Kierkegaard and Japanese Thought

Kierkegaard and
Japanese Thought
Edited by
James Giles
Kierkegaard and Japanese Thought
Also by James Giles
THE NATURE OF SEXUAL DESIRE

NO SELF TO BE FOUND: the Search for Personal Identity
A STUDY IN PHENOMENALISM
KIERKEGAARD AND FREEDOM (editor)
FRENCH EXISTENTIALISM: Consciousness, Ethics, and Relations with
Others (editor)
Kierkegaard and
Japanese Thought
Edited by
James Giles
Editorial matter, selection © James Giles 2008
Chapters © their authors 2008
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Kierkegaard and Japanese thought / edited by James Giles.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 0–230–55283–8 (hardback: alk. paper)
1. Kierkegaard, Søren, 1813–1855. 2. Philosophy, Japanese.
3. Philosophy, Comparative. I. Giles, James, 1958–
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Contents
Preface vii
Notes on the Editor and Contributors x
Editorial Note xiv
1. Introduction: Kierkegaard among the Temples

of Kamakura 1
James Giles
2. A Short History of Kierkegaard’s Reception

in Japan 31
Kinya Masugata
3. Japanese Pure Land Buddhism and Kierkegaard 53

Hidetomo Yamashita
4. A Zen Understanding of Kierkegaard’s

Existential Thought 71
Eshin Nishimura
5. To Practise One Thing: Kierkegaard through

the Eyes of Dōgen 87
James Giles
6. Aeterno Modo: the Expression of an Integral

Consciousness in the Work of Kierkegaard and Dōgen 106
Ian Mills
7. Truth, Paradox, and Silence: Hakuin and Kierkegaard 124

Archie Graham
8. Living with Death: Kierkegaard and the Samurai 141

Adam Buben
v
vi Contents
9. Kierkegaard and Nishida: Ways to the

Non-Substantial 159
Eiko Hanaoka
10. The Religious Thought of Nishida and Kierkegaard 172

Shudo Tsukiyama
11. Kobayashi’s Spirit of Unselfishness and Kierkegaard’s Faith 185

Makoto Mizuta
12. Mori and Kierkegaard: Experience and Existence 201

Mime Morita
13. Otani: a Kierkegaardian Fellow of the Dead 219

Kinya Masugata
Index 231
Preface
This is a book with several purposes. First, it is a book on the philosophy

of Kierkegaard. It involves the exploration of his ideas, arguments, and
approach to the perennial problems of philosophy. Equally, it is also a
book on Japanese thought. It is concerned with Japanese ways of under-
standing reality and the human condition, and also with Japanese ideas
surrounding Eastern practices like meditation. Japanese thought in this
sense, which involves more than what is usually seen in the West as
philosophy, encompasses a diverse range of traditions, each of which is
blended together with the others to be given a unique expression within
Japanese culture. The Japanese expression of these traditions is a major
theme throughout the following pages.
Because, however, the main focus is on the ideas of historical figures
and on historical schools of thought, it is also a book on the history of
philosophy. As a result, it is at the same time a book on philosophy. This
is because to grasp fully the ideas of a thinker or a tradition, one must
also critically evaluate those ideas. And to engage in such an evaluation
of ideas within the history of philosophy is, at the same time, to engage
in philosophy itself. That is, it is an attempt to explore fundamental
questions about the nature of existence, to do so in a careful and critical
way, to discover where the problems lie, and to arrive at some under-
standing of ourselves and the world in which we live. This is the essence
of philosophy.
Further, this is a book in comparative philosophy. Comparative phi-
losophy is a method of enquiry in which philosophy is practised from
within an intercultural perspective. All philosophical enquiry starts
from the background assumptions and concerns of the culture in which
it is pursued. As a result, it is often difficult for a philosopher to be fully
aware of his or her culture’s influence on his or her way of pursuing
philosophy; for this influence is everywhere. It is much like not noticing
the air through which we move about in our day to day lives. We do not
notice it because we are seemingly forever immersed within it.
In comparative philosophy, however, the philosopher attempts to
loosen the grip of his or her culture by entering a new one. In doing so,
the philosophical traveller is presented with new ways of understand-
ing and new ways of seeing old problems. Previously unnoticed assump-
tions and concerns are often thrown into stark relief simply because the
vii
viii Preface
newly entered culture does not make them or have them. Or perhaps
the culture has contrasting assumptions and interests. All of this can
serve to give insight not only into one’s own and different philosophical
traditions, but also into the problems being pursued.
This sort of comparative approach to philosophy is especially impor-
tant in trying to understand someone like Kierkegaard. This is because
both Kierkegaard’s philosophy and ways of thinking seem to reach
beyond the strictures of his own nineteenth-century European culture.
Kierkegaard, however, knew nothing of Japanese culture or even any
non-Western culture, and so was forced to interpret his own insights
from within a purely Western and Christian perspective. But if he had
known of Japanese Buddhism, Shintō, or Taoism, would he have contin-
ued to see himself as being a Christian thinker? This is a significant ques-
tion to ask, especially since Kierkegaard – just like the contributors to this
volume – would obviously have noticed the links and connections that
elements in his work bear to the philosophical traditions of the Far East.
It is also a vital question to ask since Kierkegaard was far from having a
traditionally accepted understanding of Christianity. Moreover, he him-
self unleashed an ‘attack on Christendom’, and thus sought to distance
himself in some sense from Christian thinking.
Contemporary philosophers and scholars are, or at least ought to be,
less limited in their awareness of other cultures than Kierkegaard was.
Consequently, even though Kierkegaard was constrained in his knowl-
edge of non-Western cultures, and thus in his ability to see his own
ideas in terms of other cultural ways of understanding, we are not. By
ignoring other traditions the interpreter of Kierkegaard is restricting
himself or herself in essentially the same way that Kierkegaard did.
The problem, however, is that to comprehend Kierkegaard in what
might be called a Japanese way, the Western scholar must first make the
effort to know something about Japanese thought (just as the Japanese
scholars in this book have, through their study of Kierkegaard, made
the effort to know something about Western thought). Unfortunately,
not only does this require work, and therefore enough of an interest in
other cultures to do the work, but it also goes against the ethnocentric-
ity of many Western scholars, especially Kierkegaard scholars, many of
whom have a vested interest in seeing Kierkegaard as essentially a
Christian thinker.
Kierkegaard says that one of his goals is to make things more difficult
for people. This also points to another purpose of this book; for this
book is presented in the same spirit, namely, to make it more difficult for
Western philosophers and scholars to continue to pretend that Japanese
Preface ix
ways of reading Kierkegaard do not exist. The difficulty this book creates
for such people is, of course, only a small one. But if one is lucky (or in
their case unlucky), small difficulties can lead to big problems.
Most of the chapters that follow are based on papers that were presented
at the First International Conference of the Kierkegaard Society of Japan,
which was held at the University of Melbourne, Australia in December
2005. I therefore want to thank the officers of the Society, especially
Kinya Masuagata and Shin Fujida for their work in organizing the
conference, and also for helping me to bring the ideas presented at the
conference to publication.
JAMES GILES
Notes on the Editor and
Contributors
James Giles studied at the University of British Columbia and the

University of Edinburgh. He is Professor of Philosophy at the University
of Guam and Tutor at Madingley Hall, University of Cambridge and has
travelled widely through India, East Asia and the Pacific. He is author of
The Nature of Sexual Desire, No Self to be Found: the Search for Personal
Identity, A Study in Phenomenalism, and editor of Kierkegaard and Freedom,
and French Existentialism: Consciousness, Ethics, and Relations with
Others.
Adam Buben is a Presidential Doctoral Fellow in the philosophy

department at the University of South Florida. He holds Master’s
degrees in philosophy and liberal arts from the University of New
Mexico and St John’s College respectively, and his undergraduate
degree, also in philosophy, is from Arizona State University. He is the
author of ‘Kierkegaard and the Norm (MacDonald) of Death’ (forth-
coming, 2007, as a chapter in Family Guy and Philosophy: a Cure for the
Petarded). Adam is also a long-time instructor and student of various
Japanese martial arts.
Archie Graham received his PhD from the University of Ottawa where
he came to the study of Zen through the work of Nishida while com-
pleting a dissertation on the process metaphysics of A.N. Whitehead.
He has taught at the universities of Guelph, Ottawa, and British
Columbia as well as the Ontario College of Art and Design. His philo-
sophical writing can be found in international academic journals, the
Journal of Chinese Philosophy, Asian Culture Quarterly, Process Studies, and
two anthologies, Ethics and Technology and Rethinking the Future.
Graham’s poetry and art writing have appeared in a wide variety of
Canadian magazines and newspapers.
Eiko Hanaoka (née Kawamura) was born in 1938 in Tokyo and studied
the philosophy of religion at Kyoto University, from where she received
her D.Lit., and systematic theology at Hamburg University, from where
she received her Doctorate in Theology. She was Associate Professor and
Professor (in 1982) at Hanazono University, and Professor of the
x
Notes on Contributors xi
Philosophy of Religion at the Graduate School of Osaka Prefecture

University (1982–2002). She is now Professor Emeritus of the Graduate
School at the same university, and also Professor in Nara. She has
published many books and articles including Christianity and Nishida’s
Philosophy, Zen and Philosophy of Religion, Philosophy of Absolute
Nothingness, and The Problem of Self and World. She is now a member of
the directors of the Japanese Association for Religious Studies, the Japan
Society for Christian Studies, and Vice-President of the Japan Society
for Process Studies. She is also an international adviser and editor for
the Society for Buddhist Christian Studies in the USA.
Kinya Masugata was born in Japan in 1947, studied at Kyoto University,

and is the Executive Vice-President of Mukogawa Fort Wright Institute,
the American campus of Mukogawa Women’s University, Japan, where
he is also a professor. In addition he is Professor Emeritus at Osaka
University of Education. He is President of the Kierkegaard Society of
Japan and is the editor of Kierkegaard and Language and Kierkegaard: a Trial
of New Interpretation and translator of Kierkegaard’s Dømmer Selv! [Judge for
Yourselves!] into Japanese. He was the President of the Japanese Association
of Philosophical and Ethical Research in Medicine (2000–02).
Ian Mills is a poet, now working as an independent scholar and an

academic research consultant. He completed his PhD at the University
of Wisconsin, taught at that university, at La Trobe University,
Melbourne, the University of Western Sydney, and at the Foreign
Language Institute, Shanghai, China. He has written a number of books,
his major publication being A Divine Ecology: the Infinite Potential of our
Between, chapters in books within a variety of disciplines, for example,
‘Pulpit Drama’ in The News in Focus, and numerous articles, for example,
‘Dwelling in No-Place: Our Ethical Between’, in Environmental Ethics. He
is at present researching the work of thirteenth-century mystics, writ-
ing a novel, and preparing a volume of poetry for publication.
Makoto Mizuta, PhD, is former Professor of Philosophy and Medical

Ethics at Fukuoka Dental College. He has also taught at the University
of Kyūshū, the University of Kumamoto, Fukuoka University of
Education, and Tōkai University. He now teaches at Kyūshū Sangyō
University and Fukuoka Medical Junior College. He specializes in exis-
tential philosophy, mainly Kierkegaard, and also in medical ethics, and
studied Kierkegaard at the Søren Kierkegaard Library, University of
Copenhagen (1983–1984). He is author of Jituzon to ai – Eˉrihhi Furomu no
jissen tetugaku [Existence and Love: the Ethics of Erich Fromm], Kyerukegoˉru
xii Notes on Contributors
to gendai no jitsuzon – hikaku shisoˉ to taiwa no seishin [Comparative Studies

of Kierkegaard] with Martin Buber, Viktor E. Frankl, and others, Shisaku
to jinsei [Existential Ethics] and several collaborations including
Kyerukegoˉru to nihon no bukkyoˉ, tetsugaku [Kierkegaard, Japanese Buddhism,
and Philosophy].
Mime Morita (née Ikeda) is Associate Professor of Philosophy, Ethics,

and Women’s Studies at Osaka Christian College in Japan. She has also
taught at the Konan University (ethics and moral education) and
Doshisya University (philosophy). She is a co-author of Ethics in
Postmodern Age, The Subject of Ethics in the 21st Century, For the Beginner
in Kierkegaard, and co-translator of Religion and Ethics: Existence and
Language in Kierkegaard. She is now the vice-president of the Kierkegaard
Society of Japan in Kyoto.
Eshin Nishimura was born in Shiga-ken, Japan in 1933. He graduated

from Hanazono University, majoring in Zen Buddhist studies, in 1956
and received his doctorate in the philosophy of religion from Kyoto
University in 1970. He also received a Doctor of Letters Degree from
Aichigakuin University, Nagoya, Japan. He embarked on Zen training at
Nanzen-ji Monastery in Kyoto under Zenkei Shibayama Roshi from 1956
to 1958, and studied Christianity and Quakerism at Pendle Hill,
Pennsylvania, USA, 1960–61. He was Abbot of Kōfuku-ji Rinzai Zen
Temple in Shiga-ken from 1959 to 1986, Professor at Hanazono University,
1970–2005, and President of the same University from 2001–05. He is
now Professor Emeritus of Hanazono University and also Director of the
Institute for Zen Studies in Kyoto. His research interests include the
philosophy of Zen Buddhism and the comparative study of Buddhism
and Christianity. He has participated in various kinds of religious dia-
logue between Buddhism and Christianity, both within and outside of
Japan, for the past 40 years.
Shudo Tsukiyama is Professor of Intercultural Studies at the University

of Otani. He has been president of the Society for the Study of Nishida’s
Philosophy, which began over 30 years ago under the leadership of the
late Keiji Nishitani and Shizuteru Ueda. He has also been a member and
director of the Kierkegaard Society of Japan. In 1994 he was a visiting
scholar at the University of Cambridge where he worked with George
Pattison on the comparative study of Japanese religious thought
(especially the Kyoto School) and Kierkegaard. His main work on Nishida
and Kierkegaard includes ‘The Fundamental Form of Existence and
Religiousness in Kierkegaard’, ‘The Religious Thought of Inquiring into
Notes on Contributors xiii
the Self in East and West: Nishida and Kierkegaard’, ‘The Philosophical
Views of Nishida and Tanabe on Kierkegaard’s Existential Philosophy’,
‘Tanabe’s Metanoetic Philosophy and Kierkegaard’s Religious-existential
Thought’, and ‘Kierkegaard’s “the Moment”’.
Hidetomo Yamashita is Professor of Philosophy of Religion at the

