power of action, it endeavours as much as it can to remember things which will cut off their existence.” Th us, according to Spinoza, “it follows that the mind is averse to imagining those things which diminish or hinder its power and that of the body.”23 For Miki, therefore, Spinoza articulated the dialectical structure of human existence and consciousness. Miki’s theories of the connections between nature, the individual and the nation form the basis of his later ideas about a communal body and its relationship to the ethnic-nation. In his critique of totalitarianism in 1935, Miki argued that although some aspects of human history were limited by, for example, “soil”, that is to say the natural environment, human beings are not solely defi ned by it. Man’s domination and exploitation of the environment and the development of production and trade means that his needs in relation to the human history of the natural environment were constantly changing.24 Nature which forms the basis of human existence, stated Miki, also has a sense of body which can be regarded as a social body (Miki’s emphasis). However, “things such as blood and soil which form the basis of ethnic-nations are not, what you would call, “objective nature”. On the contrary, such notions are subjective and socially constructed. Society, therefore, is “körperschaft ” and must be understood in this subjective sense. Our bodies are a manifestation of a part of “Mother Earth”, he stated, and we are connected to the ethnic-nation by pathos as “both the principle of individuation and the basis of the subjective bond between human being and human being.”25 Indeed, society does

22 MKZ, XIX, 149–152. 23 Th e edition cited here is Spinoza Ethics (London: Dent, 1935), Prop XIII, 94. Cited in MKZ, XVIII, 152. 24 “Zentaishugi hihan” (A critique of totalitarianism), MKZ, XIX, 670. 25 MKZ, XVIII, 152–3. 218 chapter seven not deny the principle of individuation but encapsulates within itself “a tendency towards individuation which is historical.”26 Here also are the beginnings of Miki’s theory of techné which begins with that statement that: As with the notion that a community shares a common fate [. . .] the body too is governed by a sense of destiny, combining within itself both a sense of potential and immanence. Th e body is no mere instrument. It is an instrument only in as much as it is the body through which I walk, but it is I who walks.27 Th e body is not governed merely by its dynamic potentiality, therefore, but also by immanence and chance. According to Miki, the body is given to us a-priori; not only does it burden us, but it is also fateful. Its fateful nature lies not in “the body” as a composite whole of organs, but in the “bodiliness” of human existence. Similarly, Miki argued, the “social body” can also “properly be called fateful” and is “possessed of the impulse [defi ned as ‘tendency contra destiny’] of constantly affi rming itself.” However, society is no mere community sharing a fate. It is historical and thus it must also be logically aware of itself. While a society which is united on the grounds of denying the uniqueness of individuals is given over entirely to pathos, “a society established on the basis of uniqueness among selves belongs to logos.” Similarly, an ethnic-nation is not simply natural, but historical; it does not simply belong to pathos but also to logos.28 For Miki, therefore, society cannot simply be a community bound by fate; it must also be logically self-knowing and aware. Here we witness the beginnings of a move away from Marxist economic determinism which becomes even more apparent in Miki’s idea of action as revelation (hyōgen). While Aristotle argued that things in nature have within themselves the principle of motion, Miki pointed out that in human action there is a sense in which the principle of motion does not lie within itself, since the causes of human action may be considered to lie in the mind. Moreover, if the mind is the “cause” of human action then it is also possible to regard action as the “cause” of the human mind. Miki also criticised Aristotle’s dictum that “things that are made do not possess within themselves the causes of motion,” since man,

26 Ibid., 157. 27 Ibid., 156. 28 Ibid., 157–60. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 219 too, “is ens creatum, something made in a deeper sense distinguishable from the theological premise.” Miki concluded that: My actions are that which I do anywhere, their principles lie in themselves. On the other hand, at the same time their principles do not lie in themselves. Action is both what I do and what is done for or to me. Or, to put it another way, in action there is both freedom and destiny.29 Miki warned against abstract notions of action since real human beings act within the world. “Our actions” he stated, “are conditioned by the environment and, at the same time, the environment is conditioned by our actions.” Th erefore, our actions tend to “objectify the subject and subjectify the object.” He was infl uenced by the eccentric and committed Marxist John Haldane (1892–1964), particularly Th e Philosophical Basis of Biology (1931) in which he stated that there was no separation between structure and function. It is not possible, therefore, to distinguish analysis of action from analysis of the structure of human life. Neither is it possible to separate analysis of human life from analysis of action. Moreover, organism and environment, function and non-function are unifi ed as a whole body. Th e environment, therefore, is manifested within the structure of the organism and, conversely, the structure of the organism is manifested in the environment. Human life and action, Miki concluded, cannot be understood separately from the structures and activities of society. For Miki, therefore, Haldane counters abstract notions of subjectivism or activism which view action in terms of the relationship between I and It. Such notions reduce action to experience thus losing the true meaning of action. According to Miki, action “happens” between I and Th ou: “It is neither a ‘thing’ nor an ‘It’, but ‘Th ou’ as revelation.” It is also an historical happening and possesses the possibility of transcendence and, because our actions are connected to something which transcends our inner selves, they are “revelatory”.30 According to Miki, it is through ideas that we are able to transcend our inner selves. Ideas are the well-springs of revelatory action. Indeed, he stated, “action becomes action when a transcendent idea is viewed externally.” Th us actions can be said to belong not only to praxis (practice) but also to poiesis (creation).31 Society, therefore, has a revelatory

29 Ibid., 163. 30 Ibid., 166. 31 Ibid., 168. 220 chapter seven world meaning as culture. One could even say that man is born from culture rather than from nature. However, society is not revelatory simply through its culture, but it must also be revealed to us as revelatory (my emphasis). We are faced with culture from without, but society comprises us from within. Th is is why, according to Miki, society and culture must be fundamentally distinguished. While society is similar to the concept of revelation and is subjective, culture can be thought of as similar to action and as both creative and practical. Man is born from society and is thus socially self-determined; he is both agent and object and thus acts independently towards society, essentially transforming it. For Miki, “this is what is meant by creation”.32 Man’s confrontation with the environment as active subject (主体 shutai) is an important feature of Miki’s theory of techné. He developed these ideas in Th e Logic of the Imagination into a concept of form. “All action, in its broader meaning”, he stated, “is making things. Th at is to say it has the sense of production. Th e logic of the imagination is the logic of production.” Moreover: Everything made by technology has form and technological activity itself also has form. As long as form is visible, it is possible to see technology. Since all living things can be considered to have form, nature can also be considered technological.33 All that is produced, therefore, is given form, but a form which is historical and also subject to change. Indeed, these forms have been brought about by productive activity and are capable of changing history itself: Such forms are not merely objective but are a synthesis of the objective and the subjective, of the idea and the actuality, of existence and becoming (seisei), of time and space. [. . .] Th us, the logic of the imagination is the logic of historical form.34 Th is notion, that the “logic of the imagination” lies in the “logic of production” and the “logic of historical form” is central to his theory of techné or technology theory. Th e so-called “debate on technology theory” began within the Materialism Study Group (Yuibutsuron kenkyūkai) in 1932 and had an important infl uence on members of

32 Ibid., 170–2. 33 MKZ, VIII, 227. 34 Ibid., 7. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 221 the Shōwa Research Association. While the initial debate, according to Iwasaki Minoru, “did not go beyond doctrinal polemics”, it entered a new phase aft er the beginning of the Sino-Japanese confl ict in 1937 when technology came to be viewed in the context of national mobilization.35 Ōkōchi Masatoshi founded a monthly journal Kagakushugi kōgyō (Scientifi c industry) which published a number of articles by members of the Cultural Problems Committee and the Shōwa Research Association between 1937 and 1939. Th ese included Saegusa Hiroto, Funayama Shin’ichi, Tōhata Sei’ichi, Rōyama Masamichi, Tosaka Jun and Miki himself who published four articles in the journal. Th e focus on theorising the anthropological and sociological aspects of technology ran in tandem with a similar trend in Western Europe, especially Germany, with the works of Friedrich Dessauer, Oswald Spengler, Werner Sombart and Eugen Diesel being translated into Japanese between 1938 and 1941.36 Miki defi ned techné “in its widest sense” as “including all manual skills in order to achieve a defi nite aim, [through] all means, a combina- tion of all means and/or all systems”.37 Moreover, for technology to exist at all there must be knowledge. Man, through the use of his intellectual skills and tools, intervenes in the environment as both active subject (shutai) and object (kyakutai). Th is, Miki argued, was the essence of productive activity.38 Science and technology should not be considered to be purely objective or neutral, but also as subjective, imaginative and creative. According to Iwasaki, Miki’s theory of technology went beyond the limited defi nitions of technology in terms of means and ends off ered by the Materialism Study Group to become the axis of a new world view.39 However, for Iwasaki, Miki’s extension of the concept of technology to include all human agency means that “he in eff ect brings forth a transcendental metasubject that, while connoting a critique of the subject, becomes omnipotent and omniproductive.”40 Moreover, extended even further to the realm of society itself, stated Iwasaki, Miki’s view of social technology, planning and the political control of man’s natural

35 Iwasaki, 162. 36 Ibid., 164–5. 37 MKZ, VIII, 185. 38 MKZ, XVIII, 299–300. 39 Iwasaki, 169. 40 Ibid., 175. 222 chapter seven environment, and scientific technology implies the self-formation and self-development of societies. Th us his desire for a “constructive metasubject” eff ectively smothers the political implications of agency in his concept of an East Asian Cooperative Community leading to a “bogus multi-culturalism”. For Iwasaki too, therefore, the problem of agency is paramount. Similarly, he recommends assessing the political implications of Miki’s theory of a cooperative body (below) not in terms of tenkō, but “rather precisely at the level where theories of shutaisei (active subjectivity) were generated.”41

Miki and the East Asian Cooperative Community

It was in the midst of developing his philosophy of action that the opportunity arose for Miki to take his place among his peers in an organisation whose infl uence went right to the very top of government. Th e “seductive moon” of the Shōwa Research Association drew Miki into its orbit by off ering him a chance to fulfi l his mission and complete his life’s great task by leaping into the vanguard of history. His nascent philosophy of the creative power of the imagination, his theories of technology and ideas about the creation of a new society and culture were shaped (some may say “perverted”) into a vision of Japan’s destiny in the creation of a new world order. In a diary entry written four days before the Marco Polo Bridge Incident of 7 July 1937, Miki mused that when riding on the national railways, the indefi nable chatter of people around you sometimes sounds like the ravings of madmen. However, if you can pick out the declama- tory tones of a single person, you realise that what they are saying is not mad but completely reasonable. He continued his musings in a rather cryptic and fragmented way: Anyway, the electric train, the steam strain and aircraft were all the inven- tions of Westerners, but even in Japan remarkable people must come forth. But what are we to make of the spectacle of the politics of these times? Uchimura Kanzō proclaimed pacifi sm at the time of the Russo- Japanese War. Th e works of Uchimura have now appeared. And what

41 Ibid., 178. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 223

of the collected works of Kikuchi Kan42 and Yoshiya Nobuko?43 Carlyle stated; “To be great is to be misunderstood.” Th e appearance of prophets is important [. . .]. If we do not imitate mad men, maybe in these times there is no telling what is right.44 Even before the outbreak of the China Incident, therefore, Miki was aware of the pressures which Japanese intellectuals were facing and of the need for someone to be heard above the chattering masses. Miki’s part in the draft ing of the controversial pamphlet,Principles of Th ought for a New Japan (Shin Nihon no shisō genri) which aimed at resolving the China Incident, helps to bring his political and ideological standpoint in the late 1930s into sharp focus. Published under the name of the Shōwa Research Association in 1939, the pamphlet is undoubtedly the work of a committee, but is oft en assumed to have been draft ed by Miki himself. In his role as chair of the Cultural Problems Committee, he acted as a mediator, seeking a middle way between those favouring a particularist approach based on varieties of “Japanism” and the Marxist universalism of some of his other colleagues. According to Shiozaki Hiroaki, Sakai Saburō one time general secretary of the Shōwa Research Association, claimed to have invited Miki to present a paper to the “Seventh Day Forum” (so called because it was held on the seventh day of every month beginning in January 1938) aft er being deeply impressed by his essay “Japan’s Actuality” (Nihon no genjitsu) published in Chūōkōron in November 1937.45 However, according to the General Outline of the Research of the Shōwa Research Association (Shōwa kenkyūkai no kenkyū ōzuna) for June 1937, Miki was already a member of the newly established Curriculum Content Research Group (Gakka naiyō kenkyūkai) which included his brother- in-law Tōhata Sei’ichi. According to Miki’s “Chronological Record”, therefore, it was Tōhata who introduced Miki to the association.46

