A nineteenth-century samurai, wearing both long and short swords. (illustration credit 7.1)
To reduce casualties and make practice duels possible, a new weapon was developed: the shinai, wrought from pliable bamboo slats covered with leather, which was used in conjunction with defensive armor. There was also the bokken, carved from solid wood, which some fencers contended was superior to steel. The stories of masters armed with nothing but bokken defeating opponents with the best steel swords are legion. The true bushi was expected to be superior to all contingencies and to be prepared for every emergency, if necessary seizing on a piece of firewood, a brazier iron, an umbrella, or a pot lid.‡
The most renowned encounter involving a wooden sword is that of Miyamoto Musashi and Sasaki Kojiro, two celebrated warriors who in 1612 fought to the death on a small sandbar between the two main islands of southern Japan. This duel, more than any other, has attained mythic standing, inspiring a long succession of poems, books, and films.
Shinmen Musashi no Kami Fujiwara no Genshin was born in 1584, his mother dying in childbirth. When he was seven his father died too, and he adopted his mother’s clan name, becoming known as Miyamoto Musashi. He was then put in the care of an uncle, a priest. At thirteen, he killed an experienced swordsman in single combat. Three years later, he defeated a full samurai. At that point he left home and embarked on a “warrior pilgrimage,” traveling the country in search of further samurai against whom he could do battle, often meeting them in a clearing on the outskirts of a town, in the garden of a nobleman’s mansion, in the precinct of a shrine, or along a wide riverbank. Musashi was by now devoting himself to the Way of the Sword, and such were his skills that he quickly became a legend. Although effectively accepted as a samurai, he was a particularly eccentric one: he ate whatever was at hand, neglected his appearance, and usually employed a bokken rather than a steel weapon. There were few solitary warriors traveling on foot; none had survived so many duels. Musashi was still only twenty-eight when he came to keep his appointment with Kojiro.10
Sasaki Kojiro came from Echizen province, in the southeast. He was adopted by the head of the leading fencing school there, the Tomita, and after mastering the Tomita techniques won many duels. He soon came to create his own style of swordplay, the Ganryu, and was known as a merciless opponent. “His eyes shot fire,” wrote one commentator. “A bloodthirsty flame burned in his pupils, like rainbows of fierce intensity, seeking to terrify and debilitate.… Not even Kojiro was able to grasp why the primitive urge to conquer buffeted his brain with such persistence.”11 His skill was considered almost superhuman, and he was specially celebrated for his expertise at tsubame-gaeshi (the “swallow counter”), an up-and-down slashing motion so swift it resembled the whirling flight of a swallow. He was the leading fighter for the local warlord, Hosokawa Tadatoshi, and was a long-standing enemy and rival of Musashi.
The duel was arranged for the “hour of the dragon”—eight o’clock—the next morning. Musashi left his lodging that night and stayed with a friend, arousing speculation that he had fled before Kojiro’s mastery. The next day Kojiro was ferried out to the sandbar at the agreed time and waited in the chill. Minutes passed, then hours, and there was still no sign of Musashi. That wayward fighter, it turned out, had simply overslept; eventually he had to be woken by the innkeeper and barely had time to drink the water brought for him to wash in before he was hustled down to the shore and rowed out to the sandbar. As the boat rocked in the swells of the Kammon Strait, he dozed in the prow. At last he managed to rouse himself and fashioned two paper strings to tie back the wide sleeves of his kimono. He then took out his knife, whittled the spare oar into a crude bokken—and went back to sleep.
As Musashi’s boat approached the sandbar, Kojiro and his waiting attendants were astounded to see that the young warrior’s topknot was tied up in a towel. Brandishing his hacked-about oar, Musashi jumped out and splashed ashore. Kojiro chided him for being so late and mocked his makeshift weapon, then drew his own long blade and threw the scabbard out to sea—to prove his intent to conquer or die.