University of Shizuoka in Japan. He is the author of Kyoˉ gyoˉ shin shoˉ no
sekai [The World of ‘Teaching, Practice, Faith, and Attainment’] (3 volumes)
and Shūkyoteki jitsuzon no tenkai [The Development of Religious Existence].
He is also the Japanese translator of Kierkegaard’s Sygdommen til Døden
[The Sickness unto Death]. He has studied Buddhism and existentialism at
Kyoto University and has recently become interested in modern Japanese
philosophy, especially Nishida and Tanabe.
Editorial Note
In order to avoid confusion for the English reader Japanese personal

names have been written in the English tradition of the given name
appearing first and the family name appearing last. Japanese words
have been transliterated into English using the long stroke or macron
over the vowel to indicate a long vowel where appropriate. This has also
been done with Sanskrit words, though other diacritical marks have
been omitted. Chinese words have been transliterated according to the
Wade-Giles system of Romanization.
xiv
1
Introduction: Kierkegaard
among the Temples of
Kamakura
James Giles
The writings of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard (1813–55) are

among the more enigmatic in Western philosophy. Kierkegaard’s poetic
style, the density of his texts, the incompleteness of his arguments, along
with his use of pseudonyms, all conspire to render his philosophical
positions frequently unclear. Yet behind this enigmatic approach it is
not hard to discern the insights of an original thinker deeply engaged
with the problem of human existence. These features of Kierkegaard’s
writings – both their cryptic quality and insightfulness – have led to
much scholarly research. One of the fascinating things about this
research is the way in which scholars from diverse fields and cultural
traditions have been able to read Kierkegaard in such distinct ways.
One cultural tradition that has added much to the understanding of
Kierkegaard is that of Japanese philosophy. Yet oddly enough, this tradi-
tion has been all but ignored by Western Kierkegaard scholars. A good
example of this can be found in a chapter in The Cambridge Companion
to Kierkegaard that purports to be an examination of the ‘twentieth-
century receptions’ of Kierkegaard. Here the author describes in detail
the Danish, German, French, British, and American receptions of
Kierkegaard’s writing, while apparently oblivious to the fact that there
was also a large Japanese response to Kierkegaard in the early twentieth
century (with even some Japanese awareness of Kierkegaard before that).
Indeed, Japanese translations of Kierkegaard appeared several years
before English translations did. There is, of course, the odd exception to
this lack of awareness of the relations between Japanese thought and
Kierkegaard, the most notable being Mortensen’s Kierkegaard Made in
Japan. But then this book was also ignored. It is not, for example, men-
tioned anywhere in the Cambridge Companion, even though it was pub-
lished three years earlier.
1
2 Kierkegaard and Japanese Thought
In a way, this ignoring of Japanese thinkers is part of a larger tradition

in Western philosophy that disregards Eastern philosophy in general.
Although this is changing, it is still commonplace to see books or
university courses that claim to be on the history of philosophy, and
yet never mention a word about significant Asian philosophers, Asian
views of epistemology, metaphysics, or ethics, or the debates among
the various Asian schools of thought. Thus, in the popular text book
The Enduring Questions: Traditional and Contemporary Voices (2002), not
one of the voices, traditional or contemporary, is an Eastern voice.
Confucius – probably the most influential philosopher in history – is
not even mentioned. This neglect of Eastern thinkers is all the more
amusing because, although Berkeley’s dialogues on idealism and
Hume’s writings on the no-self theory are given, no writings from
Astanga or Vashubandhu (founders of the Mind-Only school of
Buddhism) or dialogues of the Buddha (originator of the no-self the-
ory) are given, even though these philosophers presented essentially
the same theories hundreds of years before Berkeley or Hume. Likewise,
in S. Morris Engel’s 2002 textbook, The Study of Philosophy, it is confi-
dently asserted that ‘philosophy began here, in the coastal city of
Miletus, southeast of the Greek island of Samos’1 in full contradiction
to the fact that the ancient authors of the Vedas and Upanishads were
doing philosophy in India at least 1000 years before Thales first got the
idea that everything might be water.
Yet this ignoring of Eastern (and other non-Western) traditions by
Western philosophers comes at a great cost. For not only does it hinder
Western understanding of, and thus interaction with, non-Western cul-
tures, it also denies Western philosophers the use of non-Western argu-
ments and concepts, many of which have been intricately refined
through centuries of debate. New understanding, it seems, frequently
comes when a philosopher is able to step back from the usual approach
to a problem and see it in a different way. For the Western philosopher
one of the immense values of Eastern philosophy is that it can provide
this ‘different way’ of approaching a problem. This is true because
although Asian thinkers have developed their own traditions, which
differ from Western thought, any Western philosopher who cares to
spend time with Eastern texts will quickly see that Asian philosophers
are dealing with basically the same ‘enduring questions’ as Western
philosophers are.
It is in just this way, then, that an examination of Japanese thought
and its relation to Kierkegaard’s ideas can provide us with new approaches
to understanding what Kierkegaard is saying.
Kierkegaard among the Temples of Kamakura 3
But what is it about Kierkegaard’s philosophy that suggests a comparison

with Japanese thought? To answer this question, let us first get a picture
of Kierkegaard’s overall philosophical approach and interests. One of the
most prominent features of Kierkegaard is his focus on humanistic con-
cerns. What interests Kierkegaard are those philosophical issues that
have an immediate relevance to an individual’s life. Thus, Kierkegaard
pays little attention to philosophical issues like the existence of univer-
sals, the nature of mathematics or logic, or the philosophy of history.
Rather, his concern is with issues like subjectivity, death, freedom, anxi-
ety, self-deception, and despair. These problems, he argues, are directly
relevant to the existing individual.
Someone will no doubt want to protest that by listing these topics as
issues for Kierkegaard, I am ignoring the fact that much of what he says
here is written under different pseudonyms and, consequently, should
not be seen as being the ideas or concerns of Kierkegaard himself.
However, as I have argued elsewhere, the consistency of interests and
philosophical positions across Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous works is
enough to discount this view.2
Let us now look at how Kierkegaard’s philosophy is related to these issues.
A good place to start is with Kierkegaard’s well-known assertion that truth
is subjectivity. On the face of it this is an odd claim; for truth is supposed
to be something that is objective and contrasts with the notion of subject-
ivity. But Kierkegaard is not denying that there is such a thing as objective
truth (though he is unclear what this would consist of). Instead, he is say-
ing something about the meaning that different truths have, or ought to
have for us. He says that ‘the crucial thing is to find the truth that is truth
for me, the idea for which I will live or die. And what use would it be for me
to discover so-called objective truth ... if it had no deeper meaning for me
and my life.’3 Truth only takes on this meaning when it is experienced sub-
jectively as a ‘truth for me’. In this sense ‘truth is subjectivity’ must mean
for Kierkegaard ‘crucially meaningful truth is experienced in subjectivity’.
This view provides the basis for his attack on Hegel’s world-historical
perspective of human existence. From Hegel’s perspective, individuals,
their subjectivity, choices, actions, and purpose are lost in the grand
scheme of things. Kierkegaard says, ‘what makes the ethical the deed of
the individual is the intention; but this intention is precisely something
that can not be found in the world-historical, for what is important here
is the intention of the world-historical’.4
Further, one need not turn to the world-historical account to see this
happen. This loss of our own subjectivity is something that occurs in all
spheres of our daily lives: love, faith, and what it means to die, says
Kierkegaard, are determinations of subjectivity, yet real lovers, persons

with real faith, and those who know what it means to die are rare. To
take the example of what it means to die (which ties into Kierkegaard’s
concerns with death), Kierkegaard says, ‘concerning this I know what
people in general know; that I shall die if I take a dose of sulphuric acid,
just like I shall die if I jump into water or go to sleep in coal gas, and so
forth’ (p. 138).
Yet, he continues, ‘despite this nearly unusual knowledge or profi-
ciency in knowledge, under no circumstances can I regard death as
something I have understood’. In all this objective knowledge about
death the deeper understanding that death really will come, indeed,
that it may come tomorrow, has been forgotten: ‘Merely this one uncer-
tainty, when it is to be understood and held fast by an existing indi-
vidual, and hence enter into every thought, precisely because it is an
uncertainty entering into my beginning upon universal history even,
so that I make it clear to myself whether if death comes tomorrow, I am
beginning upon something that is worth beginning – merely this one
uncertainty generates inconceivable difficulties’ (pp. 138–9). In this
sense one might say that the person who has not fully grasped the inev-
itability of his or her own death, or the uncertainty of when it might
arrive, has not fully grasped the truth that he or she will really die. This
is so, Kierkegaard would say, because truth is subjectivity.
This leads into Kierkegaard’s discussion of human freedom; for only
in our subjectivity do we fully experience our freedom. As long as we
try to view our lives from an external, objective point of view (a view
which, being in fact unachievable, is a form of self-deception), we will
think that our actions and choices are merely links in a long chain of
cause and effect. And, consequently, we will think we are determined
and so lack free will. When, however, we turn inward and view our-
selves subjectively, then we see that nothing causes our choices and, as
a result, we are fully free. Here, says Kierkegaard, we experience the in-
stant of choice as a ‘qualitative leap’ which ‘no science can explain’. The
idea of a leap is supposed to show that, subjectively or experientially we
feel our making of a choice as a leaping towards our desired action, ra-
ther than being, say, pushed from behind by a cause. This leap is quali-
tative because it is something completely new, something which is born
in the moment of choice and has no causal or deterministic ties to what
came before.
A significant feature of this qualitative leap of freedom, something
which we are recreating at every moment, is anxiety. The reason why
anxiety appears at this juncture, says Kierkegaard, is because in the
moment of choice we are both drawn to and repelled from the option
we do not wish to choose. Thus, in any choice there will be an option I
want to choose and various options I do not want to choose. Yet, even
though I feel I definitely do not want to choose a particular option,
‘anxiety maintains a subtle communication’ with this option.5 This
‘subtle communication’ is the birthplace of anxiety.
To take an example, imagine you are standing on a street corner wait-
ing to cross the road. Imagine further that the road is clear except for a
large lorry that is racing towards you at 70 kilometres per hour. Now one
option that you can choose is to wait until the lorry has passed and then
cross the road. And further imagine that this is the option you want. But
another option is that you could wait until the lorry is only a few yards
away and then, leaping out in front of it, attempt to dash to the other
side without being hit and killed, an attempt that will almost certainly
fail. This, imagine, is the option you definitely do not want. Yet, even
though you do not want this option it might be, as it is for many people,
that you maintain a ‘subtle communication’ with it and even, as the
point of no return approaches, begin to wonder if you might not make
this terrible choice. In this instant anxiety appears.
And it is not just in cases like this (where a choice might make you lose
your life) that anxiety appears, but in all cases of choice. Thus, rather
than paying the restaurant bill after a meal, you might choose to run out
without paying; rather than sitting quietly to hear a distinguished
speaker, you might choose to jump up and scream mindlessly; or rather
than getting out of bed in the morning, you might simply choose to stay
there for the entire day. In every instant of choice, says Kierkegaard, anx-
iety in its various degrees and varying types is constantly present.
This is one of the places where the theme of self-deception works its
way into Kierkegaard’s writings. This is because in experiencing the anx-
iety over the awareness of being drawn to and thus in potential danger
of choosing the purportedly unwanted option, the individual exists in a
dissonant or noxious state. One way to attempt to escape this discomfort
is for the individual to deceive himself or herself into believing that he
or she is not really free to make such a choice even though, at another
level of awareness, the wish is to keep the option open. Or, if the indi-
vidual does make the ‘unwanted’ choice, then there remains the option
of trying to deceive oneself into believing that it had to happen, was the
only option, was someone else’s fault, or some such thing.
Self-deception, says Kierkegaard, can also take place on a grander
scale, where it might underpin a person’s entire life. In The Sickness unto
Death, for example, Kierkegaard discusses the idea of how people try to
deceive themselves about their own despair by living an illusion. He

then rejects the belief that illusions are something people typically
grow out of: ‘People overlook the fact that illusion has essentially two
forms: that of hope and that of recollection. Youth has the illusion of
hope and old age has that of remembrance. But just because the older
person is under an illusion, he also has the one-sided idea that there is
only the illusion of hope.’6 This is why, says Kierkegaard, the older
person can imagine that he or she has grown out of his or her illusions:
he or she is no longer young with naive hopes about the future. But
there is also the illusion of recollection and it is here where an older
person’s self-deception can often lie. Thus, says Kierkegaard, ‘an older
woman, who has apparently given up all her illusions, can often be
found to be just as fantastic in her illusions as any young girl, with re-
gard to how she remembers herself as a young girl, how happy she was
at that time, how beautiful, and so on’ (p. 192).
This theme of self-deception fits naturally with another major theme
in Kierkegaard’s writings, namely that of sorrow and despair. This is
because, as he puts it in Either/Or, ‘if this deception does not involve
anything external but a person’s whole inner life, his life’s innermost
core, the probability of the continuance of the objective sorrow becomes
greater and greater’.7 But why should Kierkegaard have such an interest
in despair? One answer is because of what he sees as the universality of
despair. That is, Kierkegaard sees despair everywhere. Sometimes people
are openly aware of their own despair, but more often it lies hidden
from their own view. It is because of the pervasiveness of its hiddeness
that despair can be found far and wide:
The ordinary view of despair holds to appearances and is a super-

ficial view that is no view at all. It means that every person can best
decide for himself whether or not he is in despair. The person that
says he is in despair is seen to be in despair, and the person that feels
he is not in despair is seen not to be in despair. It follows from this
that despair is a rare phenomenon rather than an ordinary one. It is
not rare that a person is in despair; no, it is rare, it is very rare, that a
person is in truth. (pp. 81–2)
For Kierkegaard, the frightening thing about despair is that there often
seems to be no way out. In many forms of suffering, the idea of death
can present itself as a possible comfort: if nothing else can save the suf-
ferer, at least death offers a way out. But with despair, argues Kierkegaard,
things are different. Here, ‘to be delivered from this sickness by death is
an impossibility, for the sickness and its torment – and death consists in
not being able to die’ (p. 80).
What does Kierkegaard mean by this? How could death not deliver
one from despair? Does not death end all suffering? To understand
Kierkegaard’s point, I think, it is necessary to assume the subjectivity of
the person in despair. And at the root of despair is the complete lack of
hope. Especially in deep despair, the individual has sunk to the bottom
of a fathomless pit from which there seems no way out. All options
seem equally fruitless and every course of action seems equally point-
less. In such a state of darkness not even death presents itself as a viable
option. Thus, there is no reason to seek death and the despairing indi-
vidual is stranded in life. This might well explain the peculiar phenom-
enon of suicide during recovery from depression; for when the sufferer
begins to emerge from depression, once again it becomes clear that
death will end his or her suffering.
Despair, for Kierkegaard, can take various forms. Each of these, how-
ever, results from the fact that what we call the self is a synthesis of
infinity and finiteness and, further, that this synthesis or relation is one
that is freely chosen. Despair, then, develops out of the way in which the
person chooses to make these relations occur: ‘the development must
consist in infinitely moving away from oneself in the process of infini-
tizing (Uendliggjørelsen in Danish), and infinitely returning to oneself in
the process of finitizing. If the self does not become itself, then it is in
despair’ (p. 88). In other words, despair occurs when I imagine the sort
of person I want to be and thus move my hopes and desires away from
the person who I really am. Kierkegaard calls this ‘infinitizing’ because
it is carried out by the imagination, the faculty by which we conjure up
a near infinite amount of possibilities. Once this desired imaginary self
has been conjured up, I then compare it back to reality (the process of
finitizing). If the person I am in reality does not become, or perhaps
even match up to, the person I want to be, then I am in despair.
Another important feature of Kierkegaard’s writings are the frequent
discussions of Christianity, theism, and passages from the Bible.
Because of these, and because Kierkegaard himself holds Christian
beliefs, it is often held that he is foremost a Christian writer, a theolo-
gian, or a biblical apologist. To this it can be replied that Kierkegaard
clearly did see himself as a Christian in some sense and several of his
devotional works (prayers and hymns) attest to this. However, when it
comes to his philosophical and psychological writings, the Christian
and theistic elements recede into the background and play little role in
his philosophical view of things. Indeed, what Kierkegaard seems to do
is to take an idea or passage from the Bible and then re-interpret it in

