Crasses et Voluptés

Excerpted from: Dueling with O-sensei: Grappling with the Myth of the Warrior-Sage
                                                                                                                                                                        By Ellis Amdur

The Japanese sword was never a mere ribbon of polished and sharpened steel. In the juxtaposition of blade and scabbard, there exists an emblem of the dynamic interplay of male and female, penetration and containment, power dependent as much upon its reserve as its expression. The sword itself was the embodiment of the principle of law founded upon hierarchy, the ruling warriors' power rooted in their submission to a web of obligations and loyalties to superiors, their weapons instruments of service rather than of freedom. In religious iconography, the Taoist sword cut through undifferentiated chaos, introducing deliniation into the universe, creating darkness and light, yin and yang, positive and negative and from this duality, the birth of the myriad forms of the universe. The Buddhist sword is the sword which cuts through illusion, the bright cold edge of mindful consciousness which requires one to face reality with open eyes and courageous heart.

Satsujin no Ken (the sword which takes life) and Katsujin no Ken (the sword which gives life) are concepts which attempt to differentiate between the use of the sword for murderous ends as opposed to the use of the sword to protect people, or to preserve the order of society.

These two phrases give rise to a variety of interpretations. At its most naive is the idea that, having power, one can chose either to use it to hurt others or lead them from evil paths. This is sometimes a fantasy of aikido devotés, that when attacked, the skillful practitioner, who could easily annihilate his or her attacker, moves in such a way that not only is the attack neutralized, but the attacker realizes the error of his ways and turns from violence. I call this naive because, even though it is sometimes possible, it pre–supposes that one's attacker will always be far inferior in skill, and even more unlikely, that being humbled and even shamed by one far superior in skill, an attacker is likely to undergo a profound change of personality.

A second concept is that of surgical violence, one particularly common among the Japanese right wing (whose ideology, in many ways, is closest to those of the warrior class in pre–modern Japan). This is best shown in the phrase, "One life to save a thousand," used to explain various political assassinations. In this concept, not only murder, but also inaction which allows war or other disaster to develop, would be satsujin no ken. Katsujin no ken would be to "cut the head off the snake" so that the war could not start.

Some Buddhistic scholars of the sword imagine that there is a state of fluid perfection, called "enlightenment," in which one can act at each and every moment without reflection or doubt, the spontaneous act being the only one suitable to that particular moment1. The enlightened one, then, could cut down an individual without murderous intention, in their intuitive all–encompassing understanding that the interpenetrating web of universe is best served that this individual die. The slaughtered one's life is culminated and in fact "demands" death at this moment to be properly fulfilled.

Whose life is preserved in katsujin no ken? One's own? The enemy's? Bystanders'? Whose life is taken in satsujin no ken? Is this a problem only of the moment, of the two individuals in conflict, or does it encompass all whose lives are touched by violence, by apparent evil? Is this a problem only of the present, or does it extend into the past and future? Are the reasons an enemy resorts to violence relevant to how you will resolve it? Are the potential results of alternative ways of resolving violence relevant to considerations of how one must act?

Sometimes I think I know the answers to these questions. At other times, I know that I have no idea.

Self-knowledge is one component of a man's dignity; another is the desire to achieve a good name . . . .The surest way to damage one's name—and even one's fate—is to commit excess. . . . There we have the system of values to which the Homeric Greek is committed, by which he judges and is judged. He has to have a good sense of unique self and know his own limitations as well as man's limits generally (moira). He has to avoid the error of arrogantly exceeding man's limits (hubris), but he cannot do this simply by being passive and unassertive. Rather he has to accept the challenge—and the risks—of being active and involved. He has to exercise self-restraint, yet win fame (kudos).

—Walter Miller, Introduction to The Illiad

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