“You can’t have much confidence, throwing away a good scabbard like that as if you’ll never need it again,” observed Musashi. He then pointed his oar at Kojiro’s throat in signal that the duel had begun. The men closed on each other, each acutely aware that a single error could be fatal. There was no sound other than the lapping of the waves and the occasional caw of a bird. Suddenly Kojiro struck at Musashi, using his signature swallow stroke. At exactly the same moment Musashi leaped forward and with a great guttural cry swept his oar down with all his force. For several seconds no one could make out what had taken place. Then a gust of wind carried away the ribbon around Musashi’s forehead, and the shaken onlookers saw that it had been cut sheer by Kojiro’s sword. They swung toward Kojiro and only then realized that Musashi had so timed his attack to allow himself to come within a thin cloth’s breadth of the opposing blade, so close that it had shorn the ribbon from his head. Yet it was the improvised bokken that had delivered the fatal blow. Kojiro was slowly sinking to the ground, his head crushed. Without a word, Musashi bowed to the onlookers and splashed back to his boat.
In 1971 there appeared a fictional rendering of Musashi’s life, which went on to become the most popular novel ever written by a Japanese: Musashi, by Eiji Yoshikawa. It ends with this fight. “The sight of his own headband lying on the ground sent shivers up and down Musashi’s spine,” runs the last of its 970 pages.
Never in his life, he thought, would he meet another opponent like this. A wave of admiration and respect flowed over him. He was grateful to Kojiro for what the man had given him. In strength, in the will to fight, he ranked higher than Musashi, and it was because of this that Musashi had been able to excel himself.
What was it that had enabled Musashi to defeat Kojiro? Skill? The help of the gods? While knowing that it was neither of these, Musashi was never able to express a reason in words. Certainly there was something more important than either strength or godly deliverance. Kojiro had put his confidence in the sword of strength and skill. Musashi had trusted in the sword of the spirit. That was the only difference between them.12
In fact, Musashi’s whole approach had been carefully calculated. The towering Kojiro had an especially long sword, known as “the Old Clothes Pole.” Musashi realized that his own weapon would have to be as long as possible but that he would have an advantage if he could improvise such a weapon at the last possible moment, as Kojiro was a supreme judge of length where actual swords were concerned. An oar, far from being a makeshift choice, was an ideal instrument for his purpose.
Legend has it that Musashi stopped using steel swords in duels altogether after this encounter. By the time he gave up dueling, in his early thirties, he was credited with more than sixty victories, while between 1614 and 1638 he also fought six times as a soldier both in the field and in sieges.§ In 1637 and 1638 he took part in the annihilation of the Christian peasantry of Shimabara in the western island of Kyushu, an event that marked the public extinction of Christianity from Japan for the next two centuries. According to his own writings, Musashi came fully to understand strategy only in his fifty-first year and by sixty had retired to a life of seclusion in a cave. It was here that he completed Go Rin No Sho (The Book of Five Rings), his book of strategy, addressed to one of his pupils, a few weeks before his death in 1645.
Musashi is the iconic swordsman-philosopher, known to his countrymen as “Kensei”—“the Holy Man of the Sword.” Both in his writings and in his life he personified what a samurai should be. He became an exceptional artist, creating masterpieces of ink painting—which requires fine judgment, it being impossible to make corrections or revisions—a truly Zen form of art. Musashi was also a fine calligrapher, sculptor, and metalworker and founded a school of sword-guard-makers. He is said to have written poems and songs, though none survives. His most recent translator claims that The Book of Five Rings heads every kendo bibliography
; it also flourishes as a business primer, seen as a guide not just to the principles of swordplay but to competition generally.
The great directors Kenji Mizoguchi, Akira Kurosawa, and Hiroshi Inagaki have all portrayed Musashi: Mizoguchi in The Swordsman (1944); Kurosawa, using the celebrated actor Toshiro Mifune, in Yojimbo (1961); and Inagaki in an award-winning trilogy. In the second film of that trilogy, Duel at Ichijoji Temple (1964), an old man watches a young, inexperienced Musashi overcome an opponent. “Of course you won the duel, but you lost as a samurai,” he says. “You’re really strong, but you’re not mentally relaxed. That means you may win a match, but you’re not yet a true samurai. You’ll always remain just a tough guy.” With this he wanders away. Musashi hurries after him and begs him to explain. “All I can tell you is this,” says the old man at last. “Swordsmanship means chivalry. Remember, a man cannot remain forever physically strong. You’re too strong. Decidedly too strong. You lack affection.” Then he walks off for good, leaving Musashi still in search of the Way.