such a way that it becomes more broadly symbolic of features of human
existence. This is why he is often said to be a humanist or existentialist;
for his main concern is with the human condition and how we live out
our existence.
For example, in Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard analyses the biblical
story of Abraham’s attempt to sacrifice Isaac in terms of what it means
to have faith or to make a choice, while in The Concept of Anxiety he
re-interprets the story of Adam and Eve and original sin as symbolic
explanation for the experience of freedom and anxiety. Likewise, in
The Sickness unto Death he takes a passage from the New Testament
concerning Lazarus rising from the dead and uses it as a basis for his
account of despair. Further, in ‘An Occasional Address’, he cites an-
other verse from the New Testament, the injunction for the double-
minded to purify their hearts, and explains it in terms of overcoming
self- deception through the willing of one thing. In each of these, and
several other such cases, the Christian concepts of God, Christ, or
heaven play little or no philosophical role.
To see this, consider the case in Fear and Trembling. Here Abraham is
presented as the knight of faith who has no evidential basis for his be-
lief that it is God who has told him to kill his only son Isaac. How does
Abraham know that it is God that has spoken to him? How does he
know it is not rather an instance of his own bewilderment (Kierkegaard’s
word), or perhaps an attack of acute psychosis? Kierkegaard’s answer is
that he does not; for ‘all human calculation had long since closed
down’.8 The only thing Abraham can do here is either choose to be-
lieve it is God or choose not to believe. Further, in his choosing to
believe it is God who speaks to him he can avail himself of no argu-
ments or reasons, he can only turn to faith. This is all the more true
because what he believes God requires of him is ‘absurd’, namely, that
he should sacrifice his son, and also that he should be happy in this
world.
But in all of this, it should be evident, God plays no role. Kierkegaard
does not try to establish that there is a God, and his concern is not with
God at all. Rather, his sole concern is with Abraham and Abraham’s
faith in God. What Kierkegaard admires here, and wants to understand,
is the psychological and phenomenological state of faith. And this is
something that has no dependency on the existence of God. It is pos-
sible to have faith in God, or in what one believes he requires, whether
or not God exists, which is why God’s existence is here irrelevant for
Kierkegaard’s philosophical position.
The same sort of thing can be seen in The Sickness unto Death. As
mentioned, this is a work in which Kierkegaard seeks to understand
despair. He also seeks to find its remedy. To this end he states that ‘the
self is the conscious synthesis of infinitude and finitude which relates
itself to itself, whose task it is to become itself, a task which can be per-
formed only by means of a relationship to God’ (p. 87). Reading this
quickly, and considering it apart from the rest of the text, one might be
led to the conclusion that, in Kierkegaard’s theory, despair can only be
alleviated by God. But Kierkegaard does not say ‘only by means of God’,
rather he says, ‘only by means of a relationship to God’ (emphasis added).
It is therefore the relationship to God that is important, not God.
Someone might want to remonstrate that a relationship to God pre-
supposes God and therefore it is, after all, only by means of God that
one can overcome despair. Such a claim, however, can only be made by
isolating this passage from the rest of the text. If we read further, we see
that the reason why God is supposedly important is because of the idea
that with God all things are possible, and thus that God can lift one out
of despair.
But Kierkegaard’s philosophical point is not that such a lifting out of
despair depends on the actual existence of a god for whom all things are
possible. It is rather that the way out of despair depends on the belief
that there exists such a god. This is why he says a bit later ‘the decisive
point is first when someone is brought to the outermost so that, humanly
speaking, there is no possibility. Then it depends on if he will believe
that for God all things are possible, that is, on if he will believe’ (p. 95,
italics in original). And as I have said, one can believe in God whether
or not he exists.
It is, of course, a bit silly to assert that only through a belief in God
can one come out of despair. Not only does it sound like the desperate
rhetoric of an evangelist who has no real arguments to offer, but it is
also obviously false. For it does not take much observation to see that
many people who have no belief in God still come out of despair.
Kierkegaard is aware of this and at one point pays lip service to it by
saying, ‘sometimes the inventiveness of human imagination can suffice
to acquire possibility, but, in the end, when it depends on to believe, the
only help is this, that for God, all things are possible’ (p. 96, italics in
original). Kierkegaard seems to allow that the inventiveness of one’s
own imagination might help in overcoming despair, but then quickly
discounts such a view. Unfortunately, however, he gives no legitimate
reason why it should be discounted. All he says is ‘when it depends on
to believe, the only help is this, that for God, all things are possible’. Or,
in other words, ‘when the point is to believe that with God all things
are possible, the only help is the belief that with God all things are pos-
sible’. This, of course, is true, but like all tautologies says nothing.
This is not to say that, for some people, the belief that with God all
things are possible is essential for escaping despair. Plainly, there are
people whose religious beliefs operate in this way. Kierkegaard was appar-
ently one of them. He tells us in his biographical work The Point of View
for my Work as an Author how, while working on his writings, he was
‘alone in dialectical tensions that – without God – would drive insane
anyone with my imagination, alone in anxieties unto death, alone in a
meaninglessness of existence, without being able, even if I wanted it, to
make myself understandable to a single person’.9 The fact that there are
those who require such beliefs does not, however, mean that all, or even
the majority of people need such beliefs. Further, it is not even clear that
someone with Kierkegaard’s imagination (supposedly he means some-
thing like the depth of his imagination) would be driven insane without
God. Sartre, for example, had a brilliant imagination, was ‘without God’,
and did not go insane – though he, of course, had Simone de Beauvoir
(sort of). Perhaps if Kierkegaard had kept Regine (the girl he left for God)
he would have not felt so alone in his ‘dialectical tensions’ and thus been
able to keep his sanity without having to believe in God.
Does this mean that Kierkegaard’s work on despair should be dispensed
with? Not at all. For the central point that Kierkegaard is making is not
about God, or even a belief in God. It is about the importance of the
belief in possibility. For in the depths of despair what the sufferer lacks is
precisely the sense of possibility: there seems no possible way out of an
unendurable situation. What the person has need of then is the sense
that there is a viable way out. This is something, however, that can be
gained in various ways: psychotherapy, meditation, the support of family
and friends, religion, and so on. Each of these, in its own way, can give
rise to a sense of possibility. None of them has an exclusive claim.
There are, I am well aware, scholars who will strongly disagree with
this view of Kierkegaard and assert, to the contrary, that the essential
aspect of Kierkegaard’s thought is its Christian elements. And this is
understandable because the majority of Western scholars writing on
Kierkegaard seem to be Christians themselves and thus want to see
Kierkegaard as primarily arguing for Christian doctrine, albeit in his
unique Kierkegaardian way. And it is just such people who will, no
doubt, fail to see the relations between Kierkegaard’s ideas and Japanese
thought; for in Japanese thought Christianity, and the assumptions on
which it is based, also play no essential role.
Let us then turn to Japanese thought to get an idea of where these

relations lie. One of the more prominent features of Japanese thought is
its extreme syncretism. That is, Japanese thought is a distinctive blend
of numerous traditions and ideas that, over the centuries, have entered
Japanese culture, mixed with the ideas then present, and subsequently
been expressed in new ways. Thus, Japanese thought is a mixture of at
least Shintō, Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. In Japan, each of
these thought-traditions has both influenced and been influenced by
the other traditions, such that each one becomes expressed in a uniquely
Japanese way. Although Shintō itself, at least in its early versions, is
often thought to be a religion indigenous to Japan, parts of even early
Shintō appear to have been imported, sharing as it does elements with
shamanistic and animistic practices from north-east Asia.10 Also, some
aspects of Shintō seem to have Indian or Greek origins. We can start,
then, by having a look at each of these traditions to get an overview of
the nature of Japanese thought.
The expression ‘Shintō’ is normally said to mean ‘kami no michi’ or
‘the way of the kami’. The kami are the gods and goddesses or spirits.
Shintō is the ancient Japanese practice of acknowledging and venerat-
ing these kami. Many of the kami are described in the earliest Japanese
texts, the Kojiki or Record of Ancient Matters and the Nihongi or Chronicles
of Japan (both from the eighth century). Having many deities Shintō is,
in one sense, a form of polytheism. Yet the word kami does not refer
strictly to the idea of a god or goddess in the Western sense; it has vague-
ness to it that gives it a far wider sense than the Western notion has. As
Norinaga Motoori, the eighteenth-century Shintō scholar puts it:
I do not yet understand the meaning of the term kami. Speaking

in generalities, however, it may be said that kami signifies, in the
first place, the deities of heaven and earth that appear in the
ancient records and also the spirits of the shrines where they are
worshipped.
It is hardly necessary to say that it includes human beings. It also
includes such objects as birds, beasts, trees, plants, seas, mountains
and so forth. In ancient usage, anything whatsoever outside of the
ordinary, which possess superior power, or which is awe-inspiring
was called kami.11
Thus, although kami refer to supernatural beings, such as the primor-

dial deities Izanagi and Izanami or their daughter the sun goddess,
Amaterasu, it can also refer to awe-inspiring human beings, great sages,
warriors, or emperors. However, it is not just these renowned persons

who are kami; it can also be less known people who also inspire awe in
some way. According to Motoori, ‘in each province, each village and
each family there are human beings who are kami, each one according
to his own proper position’ (p. 23). It can also refer to the dead; for there
is something awe-inspiring about them: once they were full of sound
and movement, now they are silent and still. This is more than likely
where the Japanese reverence for the ancestors comes from; because
they possess that same feature which makes supernatural beings into
gods, namely, their ability to inspire awe.
Further, it is not just personified gods or human beings that can be
kami, but also non-human creatures, ‘birds, beasts, trees, plants’, and even
non-living things in nature – ‘seas, mountains and so forth’. As Motoori
puts it, ‘this does not have reference to the spirit of the mountain or the
sea, but kami is used here directly of the particular mountain or sea. This
is because they were exceedingly awe-inspiring’ (p. 24). It is this seeing of
kami in nature that gives Shintō a quality of nature veneration, tying it in
with a reverence for the natural beauty of the world that is often expressed
by the placing of Shintō shrines in places of natural beauty. Here the kami
of the shrine is present in the simple awe-inspiring quality of the sur-
rounding nature. This further gives Shintō a ‘this-worldly’ quality, mak-
ing it a religion that focuses on the world as we experience it.
It is true that Shintō recognizes personified kami who are not merely
aspects of nature. But still they are not transcendent gods from beyond
this world or from beyond nature. Rather, they dwell quite firmly in the
world we experience. This can be seen in the traditional Shintō account
of the world as existing in three levels, the takamanohara or the plane of
high sky, nakatsukuni or the middle land, and yomi or the underworld.
On the first level are the gods, on the second are human beings, and on
the third are the dead. Now although these levels are arranged in a hier-
archy, it is strictly a physical hierarchy. That is, there is nothing tran-
scendent about the plane of high sky or the underworld. They do not,
like heaven and hell in the Christian tradition, exist in other dimen-
sions or in a realm that is somehow beyond our spatio-temporal world.
Thus, the kami that are the personified gods or the ancestors exist
firmly in this world. It is just that the plane of high sky is high above
this middle land as the underworld is deep below it. (However, the dis-
tance above the human level of the plane of high sky is debatable; for
throughout Japanese history at least 40 different ‘down to earth’ loca-
tions have been suggested, with the most common being a tract of land
in Shikoku, south of Mount Tsurigi.)12
It is worth noting here that a later Shintō scholar, Atsutane Hirata

(1776–1843) rejected the idea that there was a separate underworld that
was physically below the middle land: ‘The view that after men die their
souls go to Yomi is part of a tradition that was introduced to Japan from
abroad for which there is no attestation whatsoever in our ancient past.’
Speaking of his departed teacher he continues that ‘the place where my
teacher’s spirit dwells is Mt Yamamuro [a mountain in Japan] ... He lived
there during his life and fixed upon this mountain as his eternal resting
place. How then can it be doubted that his spirit dwells there? How can
we imagine that it has gone to the filthy land of Yomi?’13
Shintō’s ‘this-worldliness’ and veneration of nature is related to
another system of thinking that has heavily influenced Japanese
culture. This is the ancient Chinese philosophy of Taoism or dōkyō in
Japanese. Taoism was first put forward by the philosopher Lao Tzu
(604 BCE –?) in the work known as the Tao Te Ching. Here he presents the
interrelated concepts of the Tao or the way, kuei-ken or returning to the
root or the source, and wu-wei or non-action. Because of the sparely
worded and poetic style of this book, exactly what Lao Tzu means by
these concepts is unclear. Several passages suggest, however, that the
Tao refers to a pre-discursive state of awareness where our mind, when
allowed to work of its own accord, exists in harmony with nature.
That the Tao is such a state of awareness is suggested, for example, by
Lao Tzu’s claims that although we continually experience the Tao and
employ it in our activities, ‘if desire within us be, its outer fringe is all we
shall see’.14 Thus, although this state of awareness is continually with us – a
state in which our actions seem to flow of their own accord – if we become
filled with and thus distracted by desires, we will lose sight of the core of
this awareness. We lose sight of it because distraction interferes with the
state of stillness in which the mind is able to flow naturally with the
world about me. As Lao Tzu puts it, ‘Who can make the muddy water
clear? Let it be still, and it will gradually become clear. Who can secure
the condition of rest? Let movement go on, and the condition of rest will
gradually arise’ (p. 58). Here awareness, symbolized by water (a common
symbol for the Tao), becomes muddied by the activity of desires. Emptying
oneself of desires lets the stillness of the primordial awareness (the Tao)
appear. This does not mean that awareness ceases activity; for this still-
ness is achieved only in activity, only when we ‘let movement go on’; that
is, when we do not interfere with ourselves.
Lao Tzu employs other symbols from nature to indicate the activity
of the Tao. Thus he tells us ‘all things alike go through their activity
and then we see them return to their original state. When things in the
vegetable world have displayed their luxuriant growth, we see each of

them return to its root. This returning to the root is what we call their
stillness; and stillness may be called a reporting that they have fulfilled
their appointed end’ (p. 59). This idea of ‘returning to the root or
source’ (kuei-ken) is the idea of returning to the Tao. This is returning
to the primordial state of awareness where we are in harmony with
nature.
But how is this done? It is done by non-action (wu-wei). Non-action,
for Lao Tzu, is the allowing of awareness to pursue its natural course.
Non-action is achieved through letting the principles of water and the
vegetable world apply to oneself. This is why he says ‘the sage manages
affairs without doing anything, and conveys his instructions without
the use of speech’ (p. 48). This does not mean that the sage simply sits
and does nothing. It rather means he acts effortlessly by not interfering
with his own awareness. Therefore, says Lao Tzu:
The sage holds in his embrace the one thing of humility, and mani-
fests it to all the world. He is free from self-display, and therefore he
shines; from self-assertion, and therefore he is distinguished; from
self-boasting, and therefore his merit is acknowledged; from self-
complacency, and therefore he acquires superiority. It is because he
is thus free from striving that therefore no one in the world is able to
strive with him. (p. 65)
These Taoist philosophical concepts, which were developed further

by later Chinese Taoists like Chuang Tzu and Lieh Tzu, have an obvious
affinity with Shintō notions of nature. Further, these concepts were
incorporated by later Taoists into religious versions of Taoism which
tended to deify Lao Tzu and other historical figures, and involved ritu-
als and magical practices. These practices, and the Taoist concepts on
which they were based made their way to Japan and were integrated
into Shintō at an early time. Ueda, for example, argues that by 701 CE,
during the period of the Taihō reforms, Shintō rituals performed at the
imperial Japanese court were already incorporating Chinese practices
and ideas, especially those based on Taoism.15
Taoist ideas also have an impact in later Shintō thinking, both on
their own and through the medium of Buddhism. For example, the
medieval Shintōist Yoshida Kanetomo claims that there was an original
spirit or kami ‘pre-dating the diversification of energy’ and that ‘all
phenomena return to that single source’, which is basically the Taoist
concept of kuei-ken. Then taking a phrase directly from Lao Tzu, he
claims that the spirit’s divine function was ‘softening the glare’.16 This
phrase comes from Chapter 4 of the Tao Te Ching and refers to what we
must do in order to bring ourselves into harmony with the Tao.
In Kanetomo’s version of Shintō (‘Prime Shintō’ as he calls it) it is
clear that this original kami is being equated with the Tao.
Another Chinese tradition that had a strong impact on Japanese
thought is Confucianism, or jukyoˉshugi in Japanese. This tradition grew
out of the ideas of the sixth-century BCE philosopher Confucius and his
followers, particularly Mencius. What distinguishes Confucianism from
Taoism, is that while Taoism focuses on living in harmony with nature,
Confucianism is mostly concerned with social ethics and the human
being’s relation to others. What Confucius is interested in is the achieve-
ment of interpersonal harmony. To this end he advocates the study of
the Chinese classics, books that dealt with history, rites, music, divina-
tion, and odes or poetry. In this sense Confucius saw himself as merely
being a transmitter of tradition.
Yet his purpose in advocating this was because he believed it had ben-
eficial effects on the character. He says in the Analects, for example, ‘it is
by the odes that the mind is aroused, by the rules of propriety [the rites]
that the character is established, from music that the finish is received’.17
Or again, ‘without the rites, respectfulness becomes laborious bustle,
carefulness timidity, boldness insubordination, and straightforwardness
rudeness’ (p. 8).
In following these rites or rules of propriety a person follows the
proper order of things which, for Confucius, mainly refers to the social
order. In a way this proper social order is also thought to reflect the
universal order of things. Confucius, however, keeps silent on meta-
physical questions, whose pursuit will not lead to what is of true impor-
tance, namely, following tradition and establishing character. This is
achieved by keeping one’s boldness from becoming insubordination,
straightforwardness from becoming rudeness, and so on, and having
music add the finishing touch.
But in pointing to the effects of such study on character, Confucius is
in fact doing more than merely transmitting tradition. He is justifying
such transmission by basing it on a theory of character formation, and
herein lies his originality.
Confucius pursues his theory of character formation in the Analects
by describing various sorts of ideal characters and discussing the virtues
related to each. It is the discussion of these virtues and their mode of
cultivation that makes up the major part of Confucius’ teachings.
Among the virtues discussed by Confucius are humaneness, reliability
in word, reverence, filial piety or love, brotherly love, and loyalty to

one’s superiors.
One obvious connection that Confucianism has to Japanese thought
is its ‘this-worldly’ quality. Confucianism turned its focus to human
beings and their interpersonal environment and, like Shintō, avoided
discussions about transcendent objects, realms, or concepts.
Confucianism and Japanese thought are further related in their rever-
ence for and veneration of ancestors. I have already mentioned how
ancestor veneration in Japan was connected to the Shintō belief that
the dead were kami. This fits well with Confucius’ ideas about the
importance of filial piety and devotion towards parents and grand-
parents. For Confucianism, as for Shintō, this devotion and piety
carries over to the dead. When asked about filial piety, Confucius re-
plied, ‘When parents are alive, serve them according to the rules of
propriety. When they die, bury them according to the rules of propriety
and sacrifice to them according to the rules of propriety’ (p. 23).
Although the exact early relation between Confucianism and
Shintō is unclear, as the Shintō scholar Holtom suggests, ‘Confucianism
strengthened, if, indeed, it did not actually create, early Japanese
ancestor worship and gave greater definiteness to the more vague
and original conception of kami.’18 Part of the problem is in deter-
mining the dates when Confucian ideas entered Japan (Holtom sug-
gests that 405 CE is the likely date for the introduction of the Analects).
Confucian and Taoist texts were being studied at the imperial court
by at least the eighth century. By the Heian period (794–1185 CE)
Confucian ideals seem well established in Japan. For example, in the
writings of the esoteric Buddhist thinker Annen (841–889 CE) we find
his ‘Dōjikyō’ or ‘Maxims for the Young’. Here numerous Confucian
prescriptions, blended with Buddhist and Shintō ideas, are given.
Thus Annen says:
In the presence of a superior, do not suddenly stand up.