42 Kikuchi Kan (1888–1948) was a playwright and novelist as well as founder of the publishing house Bungeishunshū. Perhaps Miki was thinking of his play Okujō no Kyōjin (Th e Madman on the Roof, 1916). 43 Yoshiya Nobuko (1896–1976) was Miki’s contemporary and a successful woman novelist well-known for writing for girls. She oft en portrayed same-sex relationships and is regarded as challenging Japan’s patriarchal family structure. 44 MKZ, XIX, 179. 45 Reprinted in MKZ, XIII, 438–63. For the precise meaning of genjitsu translated as “actuality” or “Wirklichkeit” see “Tetsugaku—bungaku yōgo kaisetsu” (An explanation of the usage of philosophical and literary terms), MKZ, XII, 314–5 and 423. 46 To correct Fletcher (110), Tōhata Sei’ichi was not Miki’s father-in-law, but the older brother of Miki’s fi rst wife Kimiko. 224 chapter seven

Either way, Miki’s speech, delivered to a private seminar on 7 July 1938, was entitled “Th e World Historical Signifi cance of the China Inci- dent”. It was warmly received and formed the basis for the development of his ideas on an East Asian Cooperative Community in the coming months. At the inaugural meeting of the Cultural Problems Research Group, held on 21 July 1938, Miki was invited to chair the Cultural Problems Committee and accorded the role of coordinating the cultural group’s activities. Th is committee had thirteen members according to the “Research Association Register of Members” (Kenkyūkai inin meibo) set up in February 1939.47 At the beginning of 1939 Miki also joined the Shōwa Research Association’s central secretariat. Miki’s essay “Japan’s Actuality” prefi gured some key ideas in Prin- ciples of Th ought for a New Japan, especially the view that lasting peace in Asia could only be achieved through recognising the historical, linguistic and cultural “actuality” of both the “Orient” (Tōyō) and the rest of the world.48 It is interesting to note, however, that while “Japan’s Actuality” shows the mark of the censor with text omitted or blanked out, Principles of Th ought was uncensored. Th is is an indication of the immunity from censorship that the Shōwa Research Association aff orded and perhaps helps to explain its attraction. It should be noted that Miki’s interest in the ‘China question’ predates his joining the association. Several essays discussing the clash between Chinese nationalism and Japanese interests in China appeared in 1935.49 Notably in “Th e Direction of Japanese Culture” (Nihon bunka no hōkō, 1935), he stated; “those who hope for the great achievement of Japanese imperialism should also hope for the same greatness of Japanese spiritual culture.” Instead, he saw everywhere irrational, simplistic thought presented as propaganda in the name of the Japanese spirit (Nihon seishin) and insisted that: Today it is necessary to create an extension of our culture, to foster the power of theoretical structures and of knowledge through learning

47 Miki was listed along with Gotō Ryūnosuke, Saegusa Hiroto, Sasa Hiroo, Ōyama Iwao, Shimizu Ikutarō, Sugai Jun’ichi, Sugimoto Ei’ichi, Nakajima Kenzō, Nakayama Ichirō, Hayashi Tatsuo, Funayama Shin’ichi, and Yabe Teiji. Honda Kiyoji later resigned and others such as Nakayama and Sugimoto, according to Yabe Teiji, were never seen at meetings. Shiozaki, 29. 48 MKZ, XIII, 463. 49 For example, “Hitotsu no Nishi mondai—Nihon to Shina shisō” (A problem for Japan and China: Japanese and Chinese thought), MKZ, XVI, 71–80. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 225

about Western culture and creating a synthesis of Western and Oriental culture.50 Miki’s diary entries also demonstrate genuine concern about the deep- ening crisis in China. On 13 July 1937, nearly a week aft er the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, he criticised a column in the Yomiuri Shinbun stating; With regard to the struggle between Japan and China, it is good that the government wishes for national unity, but this must be based, within reason, upon the consent of the people (kokumin).51 Miki recorded his attendance at a meeting of the Seventh Day Forum in February 1938 where the discussion centred mainly on “the Sino- Japanese problem”: He stated that: “there appears to be no direction in this war.” Moreover, he was less than impressed by a “certain chief of the Gaimusho (Foreign Ministry)” who spoke to the group since, apparently, he was “well-known” to be a mouthpiece for the army. Two months later, on 22 April, he wrote; “the China Incident is becoming increasingly complicated. How will it aff ect Japan? It is a profoundly worrying problem.”52 It could be said that Miki was motivated by vanity and a desire for power, but the examples given above also suggest that he was genuinely concerned about the situation in China and its impact on Japan. Based on the diaries and memoirs of the writer and critic Nakajima Kenzō and the political scientist Yabe Teiji, Shiozaki has painstakingly pieced together a record of the committee’s meetings during which the various component parts of Principles of Th ought were discussed and draft ed. Many of the meetings, held roughly once a month, followed a standard pattern, usually a presentation by a particular group member followed by a question and answer session or discussion. Th e conclusions were draft ed by nominated members and reported on at the following meeting. Th e fi rst two meetings were held on 8 August 1938 and at regular intervals thereaft er.53 Shiozaki has revealed that Miki oft en clashed with his colleagues, particularly those who clung fast to their Marxist views. According to

50 MKZ, XVI, 86. 51 MKZ, XIX, 179. 52 MKZ, XIX, 191 and 213. 53 Shiozaki, 30. 226 chapter seven

Yabe, for example, Miki had a positive view of the role and signifi cance of capitalism in the modernisation of China and claimed that capitalism “fostered socio-economic modernisation”.54 Rather surprisingly, therefore, Miki would appear to agree with the liberal political scientist Yanaihara Tadao who argued that even the comprador capitalism of the Nationalist regime was a causal factor in socio-economic development in China which, through strengthening the Chinese nationalist movement, could lead to the end of imperialist domination by foreign powers.55 It became apparent to some members of the committee that Miki’s attitude towards the Marxist “standpoint of historical materialism” was, by now, wholly negative. In particular, he clashed with Ōyama Iwao over the role of communism. In an interview on “Th e Historical Role of the Shōwa Research Association,” (Shōwa kenkyūkai no rekishiteki yakuwari), conducted aft er the war, Ōyama stated that, “we wanted to say ‘socialism’ but we didn’t because it was deemed ‘out of order’ ( guai ga warui).”56 Any mention of fascism was also deemed “out of order” by Miki when discussions turned to models of reform. According to Nakajima, when some members broached the fact that only fascism had not been considered, Miki “swift ly counterattacked”. On some points, however, there was consensus. All the members agreed that the war between Japan and China should not be allowed to degenerate further into ethnic-national confl ict, since for Japan “the state of aff airs would collapse”. What was needed was a philosophical basis which spoke to the whole of Asia and recognised every country’s special characteristics.57 On 19 and 25 December the committee discussed a draft of the Princi- ples of Th ought prepared by Miki himself and on 7 January 1939 the galley proofs were reviewed. Nakajima’s impression was that Miki’s ideas were left more or less intact when the pamphlet was printed on 13 January.58 Later that year Miki also draft ed the fi rst part of “Principles of ought Th for a New Japan: Supplement” (Shin nihon no shisō genri: zokuhen).59

54 Cited in Shiozaki, 30. 55 Yanaihara Tadao “Shina mondai no shozai” (Locating the China problem) (1937) YTZ, IV, 339. Marxist historians such as Asada Kyōji have, of course, severely criticised Yanaihara’s position on the role of capitalism in China. See Townsend (2000), 219. 56 Cited in Shiozaki, 31. 57 Shiozaki, 30–1. 58 Ibid. 59 Th is supplemental pamphlet was subtitled “Th e Philosophical Foundations of Cooperativism” (Kyōdōshugi no tetsugakuteki kiso). Part One referred to here was titled “Th e Cardinal Points of Cooperativism” (Kyōdōshugi no kiten). a study of man in action: 1936–1940 227

Although the contributions of other members were also discussed, Shio- zaki has shown quite conclusively that Miki’s concepts, ideas and views remained paramount and that he himself took charge of draft ing both the Principles of Th ought and the “Supplement”. He was, it seems, the fi nal arbiter with regard to what could and could not be discussed. Th e Principles of Th ought for a New Japan begins with the premise that there was an “inseparable relationship” between internal reform and being able to resolve the Incident.60 At the heart of the document is the achievement, through Japanese cultural leadership, of a renaissance in East Asia which would challenge Western dominance in the region and lead ultimately to the creation of a new world civilisation. Its “world view” (sekaikan) rests on the possibility of creating a new humanity within the crucible of the cultural frontier between East and West which runs up the dragon’s back of Japan. In short, the document presents a type of Hegelian universalism based on the amalgamation of Gemeinschaft -type characteristics, represented by the geo-cultural concept of tōyō (Orient) and Gesellschaft -type characteristics, represented by seiyō (Occident or the West). Th is synthesis is to be achieved rstlyfi within Japan and disseminated via the Asian continent to the rest of the world. A new society based on genuine cooperative communalism within East Asia will succeed in creating world unity where fi rstly, “medieval Catholic cosmopolitanism”, and subsequently modern West- ern civilisation had failed. Japan’s mission was based on the assertion of Japan’s unique historical inheritance, technological superiority and cultural plurality. Although infl uenced by the materialist conception of history, it departs from classical Marxist-Leninist formulations of globalism by off ering a constructivist, or volitional, approach. Such an achievement, however, relies on overcoming problems and shortcomings inherent in certain dominant ideologies currently existing in both Western and Oriental culture; ethnic-nationalism, totalitarianism, familism (kazokushugi), communism, liberalism, internationalism and Japanism. Th e task was to outline the principles upon which East Asian unity would be based: East Asian unity, needless to say, must be formed through refl ecting upon and connecting with the cultural traditions within East Asia. Oriental culture belongs in a treasure house which has not as yet been suffi ciently opened up. Opening this treasure house and revealing the

60 MKZ, XVII, 507. 228 chapter seven

value that Oriental culture has for the world is a duty incumbent upon us Orientals.61 However, the vestiges of feudalism inherent in Chinese and Oriental civilisation would have to be abolished. While the modernisation of China was a “precondition for East Asian unity” which Japan should assist in achieving, the new culture must eliminate “the evils of modern capitalism.” Only then would China be “liberated from the yoke of European and American imperialism.” On the other hand, “Japan must not carry out an imperialist invasion and then merely substitute itself for America and Europe.” Japan should press for “a new system which goes beyond the profi teering of capitalist economics.” Indeed, “solving the problem of capitalism is the most important issue for all the countries of the world at present.”62 What the committee envisaged was a type of corporate reconstruction based on the logic of totality. Shiozaki argued that it was no coincidence that Miki collaborated with the Catholic theologian Yoshimitsu Yoshihiko on translating the German version of the Catholic Dictionary of Th ought (katorikku shisō jiten) into Japanese from January 1935.63 Yoshimitsu was a graduate of Sophia University and the connection between Miki and Sophia University dates back to November 1929 and the arrival of the Catholic social philosopher Dr. J. B. Krauss. Miki and Kraus cooperated in establishing the Platon-Aristoteles Gesellschaft (Puraton Arisutoteresu Gakkai) which aimed to promote research into classical culture nationally and internationally.64 According to Shiozaki,

61 Ibid., 510. 62 Ibid. 63 Miki recorded Yoshimitsu’s visit to begin the work in his diary on 8 January 1935. MKZ. XIX, 133. Yoshimitsu was also involved in the “Overcoming Modernity” symposium in 1942. According to Minamoto Ryōen, Yoshimitsu viewed Western modernity as a “schizophrenic result” of the breakdown of the medieval world. He called for a return to medieval Catholicism and the apparent “unity” of religion and culture. He was primarily infl uenced by the French philosopher-poet Charles Péguy, but also by the Catholic theologian Jacques Maritain and Nicolai Berdyaev. Minamoto Ryōen, “Th e Symposium on ‘Overcoming Modernity,’ ” in Rude Awakenings: Zen, the Kyoto School, & the Question of Nationalism, ed. James W. Heisig and John C. Maraldo (University of Hawai’i Press: Honolulu, 1995), 207. 64 Th e Hegel Research Society (Heeguru kenkyūkai) later developed out of the Platon- Aristoteles Gesellschaft . Shiozaki, p. 27. In September 1930 when answering his critics in “Marukusushugi tetsugaku nitsuite” (On Marxist philosophy) Miki made the point that he found no contradiction in both participating in the Proletarian Science Research Association and collaborating with Dr. Kraus in the Platon-Aristoteles Gesellschaft . MKZ, XVIII, 102. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 229