So what was this “Way”? It involved subjugating the self, enduring the pain of grueling practice, and cultivating a serenity of mind even when confronted by the knowledge of death. Nirvana (“blowing out,” as of a candle) required that each student loose himself from earthly things and submit himself to the samurai code—a fusion of Confucian philosophy, Shintoism, and the austerities of Zen.13 (“Bushido” means both “the Way of the Warrior” and “the determined will to die.”)
All this passed directly into fencing strategy. It is not by chance that the word “osho” (“master”) signifies both fencing teacher and Buddhist priest. The Itto Rye school of kendo taught that you should aim to strike an opponent at the very moment he strikes at you. This demonstrates a subjugation of overmastering emotions, that you are treating your enemy with appropriate respect: he must be allowed to come upon you with all his force—which is why Musashi’s fight with Kojiro was so exemplary.
The Book of Five Rings divides into the five “great” essences of Buddhism: ground, water, fire, wind, and void. “By void,” explains Musashi, “I mean that which has no beginning and no end. Attaining this principle means not attaining the principle. The Way of strategy is the Way of nature. When you appreciate the power of nature, knowing the rhythm of any situation, you will be able to hit the enemy naturally and strike naturally. All this is the Way of the void.”14
Samurai scholars undertook works of history, statecraft, and political economy and produced significant volumes of theory on the martial arts and on the ideal behavior and social functions of the warrior. From this time on, the sword came to be looked on as “the mind” of the warrior.‖
Much of this doctrine had an application in Chinese swordplay. The film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon includes a fight between a masked intruder and Li Mu Bai, the renowned swordmaster. “Do you think you have a real command of the sword?” demands the figure. “Like most things, I am nothing,” replies Li. “It is the same for this sword. All is a simple state of mind.” As they fight, he continues, “No growth without assistance. No action without reaction. No desire without restraint. Now give yourself up and find yourself again. There is a lesson for you.”
Such an interchange might easily appear in a Japanese classic, but the differences between the cultures were profound. In China, the warrior was despised as a hired killer; aristocrats and commoners alike could bear swords, so there was less of a mythology about swords and their power; and obligation to family was seen as the first duty, whereas in Japan that duty was loyalty to public entities. These differences combined to produce very different histories.
To a Western mind, the teachings of Japanese swordmasters can be either deeply attractive or puzzlingly vague, but on a practical level it is easy to appreciate the samurai goal of achieving a spiritual balance to sustain oneself in battle. To fight without fearing death or defeat, being able to meet an opponent without rancor, overcoming ego, and having a profound sense of calm when under the highest conceivable pressure are remarkable assets, whatever the contest. However, even the noblest principles can become diseased. A seventeenth-century teacher, Yagyu Tajima no Kami, listed six temptations to which swordsmen are prey: (1) the conscious desire for victory, (2) the desire to resort to technical cunning, (3) the desire to display one’s skills, (4) the desire to overawe the enemy, (5) the desire to play a passive role, and (6) the desire to rid oneself of any of the above.
For a samurai, mere technique was not enough to make him a master of his art; he had to immerse himself in its existential aspects, which could be attained only when he achieved a state of mind known as “mushin,” “no mind,” or “munen,” “no thought.”16 If this were attained, the samurai was said to have shin, or spirit, so that his skills would flow through his body independent of his mind.
The secret documents of one of the main fencing schools of the period, the Shinkage-ryu, contain a number of waka, or versified epigrams based on thirty-one syllables, on the mastery of swordsmanship, part of which runs:
Some think that striking is to strike:
But striking is not to strike, nor is killing to kill.
He who strikes and he who is struck—
They are both no more than a dream that has no reality.