If you meet such a person on the road, kneel and then pass on.
Should he summon you, comply respectfully
With hands clasped to your breast, face him directly.
Speak only if spoken to; if he addresses you, listen carefully.
Further, he says, ‘when the writings of the [Confucian] sages are being
read, do nothing indecorous’.19
The Confucian virtue of loyalty to superiors finds dramatic expression
in the Japanese tradition of the warrior, a tradition which in later
centuries became enshrined in bushidō or the way of the warrior as

practised by the samurai.
About a century before Annen was writing, the Japanese emperors were
seeking to gain more political control by establishing a system of feudal
armies throughout Japan (an idea which they imported from China).
With the evolution of this military system there gradually appeared
the idea that the warrior should show absolute loyalty to the emperor or
local lord. This loyalty of the warrior to his lord, even to the point of
dying for the lord, is recorded in the various gunki mono or war tales. In
one such tale, Taiheiki or Chronicle of Great Peace, the warrior Nitta, who
is fighting for the emperor, considers his options in the forthcoming
battle: ‘If now, upon learning that the enemy has a great army, I should
withdraw to Kyoto without fighting even one battle, it would be a
humiliation I could not bear. Victory or defeat do not concern me. I
wish only to display my loyalty.’20
The depth of the Confucian influence is underlined by the fact that
Nitta’s comrade-in-arms, Masashige, challenges Nitta’s thinking here by
directly quoting from the Analects. Thus, Masashige replies that Nitta
should not be influenced by what people will think of his retreat, but
should only consider whether the situation is right for battle. Masashige
says, ‘thus Confucius admonished Zilu with these words, “Do not follow
the lead of one who would fight tigers with his bare hands and ford great
rivers on foot, regretting not that he may be killed” ’ (p. 289).
Nevertheless, Masashige, himself a great hero in Japanese culture,
dies fighting for his emperor in a battle he knows he cannot win. Here
we are told, ‘Masashige, a man combining the three virtues of wisdom,
benevolence, and courage [all Confucian virtues], whose fidelity [also a
Confucian virtue] is unequalled by anyone from ancient times to the
present, has chosen death as the proper way [a Japanese warrior virtue
based on Confucian loyalty to one’s superiors]’ (p. 291). A peculiar blend
of the Confucian virtue of loyalty and the Shintō idea of kami made its
appearance in the Second World War with the kamikaze or suicide pilots.
The kamikaze or ‘kami from the wind’ showed their absolute loyalty to
the emperor by dying for him while being proclaimed as kami for their
awe-inspiring sacrifice.
A further and major influence on Japanese thought is Buddhism.
Buddhism has its origins in northern India where Siddhā rtha Gautama,
the Buddha (563–483 BCE) first presented his account of human
existence. Central to his view are the ideas of the four noble truths, the
chain of dependent origination, and the no-self theory. The four noble
truths start with the claim that all life is suffering. Thus, says the
Buddha, ‘Birth is suffering; ageing is suffering; sickness is suffering;

death is suffering; grief and despair are suffering; association with the
unpleasant is suffering; dissociation from the pleasant is suffering; not
to get what one wants is suffering.’21 The second truth is that this suf-
fering is caused by craving and selfish desire, while the third truth is
that to stop suffering one must stop craving and vanquish selfish desire.
The final truth is that in order to vanquish such desires one must follow
the eightfold noble path, which encompasses a list of practices such as
holding right views, making a right resolve, and entering the right states
of concentration and mindfulness (that is, meditation).
By partaking of the eightfold path one is, the Buddha says, able to
break the chain of dependent origination, a chain that shackles us to
suffering. This chain starts with ignorance, which leads to the idea of
self, to craving, and thence to suffering. Through following the eight-
fold path one is able to overcome the ignorance that gives rise to the
idea of self, accept the non-existence of the self, and thus become
enlightened and overcome suffering.
These early teachings of the Buddha were preserved in the later
Mahāyāna wing of Buddhist thought, but were elaborated and re-
interpreted in new ways. Central to Mahāyāna thought is the idea of the
bodhisattva, the compassionate individual, who while practising to be-
come a Buddha and thus to overcome suffering also seeks to help all
beings to gain enlightenment. In doing this the bodhisattva or Buddha
may use upāya or expedient means, that is, claims that are not fully
true, but nevertheless aid a person to achieve enlightenment.
These teachings of the Buddha, especially as given in Mahāyāna texts
like the Miao-fa lion-hua ching or The Lotus Sūtra, eventually spread to
China and Korea and from there to Japan (the earliest extant version of
The Lotus Suˉtra is a Chinese translation). While in China, however, they
were blended with Confucianism and Taoism and in due course evolved
into distinctly Chinese forms of Buddhism. It was these Chinese forms
of Buddhism that were finally introduced into Japanese culture.
Although Buddhism first arrived in Japan in 552 CE, it was not until
the Nara period (709–784) that Buddhism began to take hold. During
this time six schools of Buddhism became established in Nara, the home
of the Japanese court. Yet these schools, mainly representing the early
Hıˉnayaˉna form of Buddhism, tended to the exclusionist view that
enlightenment in this life was only possible for monks who followed an
arduous regime of study and meditation. Others would have to wait for
rebirth in another life. This, along with their strong connections to the
imperial court, hindered the spread of Buddhist ideas in Japan.
Nevertheless, there were several aspects of Buddhism that fitted well

with already accepted Japanese ideas. The Buddhist idea that all life is
suffering appealed to Japanese sensitivities about the way that sorrow
permeates life. This idea is well expressed by the Japanese word aware, a
word that refers to an emotion of poignant sadness. Early Japanese poets
would use this word to express a gentle sorrow over the fleetingness of
existence: the changing of the seasons, the falling of a leaf, or the flying
away of a bird.
A few years after the close of the Nara period, the schools of Tendai
and Shingon Buddhism were founded by Saichō (767–822) and Kūkai
(774–835), respectively. It is here that Buddhism began to take its place
in Japanese thought. Both Saichō and Kūkai argued for the view that
enlightenment in this life was possible for everyone. Saichō did this by
simplifying the precepts for those taking Buddhist training and by
arguing for the Tendai doctrine of original enlightenment, namely, that
all beings are originally endowed with enlightenment. Kūkai did like-
wise by presenting a variety of esoteric meditative techniques, each of
which, when taught by an authentic master, will lead to enlightenment.
Such views as these resonated well with what the Buddhist scholar
Tamura calls ‘the Japanese tendency to affirm life and this world’.22
Although Tendai and Shingon Buddhism made the Buddhist concept
of enlightenment more acceptable for Japanese ways of thinking, it was
in the Kamakura period (1185–1333) that Buddhist thought first became
widely disseminated in Japanese culture. This is because the three main
schools of Kamakura Buddism – True Pure Land, Zen, and Nichiren
Buddhism – not only affirmed the Tendai and Shingon views of the im-
mediate availability of enlightenment but, further, had a rigour and
simplicity to their teachings that made them broadly accessible. The
success of these schools gave rise to a flurry of activity at Kamakura –
the seat of the Shoˉ gunate – that transformed Kamakura into a centre of
Buddhist thought.
Pure Land Buddhism, which had its roots in India and expanded
greatly in China, centres around the idea of a Pure Land which is free
from delusion and in which one can be reborn by having faith in the
original vow of one of the Buddhas, namely Amida Buddha. Amida
Buddha, or the Buddha of infinite light as he is also called, is claimed in
the Indian suˉ tras to have vowed to save all beings from suffering. He is
an ‘other power’ in which people must put their faith. Yet, according to
the Japanese Pure Land Buddhist, Eikan, Amida Buddha is really just
ourselves. As he puts it, ‘this mind is the Buddha’.23 But how does one
have faith in an ‘other power’ when there is no difference between
oneself and that other power? A possible answer, suggested by

Humphreys, is that the other power of Amida can be seen as an ‘objec-
tivised or projected version of the Buddha within’.24 Here we can see the
Mahāyāna idea of expedient means at work. Although a Pure Land prac-
titioner might think that there really is an Amida Buddha, a separate
being or ‘other power’ in whom she has faith, such a story is in fact just
a device or expedient means to get the practitioner to stop interfering
with her own awareness and thus liberate herself from her own delu-
sions. In Lao Tzu’s words – and here is the connection with Taoism – it
is to return to the source.
Originally, Pure Land Buddhism taught that there were several
meditative practices that could enable one to be reborn in the Pure
Land. But for the Japanese Pure Land master Hōnen (1133–1212), the
sole practice was the calling of Amida’s name in the mantra ‘Namu
Amida Butsu’ or ‘Praise to Amida Buddha’. For Hōnen, constant effort
was essential in the chanting of the mantra. Hōnen’s student Shinran
(1173–1262) (founder of the True Pure Land sect) diverged from his
teacher in asserting that not even constant effort was necessary. Indeed,
because of the depth of craving and evil desires, it was not even possible.
If one simply had one moment of faith in Amida’s vow, said Shinran,
one was guaranteed birth in the Pure Land.
Further, although many Pure Land followers before Shinran inter-
preted the Pure Land as something like the celestial kami’s plane of high
sky – another land in which they would be reborn after death – Shinran
argued that there was no difference between the Pure Land and this
world. This is because that moment of faith is the Pure Land. Thus, says
Shinran, ‘when a person realizes shinjin (faith), he or she is born imme-
diately. “To be born immediately” is to dwell in the stage of no retro-
gression. To dwell in the stage of no retrogression is to become established
in the stage of the truly settled. This is also called the attainment of the
equal of perfect enlightenment.’25
When Zen Buddhism first came to Japan from China in the
Kamakura period, it presented itself as being distinct from other forms
of Buddhism. It was hailed as a separate transmission outside the
sˉutras. That is, the Chinese Zen (Ch’an in Chinese) masters rejected the
authority of the Buddhist sˉutras and instead advocated direct experi-
ence. This feature of Zen is well expressed in Liang K’ai’s famous paint-
ing (c. mid-twelfth century) of the Sixth Patriarch of Zen tearing up a
sˉutra.
The major figure in Kamakura Zen Buddhism is Dōgen (1200–53).
Dōgen argued for this ‘direct experience’ feature of Zen Buddhism by
stressing the importance of zazen or sitting meditation. It is in meditation,

says Dōgen, that we directly experience the nature of reality, which is
none other than enlightenment itself. This is experienced as a ‘casting
off of mind and body’ (Japanese: shinjin datsuraku), in which we see that
there is no enduring self or mind (Dōgen’s word shinjin is written with
different characters than Shinran’s word shinjin and thus has a different
meaning). Some people, however, think that although the bodily form
is temporary, the mind is permanent and somehow persists beyond the
body. In his ‘Bendō wa’ or ‘On the Endeavour of the Way’ section of his
major work Dōgen replies to this idea by saying,
how can you say body perishes but mind is permanent? Is it not
against authentic principle? Not only that, you should understand
that birth-and-death [that is, life in this world] is itself nirvāna.
Nirvāna is not explained outside birth-and-death. Even if you under-
stand that mind is permanent apart from the body, and mistakenly
assume that the Buddha wisdom is separate from birth-and-death,
this mind still arises and perishes and is not permanent. Is it not
ephemeral? (Translation modified)26
It is evident that, despite some divergence, there is a strong connec-

tion between the ideas of Shinran and Dōgen. Both thinkers reject the
notion of transcendence and affirm that ultimate reality – the Pure
Land or nirvāna – is to be found in this world.
Another significant thinker who has to be mentioned is Nichiren
(1222–82), the founder of Nichiren Buddhism. Nichiren differs from
Shinran and Dōgen in that, while they focused their concern on the
individual, Nichiren expended much of his energy on social concerns.
This was a result of his concern about the several natural and social dis-
asters that were afflicting Japan at the time. He thought that the disasters
were occurring because people had fallen away from the true teachings
of Buddhism. Thus he attempted to unify Japanese Buddhism by return-
ing people’s focus to The Lotus Sūtra. This sūtra, he felt, was the final
teaching of the Buddha, with all other sūtras being provisional teachings,
and he advocated reciting passages from The Lotus Sūtra, especially the
mantra incorporating the sūtra’s full title, ‘Nam myoho renge kyō’ or ‘Praise
to the lotus of the wondrous law’ – as the path to enlightenment.
However, beneath these differences from Shinran and Dōgen’s view,
there lay an essential agreement concerning the nature of enlighten-
ment. The Buddha’s teachings, in Nichiren’s words, ‘mean that earthly
desires are enlightenment and that the sufferings of birth and death are
nirvāna. When one chants Nam-myoho-renge-kyo even during the

sexual union of man and woman, then earthly desires are enlightenment
and the sufferings of birth and death are nirvāna. Sufferings are nirvāna
only when one realizes that life throughout its cycle of birth and death
is neither born nor destroyed.’27
The ties between these three major schools of Buddhism – schools
that came fundamentally to affect Japanese thought – were appreciated
by many subsequent Japanese thinkers. For example, the eighteenth-
century Zen Master Hakuin argued that what is essential to gaining
enlightenment is seeing into one’s own nature. This is only to be
achieved by overcoming the grand delusion that one has a self. Hakuin
taught the method of koan study, that is, the study of an illogical puzzle
or word that rational thinking cannot solve. By persisting with the koan
the student eventually breaks through his or her delusions to arrive at
enlightenment. There are, however, numerous ways of overcoming this
delusion. Hakuin therefore says, ‘so it is with the Way. Whether you sit
in meditation, recite the sūtras, intone the dhāranı̄ [magical incanta-
tions], or call the Buddha’s name, if you devote all your efforts to what
you are doing and attain the ultimate, you will kick down the dark cave
of ignorance ... The content of the practices may vary but what diffe-
rence is there in the goal that is reached?’28
In addition to the influences of Shintō, Taoism, Confucianism, and
Buddhism on Japanese thought, there were also the influences of
Christianity and Western philosophy, although these were both late-
comers to Japan and were never widely assimilated. Christianity, for
example, which first arrived with missionaries in the late sixteenth cen-
tury, was seen by the Tokugawa Shōgun as a covert attempt by the West
to colonize Japan and after an initial brief expansion, in 1612 Christianity
was banned. Shortly afterwards the Christian missionaries were driven
out of Japan and the Shōgun made a determined effort to eradicate
Christianity. Finally, in 1629 Japan established itself in near total isola-
tion from the rest of the world, cutting itself off from the impact of
Christian and other Western ideas. This remained the situation for al-
most 250 years, until, under pressure from the West, the Meiji govern-
ment once again opened Japan to foreign contact. At this point, Western
ideas began steadily to enter Japan, but what is now known as Japanese
thought had, for the most part, already been firmly established. Thus,
although Japan again allowed Christian missionaries to seek converts,
Christianity never spread widely through Japan – as Confucianism and
Buddhism had done earlier – and Christian thinking did not alter or
add much to Japanese thought.
It is interesting to note that even among Japanese who consider themselves