Kraus’s views on the relationship between social reform and religion was infl uenced by Pope Pius XI’s (1922–39) encyclical Quadragesimo Anno (15 May 1931) and this had an enormous impact on Miki’s concept of cooperativism (kyōdōshugi). Indeed, there are many similarities between the Quadragesimo Anno and Principles of Th ought, especially with regard to the notion of class struggle and the need to encourage and promote the harmonious co-operation of vocational groups.65 In particular, Principles of Th ought sought to refute the idea of class struggle and the dictatorship of the proletariat. Indeed, it stated: “Th at society exists at all shows the superiority of the whole as opposed to class.” On the other hand, there was no denying that “the problem of class is real and does exist within modern society.” Th e solution, however, was not to be found in communism, but rather in cooperativism where “the standpoint of the public good which goes beyond class-based interests will be respected and class will cease to be ‘classist’ (kaikyūteki de aru koto)”.66 Th is is perhaps one way in which Miki can be seen as guiding his colleagues away from Marxism. However, in the political climate of the times advocating anything else would surely have led to censorship or worse. Critics such as Fletcher have argued that “Miki’s” cooperativism echoed Alfredo Rocco’s67 “fascist” notion of the primacy of the state and of the nation as “arbiter of all values, a ‘moral whole,’ which alone could resolve social and economic confl icts.”68 However, Fletcher oft en neglects to distinguish between Miki’s views and those of the committee. Principles of Th ought represents at best a series of compromises, even though Miki’s views are thought to be dominant. We have to turn, therefore, to Miki’s critiques of totalitarianism and irrationalism published in 1935 in order to fully understand his position. If Miki argued for a ‘logic of totality’, it was one distinct from the “irrationalism” of fascism. Central to Miki’s critique of totalitarianism was the need to separate romantic irrationalism and organicism from the dialectical logic of the materialist conception of history. Th e logic of fascist totalitarianism represented by Othmar Spann, Carl Schmitt and Giovanni Gentile, Miki stated, lacked a diachronic view of human society. What made fascism unique was the unity of the “logic of totality”

65 Shiozaki, 28. 66 MKZ, XVII, 522. 67 Fascist minister of justice 1925–1932. 68 Fletcher, 85 and 113. 230 chapter seven and “fascist ethnic-nationalism” through the mystifi cation of nature and the biological irrationality of its pseudo-scientifi c justifi cations. is Th “organicism” imparted a logical necessity to totalitarianism on the basis of concepts such as “blood” and “soil”, the bedrock of the totalitarian ethnic-nation.69 However, when applied to the relationship between the individual and the state, he argued, the logic of organicism leads to a fundamental contradiction: Since the particular is always bound in a necessary relationship with the whole as a part, totalitarians deny the characteristic uniqueness of individuals, but say they recognise their relative freedom and uniqueness within the internal parts of the state. However, it has to be said that this relative freedom and uniqueness amounts to no freedom and no uniqueness whatsoever. But for totalitarians the meaning of individual uniqueness and freedom is not a problem, they simply demand they be sacrifi ced for the sake of the whole or the state.70 Sacrifi cing oneself for the state, therefore, comes to defi ne individual freedom in a totalitarian state. Miki pointed out that this is deeply contradictory since, if everything has a recognised meaning and has to be preserved then, logically speaking, one would not expect to be in a position to demand any self-denial or sacrifi ce. Th e truth of the matter, however, was that “of course totalitarians do not, in fact, think of the whole as actually already existing but think of it as an ideal which must surely arrive.”71 In practice, therefore, particular classes come to be dominated in the interests of the whole. Miki asked: Are those who demand the sacrifi ces of others truly working in the interests of the whole? Th e whole, aft er all, is not something which already exists; on the contrary, it arrives dialectically through existing oppositions.72 Indeed, Principles of Th ought attempts to defend (albeit a little ambigu- ously) the ‘ideals’ of liberalism and individualism which were viewed in the same light. Indeed, it proclaimed that “liberalism is individualism.” However: While liberalism which yields to the selfi sh motives of individuals must be denied, many other concepts advocated by liberalism, such as the dignity

69 “Higōrishugiteki keikō ni tsuite” (On irrational trends), MKZ, X, 403. 70 “Zentaishugi hihan” (A critique of totalitarianism), MKZ, XIX, 666. 71 Ibid., 667. 72 Ibid. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 231

of the person and the value of individuality, hold great signifi cance. Fur- thermore, it can be said that individuality is not merely distinctiveness, true individuals can be distinctive and at the same time have things in common with others; those who share common values among themselves can be said to have true personalities ( jinkaku).73 What was important was the “critical absorption of liberalism” in order to prevent society reverting to feudalism. Moreover, the “appearance of individual self-awareness ( jikaku) was necessary for a higher degree of cultural development.” Th is made individualism within the proper context “rational”.74 Also visible is the infl uence of Miki’s criticism of the Soviet Union, when it was argued that communism was “falling into the evils of uniformity such as can be observed in the culture of the present-day Soviet Union.” Soviet-style uniformity suppressed individual uniqueness and spontaneity, and was closely associated with “bureaucratism”. Moreover, contrary to the claim that communism must necessarily come aft er capitalism, it would appear that “where capitalism has developed, communism is powerless” and only has power in countries like Russia and China which retained many feudal elements.75 However, Miki did not manage to avoid the assumption of the superiority of Japanese culture and the notion that Japan had a natural claim to leadership in the region on the basis of Japan’s apparent “tolerance” and adaptability: Th e breadth and depth of the Japanese heart and soul (kokoro) is such that it acts subjectively (shutaiteki ni) to unite what is incompatible objectively (kyakkanteki ni). A heart and soul such as this is the very thing the new community needs and we must make best use of each culture’s special characteristics from among the ethnic-nations of East Asia without forc- ing them into a single form.76 Even more controversial was the claim that “it is indisputable that the subsequent development of scientifi c culture will give Japan the power to deliver victory in the present incident.”77 Finally, Principles of Th ought ends in what is little more than blatant propaganda:

73 MKZ, XVII, 524. 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid., 523. 76 Ibid., 530. 77 Ibid. 232 chapter seven

Japan must stand in a position of leadership in the establishment of an East Asian New Order. Th is does not mean, of course, that Japan should subjugate the other nations of East Asia. Rather, Japan should become the lynchpin uniting the other East Asian ethnic-nations. Th e formation of the East Asian Cooperative Community under Japanese leadership will not depend on Japanese ethnic-national egoism, but on the basis of Japan’s moral mission within the present incident and self-awareness of such a moral mission is important. Japan will, for the fi rst time, be able to become a true leader through the creation of a new culture dependent upon new principles and then Japanese culture will, in reality, come to shed its light throughout the world.78 While Miki perhaps had very little leeway in steering the committee away from such crass assumptions, less forgivable is the attempt to con- ceal the reality of the Japanese desire for domination in the region. Even worse is the relegation of the wishes and the suff erings of the Chinese people to blind historical process. Th at Principles of Th ought is highly ambiguous in almost all respects (apart from the tub-thumping clause on the superiority of Japanese culture) is a function of the compromises reached on almost every issue by the committee. Th e views stated should not necessarily be regarded as Miki’s own and, in the light of what we have learned about the development of Miki’s thought above, we may certainly detect anomalies. Undoubtedly, he played an important part in steering the committee members down a middle path between the two extremes of particularlism and universalism. Th ere is, for example, a general lack of common slogans associated with either the notion of an East Asian Cooperative Community or its later manifestation, the Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere (Daitō-A kyōeiken). Only in one place is there a specifi c reference to Japanese “cooperativism based on the peerless kokutai (national polity) of one sovereign over all the people (ikkun banmin 一君万民).”79 On 3 November 1938 Konoe Fumimaro in a radio broadcast adopted much of the Shōwa Research Association’s rhetoric in his proclamation of the New Order in East Asia. Miki’s determination to steer a middle path, however, caused him to fall back upon deterministic Hegelian notions of mobilising national spirit in the service of a world-historical mission; as a result he apparently veered dangerously to the Right. Th e insistence on Japanese leadership in the region, based on the very

78 Ibid., 532–3. 79 Ibid., 520. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 233

Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness) particularism he sought to refute, would lead not to the achievement of genuine cultural hegemony but to what Iwasaki rightly called the “bogus multiculturalism” of the Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere. Indeed, as soon as Principles of Th ought was published in January 1939, issues of Bungakukai and Sekai shūkan began to carry articles criticising “Miki’s ideas” about the East Asian Cooperative Community. For example, Shinmei Masamichi argued that Miki’s defi nition of culture was too narrow and insuffi cient to become the basis of an East Asian Gemeinschaft . Culture must be considered to include the reality and results of social action, and although East Asian nations “may fi nd support in the cultural similarity they have had in the past, this cultural similarity [. . .] is not so syncretic as to be the basis for a new Asian synthesis.”80 Th is was followed in May by a more malicious “Critique of Miki-ism” carried by the Sekai shūkan.81 However, Miki’s work for the Shōwa Research Association was only one of numerous activities between 1937 and 1939, and his published output remained phenomenal. He participated in a number of roundtable discussions on a diverse range of subjects which were reported in the Yomiuri Shinbun throughout 1937. Many of the discussions and articles involved the topic of culture and the intelligentsia, such as “Th e Intellectual Class and the Problem of Tradition” (Chishiki kaikyū to dentō no mondai) published in Chūōkōron in April, and “Th e Intel- lectual Class and Politics” (Chishiki kaikyū to seiji) which appeared in Nihon Hyōron in the same month. In May the fi rst chapter ofTh e Logic of the Imagination was published in Shisō. In March 1938 he gave a series of lectures at the publisher Iwanami’s headquarters as an introduction to philosophy which was eventually published in 1940. In April 1938 he also assumed a lectureship at the Tama School of Arts and, in May, designed and edited a book on humanism for which he wrote an introductory chapter. Th e following month he began contributing articles to the journal Bungakukai which would eventually be published in 1941 as Notes on Life. In autumn he was invited to serve on the editorial board of the journal Chisei and, in October, Iwanami published his book Aristotle introducing Aristotle’s theory of poiesis

80 Shinmei Masamichi, “Ideals of the East Asia Co-operative Body” (Tōa Kyōdōtai no Risō) in Japan’s Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere in World War II: Selected Readings and Documents, ed. Joyce Lebra, (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1975), 19. 81 MKZ, XIX, 880. 234 chapter seven which formed the basis for Miki’s theory of techné. Th ese are to name but a few of his publications at this time. One publication, however, “Th e Authority of the University” (Daigaku no ken-i) published in Bungei shunjū in January 1938,82 is especially revealing since it gives a very clear insight with regard to Miki’s standpoint on the relationship between scholarship and politics. It addressed very openly, and indeed courageously, the so-called Yanaihara Incident which began in October 1937 and dragged on through the winter months.

Miki and the Yanaihara Incident

Although Miki had criticised the Christian political scientist in the past, his review of Yanaihara Tadao’s Nation and Peace (Minzoku to Heiwa) in September 1936 was surprisingly positive. Th is is perhaps another indicator of the extent to which Miki had moved away from Marxism towards a position of religious humanism. He admired Nation and Peace as a manifestation of Yanaihara’s love of truth and peace, fi nding it a rare example, “in these chaotic times”, of a “book possessing purity of spirit”. As a critique of the “concept of fascistic nationalism,” its strength lay in making clear the relationships between nationalism (kokuminshugi), imperialism and militarism. “Today,” Miki stated, “when we are increasingly sensible of the threat of war and the crisis of culture, a book of this sort is immensely signifi cant.”83 He was dismayed, therefore, when a year later Yanaihara was hounded from his post in the Economics Department of Tokyo Imperial Univer- sity aft er he had exhorted the Japanese people to “bury our country for a while so that her ideals may live” in a memorial lecture on 1 October 1937.84 Suddenly Yanaihara had found himself at the centre of a scandal which rocked the academic world. According to Yanaihara, the attack was instigated by “a certain notorious man” Minoda Kyōki,85 who had also been responsible for orchestrating the witch hunt against the legal scholar Minobe Tatsukichi in 1935. Th e Tōdai Economics Department

82 Reprinted in MKZ, XIV, 40–57. Th e version used here is in Ōkawara Reizō ed., Yanaihara Tadao Jiken Gojūnen (Th e Yanaihara Incident ftfi y years on), (Tokyo: Bokutakusha, 1987), 44–59. 83 MKZ, XVII, 392–5. 84 Yanaihara Tadao, “Kami no Kuni” (Th e Kingdom of God), YTZ, XVIII, 652. 85 Yanaihara Tadao, Watakushi no Ayundekita Michi (Th e Road I Have Walked), YTZ, XXVI, 92. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 235 already had a reputation for appalling factionalism, and the animosities which had built up over a number of years culminated in concerted attacks on Yanaihara by his own colleagues. From the outset Yanaihara maintained that he was the victim of a conspiracy and that certain professors within the university had colluded with the military.86 Th e Marxist Ōuchi Hyōe was deeply shocked by the behaviour of his colleagues and attempted to defend Yanaihara. He also suspected that there was a connection between the Police Bureau of the Home Ministry and the department’s Chairman, Hijikata Seibi.87 In “Th e Authority of the University”, Miki noted that there had been one incident aft er another in universities in recent years, but two of these, the Dōshisha Incident at Kyoto and the Yanaihara Incident at Tokyo, had clearly demonstrated the collapse of university authority and the waning of society’s confi dence in the universities. Autonomous universities, he stated, were absolutely essential to society; their authority lay not in bricks and mortar, nor in the ranks of lecturers, nor the degrees awarded to students: “If we want to know where university authority lies today when they are in so much trouble,” he stated, “we must look carefully to both lecturers and students.”88 Firstly, Miki criticised the hostility and friction which had come to characterise university faculties in the 1930s. He recognised, however, that this discord was oft en linked to external factors. Th e focus had shift ed from student movements which, “the rights and wrongs of student movements apart” everyone understood, to the lecturers themselves. However, the exact nature of incidents involving “thought problems” is not clear. Miki asked, “are they to do with private individuals? Or are they a result of factionalism or conspiracy?” Perhaps sharing Ōuchi Hyōe’s suspicions, Miki stated that there was, “much gossip surrounding the incidents with regard to outside political infl uences.”89 Under these circumstances, he continued, it was not surprising that universities had lost their essential communal nature and that their authority had come into question. University lecturers, he stated, “are, aft er all, human,” but this did not diminish the fact that lecturers were