No thinking, no reflecting—
Perfect emptiness …
Victory is for the one,
Even before the combat
Who has no thought of himself,
Abiding in the no-mind-ness of Great Origin.
Here there are obvious affinities with—and significant differences from—the poetry of the Christian mystics. Roger Ascham too is not so far away.
Such precepts could be dangerous when taken to extremes. In the early years of the seventeenth century, at the height of samurai ascendancy, Japan chose to cut herself off from the rest of the world for more than two hundred years. The isolation that followed intensified the inward-looking approach of much warrior life. In the mid–seventeenth century a document known as the Hagakure—literally, “Hidden under the Leaves”—emphasized the samurai’s readiness to give his life at any moment and declared that no great work had ever been accomplished “without going mad”—without breaking through the ordinary level of consciousness and letting loose the hidden powers lying below.17 During the 1930s the Hagakure was much talked about in connection with Japanese military operations in China. “The samurai is good for nothing unless he can go beyond life and death,” runs one of its sections.
One should expect death daily, so that, when the time comes, one can die in peace. Calamity, when it occurs, is not so dreadful as was feared. It is foolish to torment oneself beforehand with vain imaginings.… Tranquilize your mind every morning, and imagine the moment when you may be torn and mangled by arrows, guns, lances, and swords, swept away by great waves, thrown into a fire, struck down by thunderbolts, shaken by earthquakes, falling from a precipice, dying of disease, or dead from an unexpected accident: die every morning in your mind, and then you will not fear death. Once that has been achieved—when one attains a mind of “no-mind-ness”—then one can execute extraordinary deeds.… In Bushido honor comes first. Therefore, every morning and every evening, have the idea of death vividly impressed in your mind.18
As the great authority Daisetz Suzuki comments, “Zen’s claim to handle this problem [of mastering death] without appealing either to learning or to moral training or to ritualism must have been a great attraction to the comparatively unsophisticated mind of the samurai. There was a kind of logical relationship between his psychological outlook and the direct practical teaching of Zen.”19 In this respect, Zen was the perfect religion for the samurai.
Such thinking, however, is only a short step from predatory militarism or political nihilism. This is shown in the life of one of Japan’s greatest writers, Yukio Mishima, three times nominated for the Nobel Prize. Born in Tokyo in 1925, he produced some forty works of fiction as well as a stream of poetry, plays, an
d essays, many of which bore witness to his passion for the chivalrous traditions of imperial Japan. Throughout his life Mishima was fascinated with swords and became expert in both karate and kendo. In 1968 he founded the Shield Society, a group of a hundred young men dedicated to reviving bushido. Mishima would order his homosexual disciples to cover his body with sword cuts. In his novel Runaway Horses (1969), he has a student of kendo declare, “I lost interest in wooden swords. They have no real power.” “So you think you’re ready for steel?” his teacher asks. The student declares that he has to be.20
It was a feature of the samurai code that under certain circumstances the samurai was expected to kill himself. One especially gruesome method, practised in remote times, was submitting to be buried alive in order to join one’s clan leader in death. Over the years the preferred form came to be seppuku (“disembowelment”) or to use its more vulgar but more popular reading, hara-kiri (“belly slitting”). Disembowelment was performed on a number of occasions in the late twelfth century, and there are isolated examples of it during fierce provincial disorders in the northeast in the latter half of the eleventh; but the generally accepted first instance of seppuku proper was in 1170, when the gigantic warrior Minamoto no Tametomo (he was over seven feet tall), following defeat in battle, disemboweled himself. Thereafter this form of suicide appeared frequently in Japanese war tales. It was also used as a privileged alternative to execution (Japanese executioners were of the lowest possible caste), to atone for a misdeed or an unworthy act, and to avoid capture in battle, seen as a contemptible end for any warrior and a safeguard against likely torture. Finally, it could be a form of protest against one’s lord’s shortcomings. One famous act of “admonitory disembowelment” occurred in the late sixteenth century, when Oda Nobunaga, later a great general, was a wild and uncontrollable young man. A loyal retainer committed suicide in remonstrance, and Oda, greatly impressed, thereafter changed his ways.
By the Sword Page 21