Christians their idea of being a Christian does not necessarily exclude the
possibility of their also practising Shintō or Buddhism. Thus, Mortensen
refers to a Japanese student of Kierkegaard he met who ‘came from a non-
religious environment, but had attended one of the traditional Buddhist
temples in Nara. After which he was baptized and lived as a student in a
hostel owned by the congregation of the United Church of Japan. Despite
his deep involvement in Christian religious philosophy, he supported the
erection of a Buddhist pagoda in his home town with pride.’ Reflecting
on this, Mortensen says, ‘One can ask oneself what the concept of faith
really means in a society where each individual can believe such a variety
of things and where, in many instances, he or she belongs to a certain
sect out of considerations for ancestors.’29
Why Mortensen asks himself this is because from the usual Christian
perspective, Christianity is the truth and other views that contradict it –
for example, views that are atheistic, reject the idea of heaven, or do not
see Jesus as the son of a god – are false. Thus from a conventional
Christian perspective it does not make sense for someone to claim to be
a Christian while at the same time supporting Buddhism and ancestor
veneration. In other words, the core of Christianity, which sees itself as
being the sole road to salvation, is lost upon the majority of Japanese.
As for Western philosophy, this too made little impression on Japanese
thought in general. It did, however, affect Japanese modern philosophy.
This is because Japanese universities with philosophy departments –
which were both modelled after the West – only began to appear during
this period of renewed contact. It is here that Kierkegaard played a deci-
sive role. The reason, as we shall see, is because of the numerous links
between Kierkegaard and Japanese thought.
From the overviews just given it should now be evident where these
connections lie. For example, subjectivity, a major theme in Kierkegaard’s
works, is a theme that appears throughout Japanese thought. For
Kierkegaard, truth is found in subjectivity because of the meanings that
certain events have for us. These meanings are lost when one attempts
to take the objective point of view. Likewise, in Shintō thought, the
kami are often felt in the subjective awe-inspiring quality of various
experiences. The experience of the kami is lost when the observer takes
an objective view.
Thus, were I to try to observe the bamboo grove surrounding a shrine
in a detached objective way I would fail to experience the kami. However,
turning inward and becoming subjective, as Kierkegaard would say, I
become aware of the awe-inspiring feature of these entities. I see the
peculiar and almost life-like swaying of the bamboo while the wind
gently moves through the grove. (Is this swaying something that the
kamakiri or praying mantis, itself a kami, tries to imitate as it creeps up
the branches?) I see the shimmering play of light on the rustling leaves
which creates a dance of colour and shade, a dance whose infinite com-
plexity pulls me into a whirlpool of meanings. My sense of the kami is
only to be found in the subjectivity of my experience. Here truth is
subjectivity.
In just this way the experience of aware is only felt when one becomes
subjective, that is, when one turns to the way in which the world
presents itself to one’s own subjectivity. The tinge of sadness that I see
in watching the blossom fall from its branch is nothing that would
enter into an objective account of this event. I only find aware when I
focus on the meaning that this event has in my subjectivity. Further, as
Eshin Nishimura points out in Chapter 4, the notion of human subjec-
tivity is one that lies at the heart of Zen Buddhist thought.
This feature of Zen Buddhism provides the basis for several connec-
tions with the ideas of Kierkegaard, connections that are also explored
in Chapters 5, 6, and 7. It will be recalled, for example, how in
Kierkegaard’s account Abraham had no basis on which to decide from
whither came the voice that commanded him to kill his child. Was it
God? Was it a hallucination? All he could do was choose in faith. This
is especially true since the command is an ‘absurdity’ and, for Abraham,
‘all human calculation had long since ceased to function’. This has an
obvious link to the Hakuin’s notion of koan study; for a koan, just like
the question of whether it really is God who commands Abraham to kill
his only child, is an unsolvable problem, a puzzle with no definite solu-
tion. The connections between Kierkegaard’s idea of absurdity and par-
adox and Hakuin’s idea of koan study are examined further by Archie
Graham in Chapter 7.
The idea of subjectivity also ties Kierkegaard into a central feature of
Shintō (and thus Japanese thought generally), namely, its ‘this-worldly’
quality. For, as I have tried to show, Shintō’s focus is on nature and the
empirical world of experience. Kierkegaard’s philosophical concerns are
also with this world and how it presents itself to us. All of his major
areas of inquiry have to do with human experience. Even in the recur-
ring theme of death, his concern is not with death itself, but with the
meaning that death has for us or the appropriate way to remember the
dead, and so on. Likewise, although Kierkegaard refers often to God, his
philosophical concern is always with the belief in God, not with God as
something existing beyond the belief. This aspect of Kierkegaard, which
brings him into harmony with Japanese ways of thinking, is nicely

expressed by the philosopher Kazuo Mutō who says of Kierkegaard, ‘his
thought amounts to God without God’ (p. 146). Or again, in line with
the ‘this-worldly’ quality of Shintō and of seeing the kami in nature,
there are Japanese philosophers who understand Kierkegaard’s idea of
God in just this way. Thus the philosopher Satoshi Nakazato says, ‘many
researchers claim that Kierkegaard is extremely Christian and does not
find God in nature, but that is incorrect in my opinion: on many occa-
sions he has seen or experienced God in nature’ (p. 129). The relations
between Shintō, especially the modern Shintō thinker Kobayashi, and
Kierkegaard, are explored in detail by Makoto Mizuta in Chapter 11.
Kierkegaard’s theme of freedom is also one that appears in various
places in Japanese thought. In Taoism, both in itself and as it appears in
Japanese Buddhism, freedom plays a fundamental role. In the Taoist
view of things I experience my freedom by liberating my awareness
from the obscuring desires that impede its natural activity. The opaque
waters of awareness become clear and my actions now flow of their own
accord. Here I experience my freedom in wu-wei or non-action. This
idea of freedom is, however, somewhat different from Kierkegaard’s; for
in the Taoist picture I find freedom by letting things happen of their
own accord, not by actively moving towards a chosen goal.
Although there is this difference, there is also a deeper relationship.
This is because there is an important sense in which the qualitative leap
also happens of its own accord. No science can explain what makes the
leap take place; for there is nothing that causes it. This is why it is free.
In the moment of choice, choice simply takes place. It also happens of
its own accord. In this sense, the qualitative leap is wu-wei. What hap-
pens, however, is that the waters of awareness become muddied with
self-deception as we try to interfere with our choices. This does not
mean that in self-deception we are not free, but only that we are trying
to deceive ourselves into thinking we are not free. As Lao Tzu would put
it, we only see the outer fringes of the Tao.
A similar account could be made for Buddhism. In Pure Land
Buddhism, for example, one enters the Pure Land when one gives one-
self over to the ‘other power’ of Amida Buddha. What one is doing is
simply not interfering with the operation of natural awareness. One
gives oneself over to the other power by letting non-action take over. In
this sense, Kierkegaard’s qualitative leap is none other that Shinran’s
‘other power’; for the qualitative leap is also an ‘other power’. It is some-
thing which, having no causal or deterministic ties to previous events,
happens of its own accord. Yet just as Amida Buddha is really my own
mind, so is the qualitative leap really my own choice. Where Kierkegaard

differs from Shinran, is that Kierkegaard did not have a fully developed
notion of a Pure Land, or did not seem to see that the qualitative leap
leads to something like the freedom of the Pure Land. This is because his
discussion of the leap, especially in The Concept of Anxiety, is tied in with
the idea of sin and guilt. Shinran is also concerned about evil desires, but
he is not concerned with the idea of an ‘other power’ as something
which leads us to have these desires. This, however, is Kierkegaard’s con-
cern, and so their paths diverge.
Anxiety is also a theme in Japanese thought, although it appears in a
different way. With Kierkegaard, as we have seen, anxiety is something
that attends freedom and thus is always there in some form and to some
degree. In Japanese thought, however, anxiety is not something that is
inevitable in this way. This is because anxiety is not seen as an experi-
ence that accompanies all choices. Rather, anxiety is seen, as is usual in
the Buddhist tradition, as a form of suffering. And suffering is some-
thing that is to be overcome.
That a major goal of Buddhism is to rise above anxiety is attested to
by the fact that the Buddha is often depicted as holding his hand in the
Abhaya mudra, a hand gesture that means ‘Have no fear’ (fear and anx-
iety are not typically distinguished in Buddhism). We find an impor-
tant difference in the way that Kierkegaard and Japanese thought
approach the problem of anxiety; for while Japanese thought offers a
way to be free from anxiety, Kierkegaard does not. It is true that in the
closing chapter of The Concept of Anxiety, Kierkegaard gives the appear-
ance of offering a way of escaping anxiety. He cryptically refers to the
idea of atonement. But as I have argued elsewhere, no such solution is
really given and, further, it goes against his entire theory.30 As Ian Mills
observes in Chapter 6, there is an anguish present in Kierkegaard’s writ-
ing that contrasts with the calmness evident in Dōgen’s writings.
In the same way, death, which is a mutual and major concern for both
Kierkegaard and Japanese thinkers, is dealt with in related ways.
Kierkegaard, as we have seen, feels that death can only be fully under-
stood from within the individual’s subjectivity. What this involves is
experiencing a fear of death in the awareness of the inevitability of
death. Further, this awareness has to be accompanied by the thought
that death could come at any time. As Adam Buben shows in Chapter 8
the samurai also feel that one should be aware of death and, in deep
subjectivity, accept that it could come at any time. There is an obvious
connection here, yet as Buben demonstrates, while Kierkegaard thinks
the fear of death should, to a certain degree, be kept in our awareness,
the samurai see the fear of death as something to be prevailed over. This
would seem to be a point of divergence.
It is also worth noting that Kierkegaard’s concern with death, especially
with the idea of how we are to treat the dead, has deep connections with
Confucian and Shintō thinking. This is strange because, if there is one
particular strand in Japanese thought that would seem to be most dis-
tinct from Kierkegaard, it would appear to be Confucianism; for
Confucianism is concerned, in a basic way, about the harmony of inter-
personal relationships, a concern that seems distinct from Kierkegaard’s.
Yet even here one can find a connection. As I mentioned earlier, Confucius
sees filial piety as being an important virtue, and one that should be cul-
tivated. This piety, he thinks, should also carry over into the realm of the
dead. Thus, he tells us that when our parents die we should, ‘bury them
according to the rules of propriety and sacrifice to them according to the
rules of propriety’. This reverence for one’s deceased parents also carries
over in Confucian thought to a general reverence for the dead ancestors.
In like manner, it is also the practice of Shintō to revere the dead and
ancestors as awe-inspiring kami.
There are several places in Kierkegaard’s writing where the dead take on
this awe-inspiring quality. In Concluding Unscientific Postscript, for exam-
ple, Kierkegaard describes his walk through a graveyard and the awe that
he feels for the dead. Their tombstones are inscribed with ‘We shall meet
again’, and yet they remain quietly in their graves. For Kierkegaard this
becomes symbolic of passionate inwardness: to hold fast to your course in
spite of having everything against you.31 This idea is also expressed in
Kierkegaard’s idea of the fellowship of the dead, a society of the living who
are like the dead in that they are inwardly entombed and cut off from fel-
lowship with the living. In Chapter 13 Masugata explores this idea and its
relation to the Japanese Kierkegaard scholar Masaru Otani; someone who
saw himself as part of Kierkegaard’s fellowship of the dead. Though in
both cases the dead become symbols, they are nevertheless venerated by
Kierkegaard in a not completely un-Confucian or un-Shintō way.
This link to Japanese ideas about the dead is even more striking in
Works of Love in the chapter entitled ‘The Work of Love in Remembering
One Dead’. Here we find Kierkegaard reflecting on the proper way to
show love for the departed. As Kierkegaard points out, unlike other
forms of love, this is a situation in which there is no possibility of recip-
rocation. One can only love with unconditional respect and reverence.
Kierkegaard no longer sees the dead as symbolic of something else, but
here describes feelings for the dead as themselves, and the duty that one
has to remember them in this way. Much of what he says is not unlike
the Japanese practice of bowing to the family butsudan – a small altar

with pictures of the family dead – each time one enters the house.
Turning now to Kierkegaard’s theme of despair, the connections with
Japanese thought are unmistakable. For Kierkegaard despair is universal;
for Buddhism all life is suffering. According to the Buddha, sickness, age-
ing and death – three of the sights that made him leave home and seek
the answer to suffering (the fourth being the sight of a wandering yogin) –
are among the unavoidable features of existence that sink us into despair.
We grasp at and cling to health, youth, and life and can never accept
their loss. But they will be lost. And as we watch the approach of their
inevitable impermanence we descend into despair. Here, Kierkegaard
presents essentially the same story: despair arises from the inability to
become the self the individual longs to become. Translated into Buddhist
terms this suffering arises because it is not possible to become the so
much desired healthy, young, and deathless being.
The divergence between Kierkegaard and Buddhism would seem to
appear when Kierkegaard goes on to claim that the way out of despair
only comes through the belief that with God all things are possible. Yet,
as I showed, Kierkegaard offers no support for this claim, which is obvi-
ously false. However, elsewhere Kierkegaard does suggest another way
out of despair. And here his suggestion is supported with argument.
Thus, in an article entitled ‘One Lives Only Once’ Kierkegaard reflects
over the fact that people commonly have a wish that they long to fulfil.
A person in this circumstance often believes that the fulfilment of this
wish would bring happiness. But, says Kierkegaard, ‘imagine such a
person on his deathbed. The wish was not fulfilled, but his soul, un-
changed, clings to this wish – and now, now it is no longer possible.
Then he rises up on his bed; with the passion of despair he once again
states his wish, “Oh, what despair, it is not fulfilled; what despair, one
lives only once!”.’ Then, says Kierkegaard, ‘it seems terrible, and it truly
is, but not as he thinks; what is terrible is not that the wish was unful-
filled, what is terrible is the passion with which he clings to it. His life
is not wasted because his wish is not fulfilled, not at all; if his life is
wasted it is because he refused to give up his wish.’32 On this point
Kierkegaard is in agreement with Buddhism. What Kierkegaard states
here is essentially the third noble truth given by the Buddha, namely,
that to stop suffering one must give up craving and selfish desire.
With this it should be clear why Japanese philosophers, with their
blend of Shintōist, Taoist, Confucian, and Buddhist ideas, would find
significance in Kierkegaard’s ideas. Indeed, Kierkegaard would have fit
in remarkably well among the temples of Kamakura. The Japanese
thinkers at Hasedera and Kenchoji temples, would have felt an affinity