86 Ibid., 106. 87 Ōuchi Hyōe, Watakushi no Rirekisho (My Memoirs), (Tokyo: Odosha Shoten, 1952), 261 and 268–71. 88 Ōkawara, 45. 89 Ibid. 236 chapter seven employed in that most communal of activities, scholarship, and were accorded the authority that goes with such a privileged position. Of course academics desire fame and are subject to the lust for power, but in the current climate, Miki argued, “academic conscience” had become a highly personal matter when it should be primarily communal and social: Th e communal body which we call the university has a conscience and because of this it is allowed to have authority. However, the trend towards individualism, subjectivism and self-importance has been encouraged through outside pressure on the universities and has arisen because of a consciousness of the intelligentsia as a privileged class.90 As a body, Miki argued, the university needed to be strong in order to protect itself and co-operation among academics was absolutely essential to the maintenance of that strength. However, student representation was also important and it was essential that students cooperate to a great extent in university life. Miki felt that the view that students were an integral part of the university had been lost, even among the students themselves.91 Th e lack of a sense of community, brought about by the personali- sation and internalisation of conscience, and the lack of student representation and activism in university aff airs, were part of the reason why the universities were facing a crisis. However, there were other, longer-standing factors which had weakened the universities in the face of external threats and interference. Th ese had arisen because of what Miki called the “survival of feudal practices and relations”. Th ese included the apprentice-type system of employing lecturers, sensei-deshi or leader-disciple relationships, academic cliques ( gakubatsu) and nepo- tism. Th e survival of such feudal relationships, argued Miki, gave the freedom much touted by universities a hollow ring. Universities which turn outwards and demand freedom, he added, should perhaps take a look at themselves and their internal aff airs. Moreover, all this could be achieved without necessarily colliding with the powers that be.92 Miki’s message to the universities to put their own houses in order was unequivocal. Indeed, most recent studies of academic freedom in pre-war Japan demonstrate the immense destructiveness of academic

90 Ibid., 45–6. 91 Ibid., 48. 92 Ibid., 49. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 237 factionalism and the failure, as in the Takigawa case, of universities to support each other. Th e relationship between the state and universities, however, was just as important, and Miki took a considerable risk in addressing this problem openly in the second part of his essay. He took care, however, to distinguish between criticising the state as a more or less permanent entity, and criticising the political climate which changes with the times: Following in the current of the times there is not necessarily a reason to truly love the state. People who criticise the times should not be presumed unpatriotic. Rather criticism can arise because of anxiety about the future of the state and the current situation. To view things objectively from a wider perspective is an academic way of thinking, and the university should strive to attain an accurate perception of events in accordance with the spirit of scholarship which is, aft er all, its raison d’être.93 Th e truth according to one individual or party, continued Miki, is not necessarily a good thing. If persons allied to one party attempt to manipulate academia in accordance with their views, scholarship itself would be destroyed. Indeed, it is to the state’s advantage to maintain the autonomy and authority of the universities to ensure the progressive development of academia. University authority based on the “will to truth” need not be contrary to the ideals of the state. Moreover, freedom of research had to be guaranteed in the interests of progressive scholarship: University authority and authoritarianism in academia should be strictly separated. Authoritarianism is worship of the powerful and means the loss of the vital critical spirit in academia. Authoritarianism is a type of bureaucracy and is becoming prevalent not only in government-run universities but also in the private universities which arose in opposition to bureaucracy. Although connected with the growth of guild mental- ity and privileged class consciousness, [authoritarianism] has also been encouraged by the current political climate.94 Miki warned of the dangers of the politicisation of both research and the universities themselves, and referred particularly to the appointment or dismissal of lecturers for the convenience of politicians which seriously compromised the independence of scholarship. He told politicians who resorted to suppression of academics they personally disliked to

93 Ibid., 50. 94 Ibid., 51–2. 238 chapter seven exercise self-control and take a more objective stance. He also pointed to the irony of calling loudly for the rejection of individualism at a time when the spirit of true cooperation within the universities was so poor. Lamentably, it was necessary to ask, “how many people take seriously the fate of the universities as they stand in the middle of this storm?”95 Criticising academics and politicians for their failure to speak out about the erosion of academic freedom was one thing, but Miki ventured further into the lion’s maw by mentioning the China Incident directly. “Th e pressure of current aff airs”, he stated, “has also been mercilessly piled on top of the universities”. Up until the China Incident, he argued, the universities had remained aloof. Now that position had been abandoned and academics were encouraged to cooperate positively in current aff airs. In rejecting this aloofness, however, there was always the danger of “going with the fl ow”. He asked “what do we mean when we talk about universities positively cooperating in current events?” Universi- ties are not simply organs designed to set up government policies, he stated, indeed, to think of them in these terms would be to ignore the existence of their students. He acknowledged that many academics, for example, sit on committees of enquiry outside the universities. However, while it was perfectly acceptable to make recommendations through such organs, it was not always necessary to get involved directly in current aff airs. In this respect, Miki severely criticised the head of the economics department Hijikata Seibi and his supporter Honiden.96 Miki was also concerned about the quality of intellect in the universities: “Reports about a poverty of brains in today’s society,” he quipped, “does not mean a poverty of policy!” Th ere was, however, a poverty of theory and although universities were not responsible for the lack of sound government policy, they were responsible for its theoretical defi - ciency. Miki believed that eff ective criticism of the times demanded a “sound grasp of theory” so that “we do not have to move at the mercy of the currents of time, rather we can observe and examine moments of time critically and coolly.” He warned that in advocating positive cooperation in current aff airs there was the very real danger of politicising the universities. Just as the politicisation of culture risked the death

95 Ibid., 53. 96 Ibid., 55. a study of man in action: 1936–1940 239 of culture, the politicisation of universities risked the destruction of the universities. Th is was not to say, he added, that students and lecturers should not get involved with politics, quite the reverse, but this interest should be intellectual and theoretical. Academia should not surrender to politics, but should be interested enough in the ways of politics to recognise the dangers it poses.97 Th e aim of education, he concluded, was to make a “whole citizen” and a “complete citizen” who knows that to be governed is to be governed with justice. Th e aim of the university is not only to make rounded citizens, but also rulers who understand that they too must submit to justice even from a position of ruling. He pointed out that even Aristotle, although believing that education should be subject to the state, argued that the state must be based on reason and wisdom: “Politics is not just about power, true authority does not contradict the ‘will to truth’ which is the soul of the university.”98 Two months later, Yanaihara was prosecuted under the publication laws (along with his publisher Iwanami Shigeo and the editors of Chūōkōron who published many of his articles) and many of his works, including Nation and Peace were banned. Yanaihara escaped arrest, but his prosecution must have sent a clear signal to many academics and writers, and to Miki in particular, that the censor’s net was closing and that the government would not tolerate even relatively mild expressions of dissent or opposition. Miki made it quite clear that scholars had a duty to provide government and society with sound theoretical principles, but that they should not subordinate scholarship to politics. “Th e Authority of the University” is important for two reasons. First of all it contradicts claims that Miki’s view of the state was essentially fascistic. In particular, it refutes Fletcher’s claim that Miki’s cooperativism echoed Alfredo Rocco’s “fascist” notion of the primacy of the state and of the nation as “arbiter of all values”, a “moral whole” which alone could resolve social and economic confl icts.99 Secondly, it speaks eloquently about Miki’s motives for joining the Shōwa Research Associa- tion. He did not see himself as an intellectual pawn in a political game but believed that he had a duty to state what he believed to be the truth. For him conscience was not simply a matter for the individual but for the whole community both inside and outside academia. Th is view is

97 Ibid., 57. 98 Ibid., 59. 99 Fletcher, 85 and 113. 240 chapter seven borne out by his theory of ‘active subjectivity’. On a more personal level—the level of the ‘generativity script’—the constant reminders of death had given urgency to the task of completing his great life’s work and making his mark on the world of thought at a time when opportunities for so doing were increasingly lost to him. Speaking with a single voice in isolation like the man on the train was no longer an option. Perhaps he decided that it was time “to imitate mad men” and join an association which off ered the potential for the ‘action’ he so desired. Th e young idealist of Th e Untold Philosophy stated: Knowledge which does not reform life, and ideals which do not govern reality, are as meaningless to the student of unspoken philosophy as bullets which only make a sound, but do not necessarily kill the prey, are meaningless to the hunter. Th is view privileges life over knowledge, but that is not to say that knowledge relating to truth can only be gained through life.100 In later life, Miki believed that as man’s “basic experience” changed, the philosopher should yet retain a median existence. In a time of crisis, such as that experienced in Japan during the 1930s, this involved maintaining a middle state between two extremes. However, in extraordinary times, perhaps seeking the “middle way” is not enough and we may be forced to agree with Christopher Goto-Jones that the bridges Miki built between extremes allowed his ideas to become hi-jacked by the power of the state.101 Miki’s quest for power and infl uence in order to complete his great task will forever be weighed against him in the scales of history, but it is only by acknowledging the richness of his thought and appreciating the complexity of the surrounding circumstances that we can truly make sense of his role in the Shōwa Research Association between 1937 and 1939.

100 MKZ, XVIII, 8. 101 Goto-Jones (2006), 16. AFTERWORD: NOTES ON A DEATH

O Solitude! Solitude, my home! How blissfully and tenderly does your voice speak to me. Friedrich Nietzsche Th us Spoke Zarathustra Th e years between 1935 and 1940 represent the pinnacle of Miki’s philosophical achievement and public infl uence. In 1940 he participated in a series of sit-in discussions about culture with leading politicians, and his discussions with Education Minister Hashida on political renovation and the humanities were reported in the Yomiuri Shinbun on a daily basis. More controversially, in March, he also lectured in Manchuria for two months at the invitation of the puppet government. Aft er Konoe formed the Imperial Rule Assistance Association (Taisei yokusankai) intended as the institutional embodiment of the new political order, however, the Shōwa Research Association was dissolved. It soon became apparent to politicians that the internal political and economic reforms which it recommended were too radical. Aft er IRAA failed to become a political party it came under the control of the Home Ministry and was relegated to the task of political mobilisation on a national scale.1 Without the protection and privileges accorded by his position of leadership within such an infl uential organisation, Miki found himself once again exposed to government suppression and censorship. Aft er the outbreak of the Pacifi c War in particular, the intellectual climate became increasingly restrictive. Indeed, when an article entitled “Th e Basis of Wartime Cognition” (Senji ninshiki no kichō) appeared in the January 1942 edition of Chūōkōron, it was not only censored but, due to the intervention of the Army shortly aft erwards, led to Miki and other intellectuals being blacklisted. Aft er that his contributions were consistently rejected by journals and magazines and he became eff ectively an exile, both literally and fi guratively, until his death. On the eve of the Pacific War and afterwards, Nishida and the Kyoto School of Philosophy appeared at the centre of debates about

1 Gordon M. Berger, “Politics and Mobilization in Japan, 1931–1945,” Th e Cambridge History of Japan, vol. VI, 148. 242 afterword: notes on a death

‘co-prosperity’ and ‘co-existence’.2 However, although Harootunian has implicated Miki, together with Nishida’s (former) students Kōsaka Masaaki, Kōyama Iwao and Nishitani Keiji, in the organisation of roundtables known as the Chūōkōron symposia in 1941–2,3 Miki was, in fact, serving in the Imperial Army’s propaganda department (sen- denbu) in Manila in the Philippines from January to December 1942. Th e draft ing of hundreds of artists, musicians and scholars to Southeast Asia to serve as bunkajin or ‘men of culture’, was a major Japanese innovation to ensure the smooth running of the Japanese propaganda operation. However, some intellectuals designated as “liberal left ists” were draft ed as a punitive measure.4 It would seem that declining an invitation to serve as a bunkajin was not an option. Miki’s task in Manila was to ‘report’ on the situation in the Philippines for Minami Jūjisei (Southern Cross) a newspaper for Japanese soldiers. “Th e Oriental Characteristics of the Filipinos” (Hitōjin no Tōyōteki Seikaku) appeared from July to October 1942 in eight parts and was later published in Kaizō in February 1943.5 Apparently further articles on the Philippines were exempted from the blacklist since a number of these, and very little else, appeared in newspapers and magazines between February and November 1943. Th ere is little doubt that Miki appeared to have been crushed in the machinery of repression before the war’s end. Many of his books appearing aft er 1942 such as Epistemological Philosophy (Ninshiki tetsugaku), Further Notes on Philosophy (Zoku tetsugaku nōto) and Philosophy of techné (Gijutsu tetsugaku) had been well in process before that time. Th e wartime years were also marked by personal loss. Th e war in China claimed the life of his brother, and the death of his sister on 3 April 1943 was followed nearly one year later by the death of his second wife, Kobayashi Itoko, on 22 March 1944, just fi ve years aft er they had married. However, Miki’s troubles were only just beginning. Early in 1945 Takakura Teru, a writer and critic who had been arrested during the Yokohama ‘thought incident’ of 1944, turned up at Miki’s house requesting food and shelter. According to Kuno Osamu, Takakura had been playing a very dangerous cat and mouse game with the authorities.

2 For further details see especially Arisaka Yoko, “Th e Nishida Enigma: ‘Th e Principle of the New World Order,’ ” MN 51:1 (Spring, 1996): 81–105. 3 Harootunian (2000), 42. 4 Akashi Yoji, “Japanese Cultural Policy in Malaya and Singapore, 1942–45” in Japanese Cultural Policies in Southeast Asia during World War Two, ed., Grant K. Goodman (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1991), 155fn. 5 MKZ, XV, 478–519. afterword: notes on a death 243

While in prison he organised the Nippon seishin kenkyūkai (Associa- tion for Research into the Japanese Spirit) and used it to discover who had really re-oriented their thought and who were still holding out. Kuno himself, on probation because of dangerous thought off ences, was also caught up in this little game. Expected to travel backwards and forwards from his home in Kamakura when summoned by the police to report, Kuno was exercising a form of dissent by trying to fi nd excuses in order not to report, but felt himself to be in constant danger because of Takakura’s dubious tactics. He feared that the ‘thought police’ would discover the true purpose of the Association for Research into the Japanese Spirit and, realising that they had been deceived, would summon all those on probation to attend an interview in the dreaded ‘observation room’. Takakura evidently had small regard for those caught up in the ripples of his little game. When police were informed, early in 1945, that he was “walking free under the camoufl age of tenkō”,6 Takakura decided to fl ee. He had foreseen Japan’s defeat in the war and was banking on the fact that this would give him precious time to escape. Eventually he turned to Miki who promptly rented him a room in his house and gave him food, clothes and money. One cruel twist in this chain of events was that Miki was on the point of being evacuated to the countryside to join his daughter when Takakura arrived on his doorstep. Aft er helping Takakura, Miki was eventually evacuated and lived with Yoko in make- shift lodgings on the second fl oor of a farmhouse barn in Washinomiya, Saitama Prefecture. A note was found in Miki’s handwriting; “Lonely in Yoko-chan’s absence aft er she went to school, I translate Descartes.”7 Shortly aft erwards, on 28 March, police arrived at the farmhouse to arrest him. He was charged with harbouring a suspected communist and fugitive from the police in violation of the 1925 Peace Preserva- tion Law. Aft er being charged, Miki was transferred to the notorious Toyotama Detention Centre, Nagano on 20 June to await trial. Kuno urged his readers to think even a little about the ideological signifi cance [of these events]; of Miki’s personal characteristics, his home environment, the urgent situation at the time and what he might have accomplished aft er the war had Takakura not turned up before Miki’s evacuation.

6 Kuno, 13. 7 Ibid., 12. 244 afterword: notes on a death

Clearly angered by the fugitive’s “self-indulgence” (amasa) Kuno concluded that “Takakura’s judgment must surely be severely criticised”, but he also criticised Miki’s own judgement and disregard for his own safety.8 It appears that on the morning of 26 September 1945 Miki was dis- charged from the sick bay of Toyotama Detention Centre and returned to his cell aft er being taken ill. A medical examination by a prison doc- tor had ascertained that his condition was non-critical, but by three o’clock in the aft ernoon of that same day Miki was dead.9 Alone in his cell, it seems he had fallen while struggling to get up from his bed and his body lay sprawled, face down, half on his bunk and half on the ground.10 Th e cause of death was considered to be primarily nephritis or kidney failure, but his emaciated body also bore the unmistake- able signs of scabies and malnutrition, a testament to the fact that the harsh conditions within the prison had wreaked a terrible physical toll. Friends and family later protested that their requests to visit him had been denied, that his pleas of ill-health had gone unheeded and that he was consistently refused proper hospital treatment.11 Kuno hinted that certain aspects of Miki’s personality may have played a key role in the incidents leading to his death. In particular, his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the danger he was in and his desire for solitude, together with his gradual withdrawal from the public eye aft er 1942, may have accounted for the apparent absence of activity or protest at the circumstances surrounding his incarceration. As we know, Karaki Junzō also stated that “the shadow that attached itself to Miki was more than anything, the shadow of loneliness,”12 In the light of his experiences as a youth, especially on his arrival in Tokyo, it could be argued that the disinterested air of the dandy and the cultivation of solitude were aff ectations which gave meaning to Miki’s sense of loneliness. Indeed, Le Rider, in his study of Viennese modernism, views the post-Nietzschean cultivation of solitude as a reaction to the dilemma of individualism. At the turn of the century intellectuals “oscillated between diagnosing and criticizing it as a modern cultural

8 Ibid., 13. 9 Ibid., 2. 10 Karaki (1947), 1–2. 11 Yui Daizaburo, “Democracy from the Ruins: Th e First Seven Weeks of the Occu- pation in Japan,” Hitotsubashi Journal of Social Studies 19 (1987): 41. 12 Karaki (1947), 23. afterword: notes on a death 245 malady, and exalting the individual as the ultimate foundation of all true culture.” Th ese concerns with individualism and individuation fostered feelings of solitude “which could be proudly assumed or painfully endured”.13 It is perhaps no coincidence that Miki had read Ecce Homo. Indeed, Ōkōchi Ryōji stated that Miki was “the fi rst to situate Nietzsche’s critique of reason and his engagement with nihilism in the context of the history of Western philosophy.”14 In Ecce Homo Nietzsche stated: “My whole Zarathustra is a dithyramb on solitude”.15 Nietzsche brought to philosophy the literary theme of the Romantics; the ‘hapless genius’ or ‘misunderstood visionary’. An acquaintance, Franz Overbeck, claimed that not only was Nietzsche “a lot less solitary than he pretended,” but he actually enjoyed solitude, even at times insisting on it. Le Rider argued that this theme was more than incidental, and actually shaped the contours of Nietzsche’s thought. Indeed, almost all representative artists and intellectuals of 1900s modernism, he stated, shared this theme of solitude, whether as a curse or a challenge, to the extent that it could be described as the distinctive mark of the “hero of modern life”. Nietzsche was both fascinated and horrifi ed by his own “decadent” feelings of solitude.16 Sartre’s comment: “He called on solitude so that it would at least come to him from himself—so that he would not have it infl icted on him,”17 could also apply to Miki. In imitation of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra and emulation of Nishida’s ‘contemplative life’, Miki called forth solitude and cultivated it to form an integral part of his self-identity. Indeed, it was, in the words of Nietzsche, his “escape from the invalids”,18 or, in Miki’s words, from the “chattering of mad men”. Like Nietzsche, too, Miki was perhaps a lot less solitary than he pretended, as accounts of his drinking and his eagerness to join roundtable groups testify. Th e contemplative philosopher and modern sage were components of a highly romanticised self-image, an ideal imago through which Miki made sense

13 Le Rider, 32. 14 Ōkōchi Ryōji, “Nietzsche’s conception of Nature from an East-Asian point of view,” trans. Graham Parkes, Nietzsche and Asian Th ought, ed. Graham Parkes, (Chi- cago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 194. 15 Friedrich Nietzsche, “Ecce Homo,” in Basic Writings of Nietzsche, ed. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Modern Library, 2000), 690. 16 Le Rider, 33. 17 Cited in Le Rider, ibid. 18 Nietzsche, Friedrich, Th us Spoke Zarathustra: A book for everyone and no one, trans. and introduced R. J. Hollingdale (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961), 195. 246 afterword: notes on a death of his past. It also indemnifi ed him against the agonies of loneliness that he suff ered on fi rst leaving home at the age of seventeen. What Miki feared most at the age of twenty three was “dilettantism”—the thought that he might become nothing more than a “danpensakusha”, a jobbing writer. He was anxious to steer himself away from this path since, intellectually, he regarded dilettantism as a much easier path than philosophy.19 Miki was aware of his weaknesses, stating; “I want ease too much. Th at gate is large, the road wide and some of the many people who choose to go through it perish.”20 Shiozaki argued that the tendency to focus on the question of Miki’s tenkō has detracted from his “earnest contribution” to the debate about communalism itself. He claims, perhaps rather naively, that interviews with former members of the association who were close to Miki, such as Funayama Shin’ichi and Ōyama Iwao, have “proved” that these intellectuals were involved in the earnest consideration of communalism itself and that they had no interest whatsoever in “ideals” whether socialist or communist. He concluded that the contemporary disputes surrounding Heidegger and Nazism, Ezra Pound and fascism, Nishida Kitarō and the Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere, and even the debates surrounding the communalism advocated by Miki’s group do not adhere to the analysis of the “logic of current aff airs”, nor do they allow for a positive debate about the historical traces of these current events themselves.21 On one level the question is one of motivation. It could be argued that Miki was motivated to co-operate with the government by vanity and the quest for power. However, the evidence provided in the chapters of this book weighs against such a conclusion. From 1936, rather like Gide, he was haunted by the thought of death and desirous to complete his life’s work. He may have regarded joining the Shōwa Research Association and helping to ‘resolve’ the China Incident ‘peacefully’, as his legacy to future generations. He may, however, have been motivated by fear, not so much of the authorities but of being, once more, an outsider. Laura Hein’s masterful study of Ōuchi Hyōe and the fi ve economists who comprised the Ōuchi Group has demonstrated that much of the group’s success in articulating opposition to government policy and

19 MKZ, XVIII, 6. 20 Ibid., 23–4. 21 Shiozaki, 18. afterword: notes on a death 247 mainstream attitudes in the 1930s was due to the strength and cohesion of fraternal bonds traditionally established among the educated elite in schools and then strengthened in colleges and universities. Th e fact that the economists formed such a tight-knit community contributed to their arrest and imprisonment in 1938, but their refusal to implicate one another also contributed to their eventual release and, in some cases, acquittal. Moreover, Ōuchi’s strength of character and leadership prevented his younger colleagues from committing tenkō; they followed suit in not accepting any deals for their release from the prosecutors and the group’s ideological integrity was thus preserved.22 As well as the importance of group psychology, Doi Takeo highlights the importance of Japanese psychological concepts of omote and ura which, roughly corresponding to the English ‘front’ and ‘rear’ respectively, indicate contrasting psychological strategies for dealing with the need to present a face to the world of audience. Omote is related to the image of self presented to the world, while ura is the ‘mind’, what one would hide from others, or what one would reveal only to those closest to us. According to Doi: Th e ease with which one shift s from omote to ura and back again without much strain is regarded as the measure of one’s social maturity. In other words, it doesn’t blemish a man’s integrity to take recourse to one or the other depending on the particular situation he fi nds himself in. Rather his integrity rests upon the complete mastery of omote and ura. For some Japanese the pain of having to learn to alternate between omote and ura in childhood may lead to a permanent splitting of the ego if the two facets of behaviour do not become fully integrated.23 From the point of view of western culture which privileges individual subjectivity over social harmony, we may judge such behaviour to be hypocritical. However, Doi has argued that the ability to move seam- lessly from omote to ura is not intended to maintain some kind of double moral standard.24 Yet, historians in the West appear frustrated with Japanese intellectuals in the 1930s who claimed to be able to make psycho-social adjustments without apparently contradicting deeply-held convictions or beliefs.