with his ideas and Tōkai Shōshun, the master at Engakuji temple, might
even have accepted him for Zen training. At the very least he would
have no longer had to complain, as he did, about being a ‘genius in a
market town’. How later Japanese philosophers came upon his ideas,
and their responses to them, are the subject of the next chapter.33
Notes
1. S. Morris Engel, The Study of Philosophy (San Diego, California: Collegiate
Press, 2002) p. 20.
2. James Giles, ‘Introduction’, in Kierkegaard and Freedom, ed. James Giles
(Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2000).
3. Kierkegaard, Søren Kierkegaards Papirer [Papers of Søren Kierkegaard] 1, ed. P. A.
Hieberg and V. Kuhr (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1968) pp. 53 and 55. All
translations from Kierkegaard’s works given in this chapter are my own.
4. Kierkegaard, Afsluttende Uvidenskabeligt Efterskrift [Concluding Scientific Postscript]
in Søren Kierkegaards Samlede Værker [Collected Works of Søren Kierkegaard] 9, ed.
A. B. Drachmann, J. L. Hieberg and H. O. Lang (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1963)
p. 129. Further references to this edition are included in the text.
5. Kierkegaard, Begrebet Angest [The Concept of Anxiety] in Kierkegaards Samlede
Værker, 6, p. 189.
6. Kierkegaard, Sygdommen til Døden [The Sickness unto Death] in Kierkegaards
Samlede Værker, 15, pp. 113–14.
7. Kierkegaard, Enten-Eller [Either-Or] in Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 2, pp. 171–2.
8. Kierkegaard, Frygt og Bævan [Fear and Trembling] in Kierkegaards Samlede
Værker, 4, p. 189.
9. Kierkegaard, Synpunktet for min Forfatter-virksomhed, in Kierkegaards Samlede
Værker, 18, p. 123.
10. Sources of Japanese Tradition, 1, second edition, compiled by Wm Theodore
de Bary, Donald Keene, George Tanabe, and Paul Varley (New York: Columbia
University Press, 2001) p. 17.
11. Norinaga Motoori, Motoori Norinaga zenshuˉ [Complete Works Norinaga Motoori]
excerpted in D. C. Holtom, The National Faith of Japan: a Study in Modern Shintoˉ
(New York: Paragon, 1965) p. 23. Further references to this excerpt are from
this edition and are included in the text. Translation is by D. C. Holtom.
12. Jean Herbert, Shintoˉ: the Fountain Head of Japan (New York: Stein and Day,
1967) p. 236.
13. Atsutane Hirata, ‘Life after Death’, in Sources of Japanese Tradition, 2, second
edition, compiled by Ryusaku Tsunoda, Wm Theodore de Bary, and Donald
Keene (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958) pp. 45–6.
14. Lao Tzu, The Tao Te Ching of Lao Tzu, in The Texts of Taoism, 1, trans. James
Legge (New York: Dover, 1962). Further references to this edition are
included in the text.
15. Kenji Ueda, ‘Contemporary Social Change and Shintō Tradition’, Japanese
Journal of Religious Studies, 6 (1979) 303–27.
16. Yoshida Kanemoto, ‘Yoshida Kanemoto: Prime Shinto’, in Sources of Japanese
Tradition, 1, p. 348.
17. Confucius, Confucian Analects, in Confucius, trans. James Legge (New York:
Dover, 1971) p. 23. Further references to this edition are included in the text.
18. D. C. Holtom, The National Faith of Japan: a Study in Modern Shintoˉ (New
York: Paragon, 1965).
19. Annen, ‘Annen: Maxims for the Young’, in Sources of Japanese Tradition, 1,
pp. 193–4.
20. Anonymous, ‘Chronicle of the Great Peace (Taiheiki): the Loyalist Heroes’,
in Sources of Japanese Tradition, 1, p. 289. Further references to this edition
are included in the text.
21. The Buddha, ‘Setting in Motion the Wheel of Truth’, in A Sourcebook in Asian
Philosophy, ed. John M. Koller and Patricia Koller (Upper Saddle River, NJ:
Prentice Hall, 1991) p. 195.
22. Yoshiro Tamura, Japanese Buddhism: a Cultural History, trans. Jeffery Hunter
(Tokyo: Kosei, 2000) p. 59.
23. Cited in Tamura, Japanese Buddhism: a Cultural History, p. 82
24. Christmas Humphreys, The Wisdom of Buddhism, ed. Christmas Humphreys
(London: Curzon) p. 154.
25. Shinran, The Collected Works of Shinran, 2 (Kyoto: Jodo Shinshu Hongwanji-Ha,
1997) p. 455.
26. Dōgen, Moon in a Dewdrop: the Writings of Zen Master Doˉgen, trans. Kazuaki
Tanahashi (San Francisco, California: North Point Press, 1995) p. 154.
27. Nichiren, Selected Writings of Nichiren, trans. Burton Watson and others, ed.
Philip B. Yampolsky (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990) p. 345.
28. Hakuin, The Zen Master Hakuin: Selected Writings, trans. Philip B. Yampolsky
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1971) p. 126.
29. Finn Hauberg Mortensen, Kierkegaard Made in Japan (Gylling, Denmark:
Odense University Press, 1996) p. 18. The following two citations in the text
come from interviews in this book.
30. James Giles, ‘Kierkegaard’s Leap: Anxiety and Freedom’ in Kierkegaard and
Freedom, pp. 69–92.
31. See James Giles, ‘From Inwardness to Emptiness: Kierkegaard and Yogacaˉraˉ
Buddhism’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 9 (2001) 311–40.
32. Kierkegaard, ‘Man kun lever een Gang’, in Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 19,
p. 275.
33. I should like to thank James Sellmann for his helpful comments on an
earlier version of this chapter.
2
A Short History of
Kierkegaard’s Reception
in Japan
Kinya Masugata
The relationship between Kierkegaard and Japanese thinking may be

viewed from three standpoints. The first considers what influence
Kierkegaard may have had upon the development of Japanese thinking
or Japanese philosophy. This is to investigate critically Japanese think-
ing from the standpoint of Kierkegaard’s ideas. The second takes the
opposite view, which considers how Japanese ideas can contribute to an
understanding of Kierkegaard, or how it is to study and criticize
Kierkegaard from a Japanese perspective. This can also involve attempt-
ing to discover the influence that Japanese thought had on Kierkegaard.
Because Kierkegaard had little or no direct knowledge of Japanese or
Asian philosophy – despite the fact that his contemporary Schopenhauer
was steeped in Asian thought – many people never bother to consider
the possibility of an Eastern influence on his writing. But as Ian Mills
suggests in Chapter 6, there might well be an indirect influence here
through the works of other thinkers. Finally, to synthesize these two
views, we may consider both sides impartially, not using one to judge
the other, but dealing with both on equal terms. This approach does
not stop at interpretation, but deals with living issues in philosophy or
religion.
Kierkegaard’s ideas first appeared in Japan during the Meiji period
(1868–1912) when Japan was opened to foreign influence for the first
time after centuries of self-imposed isolation. We can divide the history
of Kierkegaard research in Japan in the following way:
First period: the dawn (late 1880s–1906)

Second period: the spreading of Kierkegaard’s ideas (1906–14)
Third period: from Watsuji’s Kierkegaard to Mitsuchi’s Drunken Songs
(1915–23)
31
Fourth period: assimilation and Kierkegaard renaissance (1920–45)

Fifth period: existentialism becomes popular (1945–70)
Sixth period: declining interest (1970–present)
Let us look at each of these periods.
First period: the dawn
Kierkegaard’s two routes to Japan

Kierkegaard’s name was known in Japan by the late 1880s. But how did
this come about? Japanese intellectuals got their information on
Kierkegaard through two main routes. The first was through the Danish
philosopher Harald Høffding whose works constituted a major source of
Western philosophy for Japanese intellectuals, and the second was
through the Danish historian of literature Georg Brandes, whose works
were sources of Japanese understanding of occidental literature. Modern
Japan opened up to European culture in philosophy and literature at the
same time that the writings of Høffding and Brandes were dominant.
Western philosophy began to be assimilated into Japanese thought in
the 1880s, and at the same time Japanese philosophers started to develop
their own style of philosophizing in the modern Western sense. Logic,
philosophical psychology, and ethics were especially popular, and there
was also some interest in the history of philosophy. Høffding’s works in
particular gained wide readership. In turn this awoke a special interest
in Danish philosophy. Indeed, in 1911 Ichiro Kobayashi wrote the arti-
cle ‘Denmaku no kinseitetsugaku’ (‘Modern Philosophy of Denmark’),
which he based on Høffding’s 1889 article ‘Die Philosophie in Dänemark
im 19. Jahrhundert’ (‘Danish Philosophy in the 19th Century’).
In 1889, Inoue Tetsujiro, Professor in Philosophy at Tokyo Imperial
University – and the first philosophy professor in Japan – was invited to
speak at the International Eastern Conference in Sweden. On his way to
Sweden, Tetsujiro visited Høffding at his home in Copenhagen. By this
time, Høffding’s reputation as an astute philosopher was already estab-
lished. The German translation of his Psychology had been published in
1887, and the translation of his Ethics was published the following year.
It was this reputation that brought Tetsujiro to visit Høffding.
Another philosopher through whom Høffding’s works came to be
known in Japan was Hajime Ohnishi (1864–1900), the founder of Kyoto
Imperial University’s Philosophy Department. While still a postgraduate
studying under Tetsujiro at Tokyo Imperial University, Ohnishi lectured
on ethics, psychology, and logic at Tokyo Senmon Gakko (later to become
A Short History of Kierkegaard’s Reception in Japan 33
Waseda University). For his classes, he used Høffding’s psychology text. In

1892, Ohnishi completed Høffding’s introduction to Japanese thinkers
with his translation into Japanese of Knud Ibsen’s 1891 article ‘Die dänische
Philosophie des letzten Jahrzehnts’ (Danish Philosophy of the Last Decade).
The German translations of Kierkegaard’s Øjeblik (The Moment) and
Høffding’s Søren Kierkegaard som Filosof (Søren Kierkegaard as Philosopher)
were published in 1896, and reviews of these books appeared in several
German philosophical journals. It is clearly possible that Japanese phi-
losophers – who also contributed to these journals – learned Kierkegaard’s
name through such reviews. Indeed, it was in this period that Ohnishi
started his study of Høffding’s Søren Kierkegaard als Philosoph (the
German title). In 1895 the first five chapters of Høffding’s Psychology
were translated into Japanese by Shintaro Ishida, and a revised edition,
which included a sixth chapter, was published in 1897. This was the
first time that Kierkegaard’s name appeared in print in Japan, albeit in
a translation into Japanese of a foreign work.
The other route through which Kierkegaard’s thought came to Japan
was through Brandes’ writing on Ibsen. By the late 1880s, the Japanese
were already aware of Ibsen. One of the leaders of the literary move-
ment in the Meiji Era, Shōyō Tsubouchi (1859–1935), who hired Ohnishi
at Tokyo Senmon Gakko, wrote on Ibsen twice in 1892 in Waseda
bungaku (Waseda Literary Magazine). From his readings of Brandes’ works,
Tsubouchi concluded that Ibsen was an angry pessimist and that indi-
vidualism was the best protection against the malaise of society. In 1893
Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People and A Doll’s House were translated into
Japanese by Gekko Takayasu, and in 1894 Chikusui Kaneko, a disciple
of Ohnishi, gave a detailed introduction to Ibsen in his article ‘Shinbungo’
(‘New Great Man of Literature’) in Waseda Literary Magazine.
From the mid-1890s Ibsen became a popular topic of conversation in
Japanese intellectual circles, and his work was prominent around 1900,
when notions of self and individualism were of great general interest.
After the Japanese victory in the Sino-Japanese War (1884–95), Japan not
only experienced an upsurge of nationalism, but also saw the emergence
of ideas of capitalism and socialism, and a widespread individualism. The
emergence of these disparate ways of thinking shattered the previously
existing sense of national unity. Young people, sensing a kind of spiritual
starvation, turned their attention to their core values and inner life and,
as a result, ethics became popular in the world of philosophy.
In 1901 Chogyu Takayama, famous as an ultranationalist, published
an article entitled ‘Bunmeihihyōka toshiteno bungakusha’ (‘The Writer as
Critic of Civilization’) in Taiyō (The Sun). This was influenced by
Theobald Ziegler’s 1899 work Die geistigen und sozialen Strömungen des
Neunzehnten Jahrhunderts (The Spiritual and Social Currents of the 19th
Century). In this article Takayama considered Ibsen (as well as
Nietzsche) as a propagator of individualism. He characterized Ibsen’s
poems as ‘poems of will’, ‘poems of ideals’, and thought of Ibsen’s
hero, Brand, as an incarnation of the individualistic will. He claimed
that should Japanese novelists read Brand and understand the main
character, they would no longer be able to write as they had done
before. Takayama also showed great sympathy for Brand’s catchphrase:
‘All or nothing’, which was influential on many Japanese intellectuals
of the time.
Some months later, in 1901, Takayama published a paper in Taiyo
entitled ‘Biteki seikatsu wo ronzu’ (‘Treating Aesthetic Life’), in which
he defined the aesthetic life as one of satisfying instinct. Given his
popularity as an ultranationalist and outspoken critic of the day, the
radical individualism he espoused in this article drew a lot of public
attention. This theory of aesthetic life was perceived as drawing on
Nietzsche and as a result, Nietzsche’s thought rapidly drew public
notice.
Against the tide of this growing popularization of Nietzsche,
Shōyō Tsubouchi criticized both Takayama and Nietzsche. Tsubouchi
was conscious of the necessity of introducing a more balanced pic-
ture of Ibsen to Japanese readers. He therefore dedicated the second
volume of his series of Waseda Literary Magazine to ‘Ibusen saku
shakaigeki’ (‘Ibsen’s Social Drama’), as translated by Gekko Takayasu
in 1901. Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People and A Doll’s House were
included in this translation, as were a general introduction to
Scandinavian literature and translation of selected passages from
Brand and Peer Gynt. Tsubouchi wanted to introduce Ibsen to Japanese
readers without tying Ibsen’s works to Nietzsche’s thought. However,
Ibsen, as well as his character Brand, was generally considered a
Nietzschean individualist.
The first Japanese reference to Kierkegaard

In response to the debate over the aesthetic life, Yasuji Ohtsuka, the first
Japanese professor of aesthetics, published an article in 1902 entitled
‘Romanchikku wo ronjite wagakuni bugei no genkyo ni oyobu’ (‘A Look at Our
Current Literature through the Romantic Movement’). In this article he
criticized followers of ‘the new romanticism’, as the new spiritual trend
in Japan was called. In particular, Ohtsuka attacked those who recom-
mended Nietzscheism. According to Ohtsuka, these thinkers neglected
to develop the proper literary spirit of romanticism. He summarized the

origin, nature, and meaning of romanticism in the history of literature.
In the course of this summary he made reference to Kierkegaard:
A romantic trend has been popular for ten or fifteen years. The
principle of almighty science ... which flourished in the early 19th
century has gradually been declining. The study of psychology
became much more popular than physics, and philosophy, which
was previously out of fashion, has now come to raise its head.
Moreover, the spirit of reaction reflected even in the sphere of reli-
gion; in particular, in the Catholic reaction against Protestantism
and in the increasing number of Catholics themselves. In addition to
these trends in the field of thought concerning the world and life,
there were also Schopenhauer’s pessimism, Nietzsche’s extreme indi-
vidualism, the thought of Kierkegaard (who believed in a principle
similar to Nietzsche’s), not to mention the thought of Tolstoy, a great
man in Russia who, in contrast to Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, eagerly
advocated philanthropy. These thoughts or principles have become
increasingly popular. They have been enthusiastically accepted by
some people and have both developed and become central to new
trends in literature.1
So far as I am able to establish, this is the first time that a Japanese

thinker, in the context of his own work, made reference to Kierkegaard.
In contrast to the 1890s, the character of this new romanticism was
divisive and destructive, both socio-politically and philosophically.
The mainstream of intellectual thought at this time was individual-
ism, with Kierkegaard coming to be considered as one of its main
proponents.
What is more, an entry on Kierkegaard appeared in 1905 in Tetsugaku
jiten (Dictionary of Philosophy) which was edited by Sanjuro Tomonaga
(1871–1951), a philosophy professor at Kyoto Imperial University. This
entry was a translation by Tomonaga from The Dictionary of Philosophy
and Psychology (1901) edited by J. M. Baldwin. Further, Tomonaga
claimed that the entries he wrote for ethics and psychology were
based on Høffding’s works. Tomonaga’s personal library also con-
tained the first German edition of Høffding’s Søren Kierkegaard als
Philosoph.
I have described this period as the dawn of Kierkegaard’s reception in
Japan. The following period involves his wider introduction.
Second period: the spreading of Kierkegaard’s

ideas (1906–14)
The spiritual atmosphere of the

early 1900s in Japan
The early years of the twentieth century were times of frustration
for young people in Japan. The country seemed unlikely to attain
unity in a situation where despite two generations of cultural and
political achievement, society was still characterized by significant
socio-political division.
We can gather a clearer picture of the times from Tetsuro Watsuji
(1889–1960), at the time Japan’s sole systematical ethical philosopher
and author of the first exhaustive Japanese text on Kierkegaard:
It was as a model of Ibsen’s Brand that I first heard Kierkegaard’s name.