22 Laura Hein, Reasonable Men, Powerful Words: Political Culture and Expertise in Twentieth Century Japan (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2004), 71. 23 Doi, 86–7. 24 Ibid. 248 afterword: notes on a death

Another explanation for Miki’s ambiguity may be found in anthropologist Takie Sugiyama Lebra’s notion of a still and silent ‘inner self ’ which provides “a fixed core for self-identity and subjectivity”.25 Described by the Japanese term kokoro (heart and mind or spirit) and referred to in the tanka comprising Miki’s ‘poetical’ monument, the inner self provides a haven for the truth and purity at the centre of one’s being. While language has the potential to deceive, the truth which resides at our centre is silent and inexpressible.26 Th is view of an inner self which somehow remains unsullied by the adjustments demanded by society of the presentational self, sits uneasily alongside western notions of personal integrity and, above all, consistency. Th is may explain why Miki’s Japanese biographers, over a period of sixty years, have been able to look past his reputation as ideologue of Konoe’s New Order in Asia to the apparent ‘truth’ at the centre of his being without any sense of irony, or fear of contradiction. In Th e Unspoken Philosophy Miki stated: My problem is to maintain the integrity of the thoughts and feelings which lie at the bottom of my heart—that which is not written down—even if that means destroying the unity of external form, while not necessarily destroying the unity of the spiritual.27 He thus articulated the confl ict between internal content (ura) and exterior form (omote) within Japanese constructions of self—his ‘unspoken philosophy’. For Jean Strouse, the biographer’s task is not only to show the reader how the subject’s mind worked, but also how his or her own mind works in making its evaluations and interpretations.28 It could be argued that the resistance—collaboration paradigm, with its focus on unwavering consistency, is based on Western assumptions about how the mind works. As such it is perhaps too Western-centric an approach to the problems that Japanese thinkers pose. It is Miki’s very inconsistency—the paradoxes and contradictions in his work, the silences which operate at the margins—which are the key to unlocking its meaning or its ‘truth’. Th ere is also little credence in Miles Fletcher’s view that

25 Takie Sugiyama Lebra, “Self in Japanese Culture,” Japanese Sense of Self, ed. Nancy R. Rosenberger, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 112. 26 Ibid. 27 MKZ, XVIII, 42. 28 Jean Strouse, “Alice James: A Family Romance,” Psychology and Historical Inter- pretation, ed., William McKinley Runyan, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 101–2. afterword: notes on a death 249 inconsistency or “fl exibility in the ideas of these men [Ryū Shintarō, Rōyama Masamichi and Miki] was another reason for their adoption of fascist ideology.”29 Miki’s work resonates with tensions, ambiguities and contradictions. Th e question is not whether such inconsistencies make him a fascist, but at what point do the contradictions become so great that the very basis of his essential humanism becomes over-determined to the point of being untenable? Goto-Jones in his discussion of the boundaries between, in Hei- degger’s terms, idéologique/politique and philosophique, has argued that Miki “took the step out of philosophy and into ideology” when he committed tenkō and joined the Shōwa Research Association.30 Yasuda Yojūrō (1910–1981) took a similar step, out of literature into politics in the 1930s. Described by Hashikawa Bunzō as the embodiment of the Japan Romantic Movement, Yasuda has been demonised for his political writing. Alan Tansman, in a recent article, reminds us of the danger of “viewing all cultural products of the time through the prism of politics” because of the almost complete intrusion of politics into private life in the 1930s.31 Yasuda’s rhetoric may, as some have claimed, inspired a devotion which led young men to their deaths but, argues Tansman, we must put such a tainted reputation aside and let the power of his poetry touch us, just as it did the adolescents reading him in the 1930s. He went on: If a writer—Kawabata Yasunari, or Shiga Naoya, for example—is not overtly political, we ignore the imprint of society and view him as pris- tinely untouched by the imprint of politics, as having wilfully turned from public life to the confi nes of the lyrical imagination. If a writer seems too embroiled in the real world of power—as Yasuda did to some—we disregard his poetic, lyric qualities, judging him to have simply joined the fray.32 Tansman argued that although not a fascist Yasuda “attempted to resolve the contradictions of modernity through a process not unlike that found in the aesthetic of fascism.” In speaking of spiritual transformation and Japanese ‘world mission’, he “allowed his writing to

29 Fletcher, 161. He also argues that their openness to Western ideas, particularly socialism made them vulnerable to fascism. 30 Goto-Jones (2006), 22–3. 31 Alan Tansman, “Bridges to Nowhere: Yasuda Yojūrō’s Language of Violence and Desire,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 56:1 (June 1996): 39. 32 Ibid., 40. 250 afterword: notes on a death teeter at the edge of real-world politics.”33 Miki also allowed his writing to teeter at the edge of real-world politics, but his philosophy was one of engaging with the real world, not escaping from it. In the end, however, his attempt to fi nd a middle way was unable to provide an answer to the predicament of his age. Perhaps he should have paid more heed to Pascal’s pensée 242: “Power and not opinion is the ruler of the world.—But it is opinion that makes use of power.—It is power that forms opinion.” Miki died not under the repressive regime of an authoritarian government in the throes of defeat, but under the Allied Occupation which had begun six weeks earlier with a pledge to instil in the Japanese people “a desire for individual liberties and respect for fundamental human rights”.34 Th is was not a good start. News of the death of one of Japan’s most eminent philosophers in such appalling circumstances shocked foreign correspondents in Japan causing a considerable amount of embarrassment and political fall-out within General Douglas MacAr- thur’s headquarters. Despite the eff orts of the Japanese Left and Korean nationalists from early September, neither the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers, nor the Higashikuni cabinet seemed willing to contemplate the release of political prisoners, especially communists or suspected communists.35 Th ree days aft er Miki’s death, on September 29, foreign correspondent Andrew Roth pleaded for their immediate release, on grounds of political expediency: Th e release of these men and women will have a tremendous eff ect on the population. It will be a clear indication that we are not the willing dupes of the surviving members of the oligarchy, with whom we have so far dealt. Th e people of Japan will begin to believe that we really intend to strengthen democratic trends. Americans interested in a peaceful and democratic Japan should look to the prisons, not the palace.36 On 4 October 1945 MacArthur, faced with press criticism and public pressure, ordered the Higashikuni cabinet to comply with a directive permitting the lift ing of censorship measures regarding the Imperial

33 Ibid., 41–2. 34 Supreme Commander for Allied Powers, Government Section, “Political Reorien- tation of Japan, September 1945 to September 1948” in Lu, ed. Japan: A Documentary History, 461. Th is document was originally transmitted to MacArthur on 29 August 1945. 35 Yui, 40. 36 “Th e Prisoners We Forgot,” Th e Nation, 29 September 1945. Cited in Yui, 42. afterword: notes on a death 251

Household and abrogating the Peace Preservation Law and other restrictive regulations.37 Th e government was fi nally forced to release all political prisoners and abolish repressive government organisations. Several days later further steps were taken which eventually laid the foundations of post-war civil liberties in Japan. Sadly, it would appear that it was only in death that Miki, in some small way, was able to contribute to the realisation of the essential humanitarian principles that he had campaigned for in life. Miki’s funeral, just two days after his death, was attended by a huge crowd of mourners including Ōuchi Hyōe and his group, living reminders that not all Japanese intellectuals were ‘fascists’ or tenkōsha in Japan’s ‘Dark Valley’. Miki’s body was carried from the house of his brother-in-law, Tōhata Sei’ichi, the same house from which his fi rst wife Kimiko had processed as a bride. Kuno asks why was nothing done to help Miki; what of his friends, his family, his colleagues? He answers this question by referring to Zen no Kenkyū in which Nishida stated: “When one thinks strictly from pure experience, there are no independent, self-contained facts apart from conscious phenomena, and as Berkeley has stated, it is a case of esse percipi (to be = to be perceived)”.38 Kuno referred to this Berkeleyite subjectivist principle in connection with the national conditions surrounding Miki’s imprisonment. Not being perceived, Miki ceased to be.

37 Th e memorandum for the Imperial Japan Government of 4 October 1945 on the subject of ‘Removal of Restrictions on Political, Civil and Religious Liberties’ directed the government to ‘abrogate and immediately suspend the operation of all laws, decrees, orders, ordinances and regulations’ used to restrict the civil liberties on ground of ‘race, nationality, creed or political opinion.’ Th ose relating to directly to Miki’s case were the Peace Preservation Law (Chian iji hō) Law no. 54, promulgated on or around 10 March 1941, under which he had been charged and, more indirectly, the Protection and Surveillance Law for Th ought Off ence (Shisō han kansatsu hō), Law no. 29 promulgated on or around 29 May 1936. Paragraph 16c demanded that the government ‘release immediately all persons now detained, imprisoned, under “protection or surveillance”, or whose freedom is restricted in any other manner or who have been placed in that state of detention, imprisonment, “protection and surveillance”, or restriction of freedom’. It should be noted that Miki was technically still in detention awaiting trial some six months aft er his arrest. 38 Nishida, trans., Abe & Ives, 45. 252 afterword: notes on a death BIBLIOGRAPHY

Japanese Language Primary Sources

Miki Kiyoshi. Miki Kiyoshi Zenshū [Th e complete works of Miki Kiyoshi]. Edited by Ōuchi Hyōe et al. (19 vols.) Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1966–8. Th e following is a list of works consulted (arranged chronologically) with date of fi rst publication followed by volume and page numbers:

Pasukaru ni okeru ningen no kenkyū (A study of man in Pascal), (June 1926), I: 1–192. “Ningengaku no marukusuteki keitai” [Th e Marxist form of anthropology], (June 1927, Shisō) III: 5–41. “Marukusushugi to yuibutsuron” [Marxism and materialism], (Aug. 1927, Shisō) III: 42–77. “Puragumachisumu to marukishizumu no tetsugaku” [Pragmatism and the philosophy of Marxism], (Dec. 1927, Shisō), III: 78–118. “Kiki ni okeru rironteki ishiki” [Th e theoretical consciousness of crisis], (Jan. 1929, Kaizō), II: 241–254. “Yuibutsuron to sono genjitsu keitai” [Materialism and its actual forms] (Feb. 1929, Shinkō tetsugaku no hata no moto ni), III: 334–366. “Nishida Kitarō Hakase” [Dr. Nishida Kitarō], (Feb. 1929, Kaizō), XVII: 189–191. “Heeguru no benshōhō to reenin” [Hegel’s dialectics and Lenin] (Nov. 1929, Shinkō kagaku no hata no moto ni), X: 77–82. “Haidegga no sonzairon” [Heidegger’s ontology] of (Jan. 1930, Chūōkoron), X: 83–90. “Niiche” [Nietzsche], (Mar. 1930, Sekai Shichō), X: 13–156. Rekishi Tetsugaku [Philosophy of history], (Apr. 1932), VI: 1–288. “Supinoza ni okeru ningen to kokka” [Man and state in Spinoza], (July 1932, Supinoza to Heeguru), II: 292–33.3. “Kiki ishiki no tetsugakuteki kaimei” [A philosophical elucidation of crisis consciousness] (Nov. 1932, Shisō), V: 3–30. Kiki ni okeru ningen no tachiba [Th e standpoint of man in crisis], (June 1933), XVII: 318–22. “Fuan no shisō to sono chōkoku” [Th e thought of Angst and overcoming it], (June, 1933, Kaizō), X: 285–309. “Jiyūshugisha no tachiba” [Th e standpoint of liberals], (July 1933, Tokyo Asahi Shin- bun), XIII: 133–142. “Tetsugakusha Hamuretto” (Th e Philosopher Hamlet), (Sept., 1933,Sheekusupiya zenshū), XIX: 612–3. “Haidegga to tetsugaku no unmei” [Heidegger and the fate of philosophy], (Nov. 1933, Serupan), X: 310–320. “Rekishiteki ishiki to shinwateki ishiki” [Historical consciousness and mythical consciousness], (Feb. 1934, Shinkyō), X: 321–334. “Atarashii ningen no tetsugaku” [Th e philosophy of the new man], (July 1934, Bungei), X: 335–51. “Shesutofuteki fuan nitsuite” [On Shestovian Angst], (Sept. 1934, Kaizō), II: 392–405. “Rōmanshugi no teitō” [Th e increasing infl uence of Romanticism], (Nov. 1934, Miyako shinbun), XIII: 157–67. Foreword to Shesutofu Senshū [Shestov anthology, vol. II], (Dec. 1934), XVII: 325–9. “Gendai no rōmanshugi nitsuite” [On the modern romanticism], (June 1935, Chūōkōron), X: 373–91. 254 bibliography

“Higōrishugiteki keikō ni tsuite” [On the trend towards irrationality], (Sept. 1935, Kaizō), X: 392–409. “Zentaishugi hihan” [A critique of totalitarianism], (Oct. 1935, Chūōkōron), XIX: 664–72. “Nihon bunka no tokushitsu—Nishida Kitarō hakase to no ichimon ittō” [Th e special characteristics of Japanese culture—a dialogue with Dr. Nishida Kitarō], (Oct. 1935, Yomiuri shinbun), XVII: 475–91. “Hitotsu no Nishi mondai—Nihon to Shina shisō” [A problem for Japan and China— Japanese and Chinese thought], (Oct. 1935, Ichinichi ichidai), XVI: 71–80. “Nihon bunka no hōkō” [Th e direction of Japanese culture] (Dec. 1935,Ichinichi ichidai), XVI: 80–8. “Nishida tetsugaku no seikaku ni tsuite” [On the characteristics of Nishida’s philosophy], (Jan. 1936, Shisō), X: 410–34. “Nihonteki seikaku to fasshizumu” [Th e Japanese character and Fascism], (Aug. 1936, Chūōkōron), XIII: 241–67. “Yanaihara Kyōjucho no Minzoku to Heiwa” [Professor Yanaihara’s Nation and Peace] (Sept. 1936, Teikoku daigaku shinbun), XIX: 392–5. “Chishiki kaikyû to dentō no mondai” [Th e intelligentsia and the problem of tradition] (Apr. 1937, Chūōkōron), XIII: 326–46. “Osanakimono no tame ni” [For the Children], (July 1937, Kagenaki kage), XIX: 109–29. “Nihon no genjitsu” [Japan’s Actuality], (Nov. 1937, Chūōkōron), XIII: 438–63. “Chishiki kaikyū ni atau” [To the intellectual class], (June 1938, Chūōkōron), XV: 237–43. Shōwa Kenkyūkai. Shin Nihon no shisō genri [Th e principles of thought for a new Japan], (Jan. 1939), XVII: 507–33. Jinseiron nōto [Notes on Life], (June 1939 to Oct. 1941, Bungakkai), I: 193–361. Shōwa kenkyūkai. Shin Nihon no shisō genri: Zokuhen [Th e principles of thought for a new Japan: Supplement], (Sept. 1939), XVII: 534–88. Dokusho Henreki [Wanderings through the world of books], (June 1941 to Jan. 1942, Bungei), I: 369–432. “Waga seishun” [The Springtime of my Life], (June 1942, Dokusho to Jinsei), I: 363–8. “Hitōjin no tōyōteki seikaku” [Th e oriental character of the Filipinos] (Feb. 1943, Kaizō), XV: 478–519. “Fuirippin bunka no seikaku” [Th e characteristics of Filipino culture] (Oct. 1943, Kokusai bunka), XV: 591–611. Kōsōryoku no ronri [Th e logic of the imagination], (1938 and posthumously), VIII. Tetsugakuteki ningengaku [Philosophical anthropology], (1936 and posthumously) XVIII: 125–420. Katararezaru tetsugaku [Th e unspoken philosophy], (1919, published posthumously), XVIII: 1–94. “Tetsugaku—bungaku yōgo kaisetsu” [An explanation of the usage of philosophical and literary terms], XII: 293–396. “Nikki” [Diaries], XIX: 131–216. “Shokan” [Letters], XIX: 219–453. “Nempyō” [Chronological Record], XIX: 851–90.