When Ibsen’s works appeared in our country, I was a secondary school
student. I found Brandes’ Ibsen and Bjørnson in English and read the
part on Ibsen. It was after the Russo-Japanese War (1906–09). There
was a fairly discernible religious strain among the youth, so I was
keenly conscious of and intensely fascinated with Kierkegaard’s name
as the model of Brand’s ‘Either/or’ dilemma ... When I read Nietzsche
and Kierkegaard, as above mentioned, the world of Christianity was
more discernible than now, and because of this the thought of the
Anti-Christ or of an attack upon Christendom gave us young people a
considerable shock.2
Ibsen’s death and the dissemination

of Kierkegaard’s name
Ibsen died on 23 May 1906. When news of his death reached Japan,
there was an upsurge of interest in Ibsen, and in July of that year the
literary world witnessed the publication of several articles on his works.
In these articles we find a number of references to Kierkegaard’s
thought.
Only one of these articles, Bin Ueda’s ‘Ibusen’ (‘Ibsen’), has previously
been discussed by other scholars. This article appeared on 1 July 1906
in Waseda bungaku. But my own research has uncovered two formerly
unrecognized references to Kierkegaard’s thought. One reference
occurred in Shin shosetsu (New Novel) in the article entitled ‘Henrikku
Ibusen’ (‘Henrik Ibsen’) by Iwaya Sazanami, and the other in ‘Ibusen
towa ikanaru hito zo: 19 seiki no bunmei to Ibusen’ (‘Who is Ibsen: Ibsen
and Civilization in the 19th Century’) by Shinsaku Saito. Both of these

articles were also published on 1 July 1906. It would not, therefore, be
inaccurate to claim that Ibsen’s work was of considerable importance in
introducing Kierkegaard to Japanese thinkers.
Now, one of the main sources of Ibsen’s works at this time was the
1899 English translation of George Brandes’ anthology Henrik Ibsen,
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson. Critical Studies. In his ‘First Impression of Ibsen’
(1867), Brandes advanced the view that Kierkegaard was the model for
Ibsen’s Brand. Pursuing this idea, the two articles mentioned above
argued that Kierkegaard’s thought formed the background of Ibsen’s
work, and that Kierkegaard himself was a champion of individualism.
Finally, in the 1906 September issue of Waseda Literary Magazine
Kierkegaard’s name appeared for the first time in the title of a
published article.
Chikusui Kaneko’s article, entitled ‘Kiyakegorudo no jinseikan’
(‘Kierkegaard’s View of Life’), afforded a detailed treatment of
Kierkegaard’s thought, based on Høffding. In the November issue of
Waseda Literary Magazine, Kaneko followed this with ‘Shūkyōteki shinri’
(‘Religious Truth’) in which he criticized Høffding and William James:
‘In short, it must be said that the proposals of Høffding and James have
not yet freed themselves from the religious subjectivism of Feuerbach
and Kierkegaard: the proposals are a kind of version of pure
subjectivism.’3
Kaneko’s views did not go unnoticed at the time: his first article was
reviewed in a Christian newspaper, Fukuin shinpō (Evangelist) in September
1906 and his November article was criticized by the philosopher Ryosen
Tsunajima in Waseda Literary Magazine, also in 1906. Tsunajima was a
disciple of Ohnishi.
In November of the same year, Japan’s most famous contemporary
philosopher, Kitaro Nishida (1870–1945) (who I will discuss more fully
below) referred to Kierkegaard and Ibsen in a remarkable short essay
entitled ‘Jikaku shugi’ (‘The Principle of Self-Awareness’). Here, Nishida
argued that the Schopenhauerian thought prevalent in Europe at that
time reflected his principle of self-awareness. Nishida thought that the
truth of this principle of self-awareness went deeper than epistemology
and regarded it as the kind of truth for which the Buddha and Socrates
had searched. He said that ‘Kierkegaard, in the vanguard of this princi-
ple, regards only knowledge about personal existence as true.’4
Nishida regarded Ibsen’s Brand as a proper example of one who fol-
lowed this principle. He commented that if there were no clear ideal to
take the place of old morals, pessimism would result. Nishida’s principle
of self-awareness, however, was neither mere egoism nor sentimentalism

nor pessimism, but was based on pure and direct religious experience.
The principle of self-awareness was always Nishida’s starting point and
was directly connected with his first work, An Inquiry into the Good
(1911). Despite Nishida’s reference to Kierkegaard, however, it does not
seem that Nishida was genuinely interested in Kierkegaard’s thought at
this time.
The religious introduction of

Kierkegaard by Uchimura
Another route by which Kierkegaard was introduced to Japan was
through the religious thought of Kanzo Uchimura (1861–1930), the
founder of Mukyokai undo or the Christian non-church movement in
Japan. Uchimura’s article, which became widely known, was entitled
‘Dai yashin’ (‘The Great Ambition’) and appeared one month before
Ueda’s article on Ibsen.
One of the best-known passages of Uchimura’s article concerns
Kierkegaard’s critique of so-called followers of the Christian faith:
The Danish thinker Kierkegaard says: ‘Christianity is the most diffi-

cult religion to understand. I have never seen a true and genuine
Christian in this world. But the difficulty in understanding
Christianity does not mean that Christianity is mistaken. The fact
that there are no true Christians should not prevent us from be-
lieving in Christianity. Though there is no Christian anywhere in
the world, I merely want to attain certainty in the Christian belief.’
This is indeed true. I also, a native of the Far Eastern country of
Japan, have never seen a believer worthy of the name. Following
Kierkegaard, I also fervently desire to be such a true Christian.5
In short, Uchimura was affirming his recognition in Japan of the

same disparity that Kierkegaard had noted between the doctrine of
Christianity and its so-called believers.
To Uchimura, Kierkegaard was essentially an opponent of the church
and thus could be regarded as a forerunner of his own non-church
movement. However, while Uchimura referred to Kierkegaard over ten
times, there is no historical evidence that he ever actually studied
Kierkegaard’s texts. For example, it is still unclear where the quote from
Kierkegaard cited by Uchimura in the extract above was taken from. My
own suspicion is that Uchimura learned about Kierkegaard from his
German friend, the missionary Wilhelm Gundert. The issue of the

source of Uchimura’s knowledge of Kierkegaard is still being investi-
gated. But throughout his life, he never lost interest in Kierkegaard, and
it could be said that he duplicated some of Kierkegaard’s principles.
In 1884, Uchimura went to America in search of the solution to his
religious difficulties. He entered Amherst College and was ‘converted’
by President Julius Hawley Seelye (1824–95) in 1886. As Uchimura him-
self tells us, ‘I believe I was really converted, that is turned back, there
[at Amherst], some ten years after I was baptized in my homeland. The
Lord revealed Himself to me there, especially through that one man
[that is, Seelye].’6 After graduating from Amherst, he entered Hartford
Seminary in 1887, but after only four months he left because of the
behaviour of his classmates and the general attitudes expressed towards
theological study. In Uchimura’s own words: ‘Spiritless Theology is the
driest and most worthless of all studies. To see students laughing and
jesting while discussing serious subjects is almost shocking. No wonder
they cannot get at the bottom of the truth. It requires the utmost zeal
and earnestness to draw life from the rock of ages.’7 Or, again, he says:
And the fear that I had entertained about the bestowal of this new
privilege upon me grew more as I observed its benefits talked about
within the walls of my seminary. ‘One thousand dollars with parson-
age’, ‘twenty dollars sermon upon Chicago anarchy’, and similar
combinations of such words and phrases sounded very discordant to
my ears. That sermons have market-values, as pork and tomatoes and
pumpkins have, is not an Oriental idea at least – with us, religion is
not usually convertible into cash. Indeed, more religion, less cash.8
Two years after he returned to Japan saw the promulgation of the im-
perial rescript on education. In the same year, 1890, Uchimura got a job at
Daiichi kōtō chugakkō (later Daiichi Secondary School) but was fired in 1891
because of his ‘demonstrative disrespect’ for the Emperor. This loss caused
him tremendous financial and spiritual hardship and was followed soon
afterwards by the death of his wife. In this poignant situation, in 1893, he
completed in English his book How I became a Christian.
In 1895, this book was published in America under the title, The Diary
of a Japanese Convert. It did not, however, do well. In 1904, in contrast,
it was released to wide acclaim in Germany by the publishing house
managed by Wilhelm Gundert’s father. Indeed, the royalties from the
book were sufficient to relieve Uchimura from his poverty. In the
following year, 1905, the book was published in Finland and Sweden,
and finally in 1906, it was published in Denmark. But why was

Uchimura’s book so popular in these particular countries?
The answer seems to lie with the influence of Kierkegaard at that time.
Maria Wolff, the Danish translator of the German edition, wrote in her
preface, ‘It has been said that his [Uchimura’s] thought is very similar to
Søren Kierkegaard’s, whose books he is finally about to read. Therefore,
it would be a great pleasure for him that his little book will be read in
Thorvaldsen’s, H.C. Andersen’s, and Henrik Ibsen’s language.’9
In 1912, Rudin, author of the book, Søren Kierkegaads Person och
Forfattarskap (Søren Kierkegaard’s Person and Authorship), compared
Uchimura to Kierkegaard in a letter to Uchimura.10 Carl Skovgaard-
Petersen, a minister visiting Japan at the time, having met Uchimura
described him as a Japanese Kierkegaard.11 Also, a German publisher
wrote to Uchimura saying that Kierkegaard’s Christianity was the same
as that of Uchimura.12
The title of Uchimura’s How I became a Christian seems to have reminded
its readers of Kierkegaard. Indeed, Kierkegaard’s professed religious task
was how to become a Christian. People were moved by the fact that there
was someone who pursued this task in a distant Eastern land.
Uchimura himself explained not why, but how he became a Christian.
His explanation provides a view of the content of Christian doctrine
which is strikingly similar to Kierkegaard’s. In Uchimura’s words:
What is Christianity? Certainly it is not the Bible itself, though much

of it, and perhaps the essence of it, is contained in it ... We say
Christianity is truth. But that is defining an indefinable by another
indefinable ... The true knowledge of Life comes only by living it ... We
come to know it only by keeping it ... The very fact that it grows more
to me the more I confirm myself to its teachings, shows its close
relationship with the infinite truth itself.13
In this context, it is not insignificant that Uchimura followed

Kierkegaard in publishing his book under a pseudonym, Jonathan X. In
1894 he wrote to the publisher in America saying, ‘I like to send it out
anonymously, without any introduction by a favored author or
dedication to any of my friends, but solely upon its own merits.’14
We can see in this book the struggle of the would-be Christian soul of
a man from a non-Christian, non-Western land; he met Christianity and
tried to appropriate it with the earnestness of a true Kierkegaardian.
Uchimura’s Christian spirit was exceedingly pietistic. Indeed, Uchimura
introduced the standard Japanese translation of the word ‘piety’ (‘keiken’).
It is worth noting here that Seelye, who converted Uchimura, studied at

Halle University. This university was founded by Phillip Jacob Spencer
(1635–1705) and August Hermann Franke (1663–1723), the initiators of
Europe’s pietistic movement. What is more, Uchimura’s conversion found
a spiritual context in New England at that time: Uchimura often memo-
rized Emerson’s poems and was fond of quoting the words of Carlyle as
his personal mottoes. For example: ‘ENCOURAGEMENT: Veracity, true
simplicity of heart, how valuable are these always! He that speaks what is
really in him, will find men to listen, though under never such impedi-
ments’ (from the front cover of How I became a Christian).
Uchimura wanted to appropriate Christianity in ways fitting the
Japanese: as he tells us: ‘The best of Christian converts has never given
up the essence of Buddhism or Confucianism. We welcome Christianity,
because it helps us to become more like our own ideals ... “I came to
fulfil, and not to destroy,” said the Founder of Christianity.’15
Uchimura’s aspiration to appropriate Christianity for the Japanese
provoked him to radical criticism of established Christianity in both
Japan and America. This led him towards a Christianity simpler even
than that proposed by Luther. As Uchimura wrote: ‘In forming any
right estimate of Christendom, it is essential for us first of all to make a
rigid distinction between Christianity pure and simple, and Christianity
garnished and dogmatized by its professors.’16
Uchimura was not only interested in Kierkegaard but also in his coun-
try, and he used Denmark as an example to Japan. After the Russo-
Japanese War, Japan seemed to him to be a country ‘which gained
victory, but at the expense of its own property’. This aroused his own
patriotic sentiments and impelled him to write in 1911 the somewhat
comically titled article, ‘Denmarukukoku no hanashi – sinkō to jumoku
towo motte kuni wo sukui shi hanashi’ (‘A Story of Denmark or a Story of
how Faith and Forestry Saved a Country’). This presents a theory of the
ideal state for a small country and argues that Japan must develop itself
accordingly rather than expanding abroad.
Following Uchimura’s references to Kierkegaard, several articles were
written about Kierkegaard, but all of them were based on either Høffding’s
or Brandes’ accounts. In accordance with the prevailing intellectual
atmosphere of the time, Kierkegaard was still generally regarded as an
extreme individualist. For example, in 1910 Umenosuke Bessho (1871–
1945), a famous translator of hymns, relying on Martensen’s Christian
Ethics (English translation of vol.1 in 1891), wrote ‘Kutsu no hukuin, Vine
to Kiyarukegorudo’ (‘The Gospel of Suffering, Vigny and Kierkegaard’) in
Uchimura’s journal Seisho no kenkyū (The Biblical Study). Though Bessho
read Kierkegaard only indirectly through Martensen, he showed great

sympathy for Kierkegaard’s thinking and emphasized Kierkegaard’s
sincerity: ‘Kierkegaard was not, as Høffding said, a person who solved
problems and helped others, and he did not empirically expand the
world of thought; rather, Kierkegaard sincerely examined the essence of
matters and awakened self-deceived minds of the world.’17
The last years of the Meiji era (around 1910) saw the rise of the
neo-Kantians in the sphere of philosophy; both Nietzsche and Kierkegaard
were virtually forgotten. It was at this time that Nishida published his
An Inquiry into the Good. In this book, Nishida argued against the subject-
object dualism that was widely accepted in Western philosophy, basing
his argument on certain elements of Zen Buddhism. The book was
widely read and proved extremely influential. Although Kierkegaard’s
ideas have much affinity with Zen Buddhism (see the chapters in this
volume by Nishimura, Giles, Graham, and Mills), at no place in the book
was Kierkegaard’s name mentioned.
While intellectuals of the Meiji era may often have referred to Kierkegaard –
primarily as an individualist – their understanding had inevitably narrow
limits, and within this context, the personal commitment to Kierkegaard’s
view of life expressed by such thinkers as Uchimura becomes more admi-
rable. For philosophers who took Kierkegaard’s thought as their starting
point Japan had to wait until 1915.
Third period: from Watsuji’s Kierkegaard to

Mitsuchi’s Drunken Songs (1915–23)
October 1915 marked the publication of a landmark volume in

Kierkegaard studies in Japan, namely, the book Søren Kierkegaard by
Tetsuro Watsuji (1889–1960). This represented the first original
Kierkegaard research in Japan, although it was still fundamentally based
on Høffding. In 1946 Watsuji acknowledged the role that assumptions
had played in his book, saying, ‘As for Kierkegaard’s thinking, I did not
stress his attack upon Christians or his faith in Jesus, but I was equally
interested in every moment, so I ended up assuming that Kierkegaard’s
philosophy was ethical.’18
It is indeed astonishing that Watsuji was able to grasp Kierkegaard’s
thinking in its entirety despite his limited access to Kierkegaard’s com-
plete works, which were just then beginning to be published in German.
In later years, Watsuji, who, as noted above, became Japan’s first systematical
ethical philosopher, recalled that his starting point as an ethical philoso-
pher lay in this pioneering study of Kierkegaard. Yet, contrary to what one
might expect, there is not even a trace of Kierkegaard’s influence in the

later development of his ethical thought, which can be characterized as
ethics as the science of human beings or the ethics of aidagara (the rela-
tions between human beings). This contrasts starkly with Kierkegaard’s
concept of relations in The Sickness unto Death. Watsuji’s understanding of
Kierkegaard in his early work is based on the introspective non-political
Taisho humanism of Japan at that time. In the course of refining his own
ethics, the influence of Kierkegaard gradually lessened.
Despite the publication of Watsuji’s book, there were few articles writ-
ten about Kierkegaard in the following years. It would be true to say
that Kierkegaard’s thinking at the time was still far from fully appreci-
ated in Japan.
At the end of 1923, the appearance of Suika (Drunken Songs) by Kozo
Mitsuchi (1898–1924) was greeted by one reviewer saying, ‘This is a
historic occasion. For the first time in our country, we have something
which conveys the real spirit of Kierkegaard with deep emotion.’19 The
ideas in Drunken Songs were influenced by the thinking expressed in
Fear and Trembling. Mitsuchi posited the following problem as the single
and most important one: ‘When we are compelled to resign that which
we cannot (or should not) resign, which kind of dialectic should appear
for our spirit?’ He developed the thought of a ‘dialectic of wish or hope’.
Mitsuchi had a promising future as a student of Nishida, but soon after
writing ‘Kami no ai’ (‘The Love of Kami’) in 1924 he committed suicide
at the age of only twenty-six. Drunken Songs caused Watsuji to declare
that his own work was now worthless.
Fourth period: assimilation and Kierkegaard

renaissance (1923–45)
The case of Miki

At the beginning of the 1920s there was a so-called ‘Kierkegaard renais-
sance’ in Germany. This had an effect in Japan on numerous intellectu-
als, especially the major thinkers of the Kyoto school. This school was
named after a group of intellectuals from Kyoto who during the first
half of the twentieth century attempted a synthesis of Japanese and
Western thought.
Among the first to introduce this renaissance to Japan was Kiyoshi
Miki (1897–1945). Miki studied in Heidelberg during 1922 and the next
year he moved to Marburg to study under Heidegger, who was then
absorbed in the study of Kierkegaard. In 1924 Miki wrote to his teacher,
Hajime Tanabe, saying that Hegel merely plays with concepts, but
Kierkegaard is much more dialectical. Such a criticism of Hegel is