Miki Kiyoshi. “Daigaku no ken-i” [Th e Authority of the university]. Yanaihara Tadao Jiken Gojūnen [Th e Yanaihara Incident fift y years on]. Edited by Ōkawara Reizō, 44–59. Tokyo: Bokutakusha, 1987. —— “Shukyō kaikaku ka shakai kaikaku ka” Religious reform or social reform?]. Miki Kiyoshi Zenshū [Th e complete works of Miki Kiyoshi]. Edited by Ōuchi Hyōe et al. (20 vols.), XX, 99–101. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1986. bibliography 255

Ōuchi Hyōe. Watakushi no Rirekisho [My Memoirs]. Tokyo: Odosha Shoten, 1952. Uchida Hiroshi ed. Miki Kiyoshi Essensu [Th e essence of Miki Kiyoshi]. Tokyo: Kobushi Shobo, 2000. Yanaihara Tadao. Yanaihara Tadao Zenshū [Th e complete works of Yanaihara Tadao]. Edited by Nambara Shigeru et al. (29 vols.). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1963–5). —— “Kami no Kuni” [Th e Kingdom of God]. XVIII. —— Watakushi no Ayundekita Michi [Th e Road I have Walked], XXVI.

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Akamatsu Tsunehiro. Miki Kiyoshi: Tetsugakuteki shisaku no kiseki [Miki Kiyoshi: Tracking his philosophical thought]. Kyoto: Minerva: 1994. Fujita Wakao. Yanaihara Tadao: Sono Shinkō to Shōgai [Yanaihara Tadao: His Faith and Life]. Tokyo: Kyobunkan, 1967. Hani Gorō. “Miki Kiyoshi ga Doitsubun de kaita ronbun yonpen nitsuite” [Miki Kiyoshi’s four essays written in German]. MKZ, II, 481–3. Ikimatsu Keizō. Taisho-ki no shisō to bunka [Th ought and culture in the Taisho Period]. Tokyo: Aoki shoten, 1971. Karaki Junzō. Miki Kiyoshi. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1947. —— Miki Kiyoshi—Mujō. Edited by Matsumaru Hisao. Kyoto: Toeisha, 2002. Kasumijōkan dayori. 39 (1 January 2005). Kimura Chiyoko. “Miki tetsugaku-ron: kango kyoiku ni okeru ningen rikai no tame ni” [A Consideration of Miki Kiyoshi’s Philosophy of ‘Imagination’: For a Better Under- standing of Human Nature from a Viewpoint of Nursing Education] Nihon daigaku daigakuin sōgō shakai jōhō kenkyūkai kiyō 4, 355–367 (2003). Kitaoka Shin’ichi. Nihon Gaikō ni okeru Ajiashugi [Asianism in Japanese foreign policy]. Nihon Seijigaku Kaihen [Th e Annals of the Japanese Political Science Association] Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1998. Kosaka Kunitsugu. Nishida Kitarō o meguru tetsugakusha gunzō [Nishida Kitaro’s circle of philosophers]. Tokyo: Minerva shobo, 1997. Kuno Osamu ed. Gendai Nihon Shisō Taikei [Outline of modern Japanese thought], vol. 33 Miki Kiyoshi. Tokyo: Chikuma shobo, 1966. Machiguchi Tetsuo. Teikoku no keijijōgaku: Miki Kiyoshi no rekishi tetsugaku [Th e metaphysics of empire: Miki Kiyoshi’s historical philosophy]. Tokyo: Sakuhinsha, 2004. Muramoto Shoji. “Miki Kiyoshi to Gēte.” Moruforogia: Gēte to Shizen kagaku 19 (1997). Satō Nobue. Nishida Kitarō to Miki Kiyoshi. Tokyo: Chūōkōronsha, 1946. Shiozaki Hiroaki. “Shōwa kenkyūkai to Miki Kiyoshi no Kyōdoshugi” [Th e Shōwa Research Association and Miki Kiyoshi’s communalism]. Nihon Rekishi 542 (July 1993): 18–37. Uchida Hiroshi. Miki Kiyoshi: koseisha no kōsōryoku [Th e imagination of an individual]. Tokyo: Ochanomizu shobo, 2004. —— “Miki Kiyoshi no Marukusu juyō” [Miki Kiyoshi’s reception of Marx]. Seigakuin Daigaku sōgō kenkyūjo kiyō 25 (2002): 11–53.

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INDEX

Abe Jirō 59, 60, 77, 95, 119 Crémieux, Benjamin 185–6, 192, 197 Santarō’s Diary 59, 61fn. cultural particularism 149–150, 197, 223 Abe Rokujō 190 Nihonjinron (theory of Japanese Allied Occupation 4, 250–1 uniqueness) 102, 123, 233 Miki and Civil Liberties Bill 3, 4, 251 culturalism (bunkashugi) 53, 101–2 Angst 185–192, 200 culture 122, 233 Arahata Kanson 9, 13 debates on 101–4 Arishima Takeo 73, 98 defi nitions of 102 Aristotle 128, 145, 175, 218, 233, 239 autobiography 8–11 D’Annunzio 43 James Olney on 11 Dante 60, 116 Descartes, René 109, 128, 131, 243 Barth, Karl 134, 188 Dewey, John 137 Barthold, Niebuhr 159 Dilthey, Wilhelm 97, 125, 129, 130, Bashō 34, 38 143, 155, 196, 215–6 Baudelaire 16, 45 Doi Bansui 38 Benda, Julien 186 Dostoevsky 41, 187 Bergson, Henri 105–6, 137, 140, 188, Durkheim, Emile 123 200, 204, 211 Bolzano, Bernard 127 education 23–4, 50 Boethius 12 Imperial Rescript on 26–7 Bolshevik Revolution 38, 40, 81 Nishida Kitarō’s criticism of 27 Buddhism 14, 30–32, 57, 66–8, 90, 108 and Uchimura Kanzō 54 Hōnen 30–1 Eucken, Rudolf Christoph 105, 106 Nichiren 30 Europe 12, 17, 186–7, 190 Rennyo 31–2 1890s generation 122–4, 139 Shinran 30–2, 51, 99 Tannishō 30, 66, 68, 108 fascism 6, 43, 200, 248–50 Shinshū 14, 66 February 26 Incident 210–11 Bultman, Rudolf 133–4 Flaubert, Gustave 45, 116 Burckhardt, Jacob 116 First Higher School 2, 50, 51, 52, Brentano, Franz 97, 140 58–9 and High Treason Incident 54, 55fn. Carlyle, Th omas 223 Nitobe Inazō as principal of 53–5 censorship 47, 81, 150–1, 180–2, and Uchimura Kanzō 53 184–5, 224, 229, 239, 241, 250 First World War 17, 51, 80, 135, 185–6 Chekhov, Anton 60 Miki’s reaction to 121–2 Christianity 51–5, 9, 64–5, 76, 94 Fischer, Kuno 125 compared with Buddhism 66–70 France 13, 14, 25, 135 mukyōkai sect 52, 54, 65, 69, 72, France, Anatole 95, 116, 135 76, 77 Fujimura Misao, ‘philosophical’ suicide Uchimura Kanzō and 65, 72, 76, 77 of 61–2 Chūōkōron symposia 242 Fukada Yasukazu 82, 94, 117, 135 class 21–2, 28, 65, 188, 229, 230, 237 Fukumoto Kazuo 148–9 Cohen, Hermann 125–6, 140, 152, 185 Fukuzawa Yukichi 59 Confucianism 26, 27, 28, 90 Funayama Shin’ichi 221, 246 cities, growth of 53 Futabatei Shimei 25, 41 266 index

Gadamer, Hans Georg 117, 118, 128, Hegel Research Society 228fn. 130–1 International Hegel Society 153–4 Germany 13, 17, 25, 53, 89, 221 Heimin Shinbun 37, 71 assassination of Walther Rathenau Heine, Heinrich 116 118–9 Herrigel, Eugen 117, 126–7 bonfi re of books 185 Hidaka Daishirō 98 Deutscher Tag 121 Hori Tatsuo 188 ‘fascism’ in 201–2, 205 Hototogisu School 38 Hitler Putsch 121 Hulme T. E. 198–9 infl ation 17, 120–1 Husserl, Edmund 93, 96, 126, 127, 130 Miki’s arrival in 118–9 humanism 34, 36, 60, 95, 140, 143 National Socialism 118, 184–5, 200 Humboldt, Karl Wilhelm von 129 neo-romanticism in 186, 201 German philosophy 89, 134, 203–4 I-novel (shishōsetsu) 36 Baden (Southwestern) School 126 Ibsen, Henrik 42–3 idealism 89, 101, 124, 125 Ikuta Chōkō 43, 210 Marburg School 89, 97, 125 Imperial Rule Assistance Association Gide, Andrè 43, 134, 187, 190, 192, 246 141 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang 10, 116, Inoue Enryō 90 117, 157, 179, 194, 215 Inoue Tetsujirō 89, 90 Faust 60, 107, 158, 159, 179 intellectual classes, defi nition of 85–6 Miki on 157–60 Ishikawa Takuboku 37 Wilhelm Meister novels 10, 158–9 Ishihara Ken 118, 119, 120, 154 Gramsci, Antonio 85–6, 174 Itō Sei 187 defi nition of ‘intellectual’ 85–6 Iwakura Tomomi 21 Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere Iwanami Shigeo 117, 145, 212, 239 232–3 Green, Th omas Hill 89 James, William 137, 187fn Grote, George 115, 134 Jammes, Francis 116 Gundolf, Friedrich 157–8, 159 Japan Communist Party 148, 151, 152, 177 Haldane, John 219 Japan Romantic Movement 40, 190–1 Hamann, Johann Georg 129 Miki’s criticism of 197–8 Hamamoto Hiroshi 116 Jaspers, Karl 130, 188 Hamlet 193–4 Joyce, James 187 Hani (Mori) Gorō 118, 120, 152, 177 and New Science Association Kaibara Ekken 27 149–51, 152 Karaki Junzō 12, 13, 213 Hara Katsurō 105 on Miki’s personality 14–16, 244 Hattori Shisō 151 Kamei Katsuichirō 190–1, 197 Hayashi Fusao 175 Kant, Immanuel 74, 97, 109, 128, 131, Hayashi Tatsuo 106 205 Hartmann, Nicolai 129–30 and ‘basic experience’ (kiso keiken) Hasegawa Nyozekan 50, 81, 100, 132 184–5 infl uence on Miki’s ideas 129, Hatano Sei’ichi 82, 94–5, 115, 117, 144 131–2 Hayami Hiroshi 83 Katayama Sen 71 Heidegger, Martin 2, 13, 93, 96, 117, Katō Hiroyuki 89 118, 126, 133, 143, 175, 188 Kawakami Hajime 4, 82, 99 Being and Time 165–6 ‘absolute selfl essness’ 99–100 concept of Dasein 167–8, 206 arrest of 184 importance of 128, 165 Tale of Poverty 82, 99 Miki on 137, 165–8, 184–5 Kawakami Tetsutarō 190 Hegel 96, 97, 124 Kawabata Shimurō 59 index 267

Kierkegaard, Søren 60, 70, 111, 117, Miki Kiyoshi 152–3, 184, 186, 188, 200 on anti-Semitism 185, 202 Kikuchi Kan 223 arrest of (in 1930) 3, 151–2; Kindaichi Kyōsuke 9 (in 1945) 242–4 Kitahara Hakushū 37 on ‘basic experience’ (kiso keiken) Kobayashi Hideo 187fn., 188–9, 190 132, 160, 166–71, 174–5, 196, 240 Kobayashi Isamu 150 and Catholicism 228–9 Kobayashi Takiji 152, 184 on crisis consciousness 183–4 Koeber, Rafael von 60, 89, 94 criticism of 5, 151, 176, 177, 197, Konoe Fumimaro 6, 232, 241 221–2, 229, 233 Kōsaka Masaaki 242 and the cultivation of solitude 14, Kōtoku Shūsui 37, 71 244–6 and the High Treason Trial 38, 54 death of 3–4, 244, 250 defended by Tokutomi Roka 54 death of second wife Itoko (nee Kōyama Iwao 242 Kobayashi) 242 Krauss, J. B. 228–9 on death 209–10, 213 Kuwaki Gen’yoku 101, 103 and East Asian Cooperative Kumazawa Banzan 27 Community 217, 222–34 Kunikida Doppo 36, 37, 41 in Europe 117; Heidelberg 119, 120, Kuno Osamu 151 124–7; Marburg 126, 128–134; on Miki’s arrest in 1945 242–5 Paris 134–9, 160 on Miki’s personality 14, 244 and fascism 6, 12, 226, 229, 239, 249 Kuraishi Takeshirō 58 Miki’s critique of 189–198, 201–7, Kurata Hyakuzō 99 229–30 Kyoto Imperial University 2, 4, 50, in First Higher School 51, 53, 179 86–8, 144, 183 and Fukada Yasukazu 94–6 Kyoto School of Philosophy 6, 96 Gadamer, infl uence of 128 and Nishida Kitarō 86–8, 141 and Hatano Sei’ichi 94–5, 144 Heidegger, infl uence of 128 Lange, Friedrich Albert 125 and Herrigel 126–7 Lask, Emil 126–7 historical philosophy 95, 105, 106, Lawrence, D. H. 187, 191 124–5, 126 Leibnitz, Gottfried Wilhelm 211 historiography surrounding 4–7 Lessing Gotthold 185 and history 104–6 Löwith, Karl 117, 118, 130 and humanism 34, 36, 60, 95 Luther, Martin 66 itinerancy 10, 12 in Junior High School 22, 33, 44–5, Manchuria 40 50, 51 Miki’s tours of 145, 241 Th e Logic of the Imagination 5, 174, Mann, Th omas 124, 157–8 176, 196, 214, 220–1, 233 Mannheim, Karl 126 loneliness of 14, 53, 55–8, 77, 78, Marx, Karl 5, 13, 143 244 Marxism 80, 148–154, 189, 223, 234 and March 15 Communist Incident Miki’s critique of 169–174 147–8 Materialism Study Group 220–1 and Marxism 5, 148–54, 164, 175–8, Matsumaru Hisao 12 184–5, 218, 225, 229, 234 Maupassant, Guy de 35, 45 commodities 173–5 Meinecke, Friedrich 124, 125 Miki’s criticism of 202–4 Meinong, Alexius 97, 140 “Th e Marxist form of anthropology” Miki Eikichi (father of Kiyoshi) 21, 29, 167–71, 174 56, 75 monument to 1–4, 14 Miki Kimiko (nee Tōhata, fi rst wife of moratorium 62–70 Kiyoshi) 146, 210–214, 251 and nature 14–5, 30, 32, 34, 36–7, death of 145, 211 42, 74, 116, 129, 217, 218 268 index

mystifi cation of 204–5 Montaigne 195 and culture 220 Mori Ōgai 37, 71 and Nishida Kitarō 10, 13, 74–5, 79, Morikawa Reijirō 113 82, 83–4, 96, 105–7, 139–40, 144–5, Motada Eifu 26 160 Müller, Adam Heinrich 201–2 collaboration with 154, 183 Mushanokōji Saneatsu 73, 98–9 Notes on Life 3, 15, 47, 233 and New Village Movement 73, 82, Pascal, infl uence of 137–9 98, 101 personality of 4, 7–8, 12, 14–5, 16, and Shiga Naoya 73 46, 144, 209–10, 244–6, 248–9 in Philippines 13, 242 Nagao Yoshirō 73 Philosophical Anthropology 155, 195, Naitō Konan 105 211, 214–220 Nakae Chōmin 59, 88 Philosophy of History 139, 154, Nakagawa Yoichi 203 155–7, 176 Nakajima Kenzō 225 on ‘philosophy of life’ 106, 131, 133, Nanbara Shigeru 51, 183 139 Naruse Mukyoku 119 poems 4, 10 Natorp, Paul 126 Primary School 22, 26–9 Natsume Sōseki 34, 38, 39, 59 on Rickert 126 Naturalism 35, 36, 46, 72, 95 scandal involving 144–5 neo-Kantianism 79, 89, 97, 98, 101, and scepticism 46, 62, 63, 189 103, 125 and Shinran 30–2, 64, 66, 67, 75, 137 New Order in East Asia 232–3 and Shōwa Research Association 58, New Science Association 149–51, 152 222–34, 249 Under the Banner of the New Science sources on 7–14 149–51, 154 Soviet Union, criticism of 231 Nietzsche, Friedrich 60–1, 153, 184, A Study of Man in Pascal, 117, 145, 186, 188 160–5 and the cultivation of solitude 245 on technology (techné) 5, 205, 218, Ecce Homo 210, 245 220–2, 234 Th us Spoke Zarathustra 61, 241, 245 and tenkō 6, 7, 10, 13, 152, 175–6, Abe Jirō’s critique of 61 185, 193, 207, 246, 248–50 will to power 204 and Tolstoy 70, 73, 77 Ninomiya Sontoku (Kinjirō) 27 on totalitarianism 43, 217, 229–30 Nishi Amane 88 Th e Unspoken Philosophy 10–1, 12, Nishida Kitarō 2, 6, 7, 13, 27, 79, 82, 48, 77–8, 66, 106–113 83–4, 109–10, 111–12, 118–9, 241, Wanderings through the World of 246 Books 8–10, 12, 44, 47–8, 66, and birth of Japanese philosophy 77–8 88–90 Miki Rofu 1 collaboration with Miki 154, 210 Miki Shin (mother of Kiyoshi) 21, and Kyoto Imperial University 86–8 29–30, 34 and Tanabe Hajime 96–7 death of 145 as teacher 90–4 Miki Yoko (daughter of Kiyoshi) 152, Zen no Kenkyū (An inquiry into the 210, 243 good) 44, 74, 83fn., 89–90, 96, “For the Children” 211–2 99, 251 Mill, J. S. 134 Nishida Yayoi (daughter of Kitarō), Milton, John 45 recollections of Miki 83–4 Mitsuchi Kōzō 116–7, 152 Nishimura Shigeki 26 Miura Kaneyuki (Hiroyuki) 105 Nishitani Keiji 76, 84, 145, 242 Miyagawa Tōru 13 on Nishida 90–1 Miyajima Toshimi 57 Nitobe Inazō 53–4, 69, 73, 76, 100 Miyake Setsurei 59 Nozaki Hiroyoshi 108, 117 index 269

Oda Shigeru 106 Saegusa Hiroto 221 Okamoto Haruhiko 117 Sakaguchi Takashi 82, 105 Ōkōchi Masatoshi 221 Sakai Saburō 223–4 Ōnishi Hajime 89 Sakai Toshihiko 37 Ōuchi Hyōe 119, 235, 246–7, 251 Satō Haruo 44 and Yanaihara Incident 235 Satō Nobue 13 Ōyama Iwao 224fn.; 226, 246 Satomi Ton 73 Ozaki Hotsumi 4 Scheler, Max 130–1, 159, 192 Overcoming Modernity Symposium Schlegel, August Wilhelm 198fn., 200 50, 228fn. Schlegel, Friedrich von 129, 200 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 131 Pascal, Blaise 41, 134, 137, 143 Schopenhauer, Arthur 60 Pensées 143, 160–5, 250 Shestov, Lev 40, 51, 190–1 personality psychology 8, 48, 79 Shiga Naoya 37, 73, 249 Dan McAdams’ method of narrative Shimazaki Tōson 36 interpretation 8, 9 Shinmei Masamichi 233 generativity script 209, 240 Shirakaba-ha (White Birches School) imago and anti-imago 8, 79, 80, 245 72, 98, 99, 101, 116, 137 Pestallozzi, Johann Heinrich 133 and Bernard Leach 72 Petrarch 195–6 Schmitt, Carl 229 Proletarian Literary Movement 184 Shōwa Research Association 6, 8, 11, Miki’s criticism of 194–5 12, 210, 220–234 Proletarian Science Research Association Cultural Problems Committee 151, 228fn. 223–234 Proust, Marcel 187, 188 membership of 224 psychology 10, 13, 28, 48 shutaisei (active subjectivity) 6, 216–7, Doi Takeo’s concept of amae 30; 221–2, 240 concepts of omote and ura 247–8 Sōda Ki’ichirō 101, 103 Spann, Othmar 201, 229 Ranke, Leopold von 124–5 Spinoza, Baruch 74, 154, 217 reading and readership 11, 16, 21–23 St. Augustine 107, 119, 128–9, 133, 156 government reaction to 45, 46–7 Confessions 156, 215 infl uence of Russo-Japanese War on St. Francis of Assissi 114 24, 34–5, 38–9 St. Paul 41, 76, 110 infl uence of Sino-Japanese War on stream of consciousness (ryūdōshugi) 24–6 187–8 infl uence of Western literature 39–47 Taine, Hippolyte 95 language reform 24–6 Taishō democracy 49, 53, 79, 101, literacy rates 24 103–4 Renan, Ernst 139 Taishō generation 11, 49, 139 Rickert, Heinrich 2, 98, 101, 103, 117, Taishō liberalism 49, 76, 143 118, 124, 140 Takakura Teru 242 Miki’s impressions of 126–7 and Miki’s arrest in 1945 243–4 Rocco, Alfredo 229, 239 Takigawa Yukitoki 183, 237 romanticism 130, 194, 197–201 Tanabe Hajime 6, 82, 96–8, 104, and classicism 197–9 108–9, 118 Jena Romantics 200 in Germany 96, 119, 128 Rousseau, James 200, 201 Tanikawa Tetsuzo 98, 106 Rōyama Masamichi 50, 183, 221 Tanizaki Jun’ichirō 37, 44 Royce, Josiah 137 tenkō (political and/or ideological Russia, Japan and 39–40 re-orientation) 6, 7, 10, 13, 152, Russo-Japanese War 121–2 175–6, 243–4, 247–9 pacifi sm 71, 222 Terada Kijirō 33, 34, 37, 40, 44–5 270 index

Terada Torahiko 209 Windelband, Wilhelm 61, 125 Tettō Shoin 150 Wordsworth, William 22, 36, 45 Toda Saburō 145 Wundt, Max 158, 202 Tōhata Sei’ichi 146, 221, 223, 251 Tokutomi Roka (Kenjirō) 21, 33, 35, Yabe Teiji 183, 224fn., 225 37, 70 Yamakawa Hitoshi 148 Footprints in the Snow 33–4 Yamaji Aizan 104 Nature and Man 33 Yamanouchi Tokuryū 93 ‘On Rebellion’ (defence of Kōtoku Yamamoto Yoshiryū 59 Shūsui) 54 Yanagita Kunio 53 and Tolstoy 70–1, 73–4 Yanaihara Tadao 9, 51–2, 54, 56, 67–9, Tokutomi Sohō 22, 33, 49, 59, 80 76, 77, 108, 226 Kokumin no tomo 70–1 Miki’s criticism of 177 and Tolstoy 70 Miki on Yanaihara Incident and Tokyo Imperial University 35, 75, 89, 94 university autonomy 234–9 Tolstoy, Leo 51–2, 64, 70–4, 76, 82 Criticism of Hijikata Seibi 238 A Confession 51, 70, 107 Nation and Peace, Miki’s review On Life 73 of 234 Tosaka Jun 7, 144, 145, 176, 190, 221 Yasuda Yojūrō 249–50 Troeltsch, Ernst 123, 124, 125 Yokohama thought incident 242 Yokomitsu Riichi 187–8 Uchida Ginzō 105 Yomiuri Shinbun 71, 154, 183, 225, Uchimura Kanzō 54, 65, 69, 72, 73, 100 23, 241 Ueda Kazutoshi 25 Yoshimitsu Yoshihiko 228 Yoshino Sakuzō 81, 101 Valéry, Paul 186, 188 and Shinjinkai (New Man Society) Verlaine, Paul 45 82, 100 Yoshiya Nobuko 223 Watsuji Tetsurō 60, 104, 152, 175 Yukawa Hideki 9 Weber, Max 123–4, 126 Whitman, Walt 116 zange (confession) 107–9 Wilde, Oscar 43–4, 45 Zola, Émile 35, 36