repeated in his ‘Ontological Explanation of Dialectics’ (1931), where he
says that Hegel’s dialectic is aesthetic, but Kierkegaard’s is qualitative.
This difference, he says, arises because Kierkegaard grasps religious ideas
correctly. Miki later recalled that along with his careful reading of
Kierkegaard and Nietzsche (in which he was greatly influenced by Karl
Löwith), Heidegger’s philosophy is an expression of anxiety following
the end of the First World War.
After returning to Japan, Miki wrote ‘Contemporary Thought’ (1928),
‘Kierkegaard and the Present Age’ (1931) and ‘The Thought of Anxiety
and its Conquest’ (1933). He regarded Kierkegaard as a forerunner of
Heidegger, Jaspers, and dialectical theology. In 1935 Miki supervised
the publication of Selected Works of Kierkegaard, the first work of its kind
in Japan. This translation, which was much praised by Nishida, was col-
lected in three volumes: Volume 1 containing The Concept of Anxiety,
The Present Age, and The Sickness unto Death; Volume 2 containing
Practice in Christianity, Fear and Trembling and ‘Diary of a Seducer’; and
Volume 3 containing The Concept of Irony, Repetition, and The Moment.
Miki wrote only one article in which Kierkegaard’s name appears,
namely, the above-mentioned ‘Kierkegaard and the Present Age’. In the
first half of this article, Miki emphasizes the relationship between
human beings and the transcendent and criticizes Heidegger’s philoso-
phy from this viewpoint. Miki finds the meaning of Kierkegaard’s
understanding of Christianity in Kierkegaard’s exploration of the
anthropology of the human being with hereditary sin. He then attempts
to explain the relationship between Kierkegaard and dialectical theol-
ogy. In the second half, Miki criticizes Kierkegaard’s thought as lacking
the phases of sociality and history and ends by describing Kierkegaard
as a ‘subjective thinker’.
Also apparently under the influence of Kierkegaard, Miki wrote a few
articles on anxiety, a topic which seems to have played an important
role in his philosophy. He diagnosed widespread unease among Japanese
intellectuals at that time as being feelings of anxiety. Nevertheless, he
did not further analyse Kierkegaard’s understanding of anxiety, and
Kierkegaard’s thought remained only one resource for him.
Some people consider Miki’s ideas to be similar to Kierkegaard’s. For
example, at the age of 23, Miki writes in his Inexpressible Philosophy that
‘inexpressible philosophy searches for a truth that the whole person can
with great pleasure affirm and obey – a living truth’.20 Or, again, he
says, ‘What is important in our lives is not what we experience but how
we experience it.’21
In the summer of 1924, Miki moved to Paris and, in line with his
interests in existential thought and humanism, studied Pascal. His main
work from this period is ‘A Study of Humanity in Pascal’ (1926). After
returning to Japan in 1925, he became involved in a debate concerning
the interpretation of a historical view of Marxist materialism. This led
him to develop an interest in religion. While he was engaged in writing
his final work, on Shinran – the medieval founder of True Pure Land
Buddhism (see Hidetomo Yamashita’s chapter) – he was arrested and put
in jail. He died in prison just after the end of the war.
The case of Nishida

Kierkegaard was also mentioned during this period by Nishida in a dis-
cussion of Hegel’s dialectics. His comments were made against the back-
ground of the Kierkegaard renaissance in Germany and appeared in
1931 in the articles ‘My View of Hegel’s Dialectics’, ‘Absolute Nothingness
as Determined through Self-Consciousness or Self-Determination
through Self-Consciousness of Absolute Nothingness’ and ‘Self-
Determination of the Eternal Present’. It is in this period that Nishida’s
philosophical system was established and that his philosophical princi-
ples began to be applied in many spheres. His idea of the logic of place,
which was established in the article ‘From that which Acts to that which
Sees’ (1927), developed into the idea of self-determination through the
self-determination of absolute nothingness. These ideas found support
in Kierkegaard’s concepts of paradox and the moment.
Kierkegaard’s concept of paradox is reflected in a particular expres-
sion that appears repeatedly in the three articles mentioned above: ‘the
self-determination of absolute nothingness as the self-determination of
the eternal present’.
Nishida’s thinking, developing through ideas such as act-intuition
and the historical-corporeal self, crystallizes two years later in what
Nishida himself regards as his fundamental idea, namely, the idea of
absolute-contradictory self-identity. Nishida applies this thought con-
cretely to the sphere of practice and develops this application in
‘Introduction to Practical Philosophy’ (1940). In this article he analyses
the self as the subject of practice, during the course of which he wholly
appropriates Kierkegaard’s argument in The Sickness unto Death that the
self is a relationship. He even presents this as his own idea.
This close relationship between Nishida and Kierkegaard is also seen
in Nishida’s last article, ‘Place-Logic and the Religious World View’
(1945). This article contains two key concepts. First is the concept of
‘inverse correspondence’, which, Nishida tells us, refers to the
absolute-contradictory self-identity of the self and the absolute. This

self-identity has two phases. One is self-denial on the part of the abso-
lute when confronted with the individual, and the other is self-denial
on the part of the individual when confronted with the absolute. An
example given is of God and Abraham confronting each other in Fear
and Trembling. Here, Abraham’s denial is grasped as the single individu-
ality of the individual or as the death of the individual, and God’s denial
is grasped as the death of God or God’s appearance as ethical evil.
The other key concept is that of ‘the ordinary or everydayness’, which
is prominent in Zen Buddhism. Nishida’s purpose in presenting this
concept is to develop a logic of religion which will include Christianity.
In this way, as Keiji Nishitani puts it, ‘Kierkegaard had an important
influence on the development of Nishida’s view of religion. Despite this
influence, though, Nishida’s view of religion which describes an inverse
correspondence between humanity and God is different from that of
Kierkegaard, and is fundamentally linked with Nishida’s earliest view of
religion.’22 Fuller discussions of Nishida and his relation to Kierkegaard
are given in Chapter 9 by Eiko Hanaoka and in Chapter 10 by Shudo
Tsukiyama.
The case of Tanabe

The last two of Nishida’s three 1931 articles, in which Nishida appropri-
ates Kierkegaard’s thought into his own philosophical system, were
written as a response to a criticism from Tanabe (1885–1962), Miki’s
teacher, in ‘An Appreciation of Professor Nishida: a Response to his
Teaching’ (1930). Nishida gave his final answer to this criticism in
‘Place-Logic and the Religious World View’. Tanabe’s criticism of Nishida
arose from a stalemate in Tanabe’s own thinking and Kierkegaard’s
thought played an important role in it. Thus, Kierkegaard also had a
great influence on the progress of Tanabe’s original philosophy, formed,
as it was, in the midst of attacking Nishida. In his preface to Hegelian
Philosophy and Dialectics, written in 1931 and published in January of
the following year, Tanabe describes his escape from his own intellec-
tual deadlock:
For me, what became a positively new idea was the dialectics of cor-
poreality (bodilyness), which has developed from the problem of the
mind-body relation that became the object of my personal interest
since last year. I tried to understand the thesis of dialectical material-
ism, that existence determines consciousness, not causally but onto-
logically, to recognize it well, and to teleologically establish moral
practice on that basis. For me, the phenomenon of corporeality is the

fundamental basis for dialectics. Here for the first time, absolute neg-
ativity appears which is truly concrete and conscious of unifying
both ideas and matter while transcending particulars of each. I criti-
cize Heidegger’s ontology from this standpoint, and set forth a new
dialectical anthropology. Along with the self-evidence of dialectics
in this corporeality, my slight knowledge of the ethico-religious exis-
tential dialectics of Kierkegaard eventually determined my present
attitude towards Hegel’s philosophy.23
The point of Tanabe’s criticism of Nishida was that Nishida dissolves

philosophy into religion. In the course of his rejection of Nishida,
Tanabe developed his own ‘logic of species’, arising from a contempo-
rary debate with nationalism and Marxism. Tanabe tried to remain true
to his philosophy, but he was obliged to be silent under pressure from
the militarists (who were ascending to power in Japan) and finally he
was forced totally to repudiate his philosophy. In this way Tanabe comes
to resemble Kierkegaard. In his Philosophy as Metanoetics, written in
1944 but not published until 1946 after Japan’s defeat in the Second
World War, Tanabe used such Kierkegaardian concepts as ‘the moment’
and ‘repetition’. He further claimed that his concept of metanoetic way
fits well with Kierkegaardian faith. He even endorses Kierkegaard’s view
of the teacher or master by saying that ‘as Kierkegaard has remarked, a
true master exists only in religion’.24
Tanabe’s encounter with Kierkegaard led to several articles, each of which
could be said to be existential-dialectical interpretations of Kierkegaard.
Two that ought to be mentioned are ‘The Individuality of Existence and
Sociality of Nothingness’ (1946) and ‘Obligations of Love and Social
Practice’ (1946). In these writings the significance of the popularity of
Kierkegaard’s philosophy is clarified, and a ‘trinity of love’ (God as love, the
love of God, and the love of one’s neighbour) is argued for. At the same
time Tanabe is critical of the way in which while Kierkegaard’s obligations
of love set a foundation for cooperative existence, they also lack the
viewpoint of social practice. Thus, he strove for a synthesis of Kierkegaard
and Marx.
In his later years Tanabe wrote ‘Memento Mori’ (1958) and ‘Either
Ontology of Life or Dialectics of Death’ (1962), while developing a ‘phi-
losophy of death’. These articles explain love and what he calls the com-
munion of existence. The ideas developed here are probably related to
the death of his beloved wife Chiyo in 1951; the arguments are associ-
ated with Kierkegaard’s ‘The Work of Love in Remembering One Dead’
in Works of Love. The inscription on Tanabe’s tombstone reads: ‘I search

for nothing other than truth’.
The case of Nishitani

In the case of Keiji Nishitani (1900–90), who took over the debate
between Nishida and Tanabe and developed his own religious philoso-
phy, the relation to Kierkegaard is very deep. Nishitani’s fundamentally
critical consciousness, in contrast to Nishida and Tanabe, clearly tends
toward the problem of nihilism. In probing the essence of nihilism to
the limit and overcoming it, Nishitani is engaged in the study of
Christian mysticism from the standpoint of Zen Buddhism. His funda-
mental concept here is the realization of reality (see Chapter 5 where
this idea is discussed from Dōgen’s point of view). It should, however,
be noted that realization here does not mean only a philosophical cog-
nition, but also has the meaning of actualization. This in turn is related
to Kierkegaard’s idea of appropriation or apprehension (Danish:
Tilegnelse). In analysing the structure of this appropriation (Japanese:
mi ni tuku, which also means embodiment), Nishitani makes use of
Kierkegaard’s existential analysis of human beings in The Sickness unto
Death. He also uses this idea of appropriation in the explanation of
Nishida’s concept of ‘pure experience’.
We can see the same thing in Kierkegaard when he argues that the stand-
point of existence is that of the single individual. He emphasizes the kind
of thinking that is recognized only when it becomes one’s own through
appropriation and that which gives birth to such thought. Such a stand-
point initiated a confrontation with Hegel’s view and had a deep influence
on contemporary philosophy, religion, and literature. The importance of
this problem has been realized in the East since antiquity.25
In this section on the third period I have traced briefly Kierkegaard’s
influence on the philosophers of the Kyoto School. We can discover
many interesting relations between them, but we cannot find any con-
crete influence from Kierkegaard’s The Concept of Anxiety. At most,
Nishida and Tanabe used the concept of moment in order to explain
some aspect of the synthesis of absolute contradiction. This forms a
striking contrast to the case of Heidegger.
Nishida and Tanabe were not as ‘pathos-filled’ as Kierkegaard. Although
Miki was very concerned with pathos, he still wanted a synthesis between
pathos and logic. Nishida and Tanabe showed a great interest in
Kierkegaard because their style of thinking was not existentiell (Heidigger’s
term for possibilities of being), but existentiall (Heidigger’s term for the
revealing of being itself). In short, the fundamental tendency of their
thinking was based on ‘absolute nothingness’, which, as Tanabe puts it,

is ‘not only thought itself, not only theoretical idea or concept. Rather,
we are aware of it in the process of realizing the fact that we are living
and we meet it in the basis of existence. When we posit “absolute noth-
ingness” as a foundation of philosophy, at the same time the character
of philosophy as itself becomes changed.’26
Fifth period: the rise of existentialism (1945–70)
Defeat in the Second World War also brought about the destruction of
the pre-war system of values in Japan. Japanese philosophers reflected
on the failures of totalitarianism and a discernable trend emerged,
aimed at emphasizing individual subjectivity. From 1946 to the begin-
ning of 1949 a very heated controversy concerning the relation between
the subjectivity of the individual and society took place. Kierkegaard
was often read in connection with this controversy, and it was in this
context that the Selected Works of Kierkegaard was published in Japan
(1948–49). Approximately fifty articles on Kierkegaard appeared in the
latter half of the 1940s.
The Kierkegaard centenary year, 1955, was marked by special editions
of two journals, and the publication of more than forty-five articles relat-
ing to Kierkegaard (including translations of foreign monographs) in
Japan. Shinji Saito (1907–77), a non-church Christian, published his work
Socrates and Kierkegaard: the Concept of Irony in the same year. In 1939 Saito
had published a Japanese translation of The Sickness unto Death.
In the 1960s, Heidegger scholar Eiichi Kito (1908–69), published The
Philosophy of Possibility (1964), a brief introduction to Kierkegaard’s concept
of anxiety. Kito had also shown an earlier interest in Kierkegaard when, in
1938, he translated a section of Concluding Unscientific Postscript.
At this period a number of Japanese intellectuals also began to use the
contrasting ideas of Kierkegaard and Marx as a frame of reference for
the idea of a fundamental choice between existentialism or Marxism.
In the midst of this debate Kierkegaard’s Writings (21 volumes) were
published (1962–67) and in Osaka in 1963 the Kierkegaard Society
sprang into renewed life. The first issue of the society’s journal,
Kierkegaard Studiet, was published in 1964. Under the influence of Diem’s
critique of Hirsch and others, a new debate began as to the appropriate
methods for studying Kierkegaard. The debate took place in, among
other publications, Keiji Ogawa’s ‘The Problem of the Interpretation of
Kierkegaard’ (1964) and Keizaburo Masuda’s ‘The Meaning and Method
of Kierkegaard Study: one Apology’ (1965).
Sixth period: declining interest (1970–present)
In the 1970s, following the upheaval in Japanese universities caused partly

by the economic prosperity of Japan and partly by the increase in Japanese
philosophical circles of interest in phenomenology, hermeneutics, and ana-
lytical philosophy, it was possible to speak of ‘the end of existentialism’. At
the same time, the situation also offered the first real possibility of under-
standing the full depth and breadth of Kierkegaard’s thought.
Here we can see three main trends in more recent Kierkegaard studies in
Japan. The first looks to understand Kierkegaard in his own terms, the second
is a re-appraisal of Kierkegaard in the contemporary context, and the last
reflects on the meaning of Kierkegaard within Japanese culture. Included in
the final category are many who study the relationship between Kierkegaard
and Hōnen (1133–1212), the founder of the jōdo shū or Pure Land sect in
Japan, whose main practice consists of repeating the name of Amida Buddha,
and whose chief tenet is salvation by faith in Amida. Also studied is the rela-
tion between Kierkegaard and Shinran (1173–1265), another Pure Land
thinker. An example of the continuing work on the relations between these
two thinkers is given in the next chapter by Hidetomo Yamashita.
Of similar interest are the relations between Kierkegaard and Dōgen
(1200–53), the founder of sōtō shū, a branch of Zen Buddhism in Japan.
Examples of the similarities between Kierkegaard and Dōgen, though
given by scholars from outside Japan, can be found in this volume in
Chapters 5 and 6 by James Giles and Ian Mills.
There has also been much work on Nishida, who is discussed above. We
may also mention Ishizu Teruji, who is well known in Japan as both a
Kierkegaard scholar and a scholar of Tendai Buddhism. Tendai, founded
by Saichō (787–822), is one of the earliest Japanese Buddhist sects and is
crucial in the history of Japanese Buddhism, not only because of its direct
influence on Japanese thought and culture, but also because it was in the
temples on Mount Hiei near Kyoto – the centre of Tendai thought – that
important Buddhist thinkers such as Hōnen, Shinran, Dōgen, and Nichiren
first developed their ideas. Oddly enough, however, Teruji never discusses
Kierkegaard and Tendai Buddhism together.
Finally, to conclude this study, I must refer to the relationship between
Kierkegaard and the Japanese man of letters, Shina Rinzo (1911–71),
known as ‘the writer of despair’. Many literate men and women through-
out the world have read and assimilated Kierkegaard, but in Japan, Shina
Rinzo is pre-eminent. He was deeply affected by reading Miyahara’s
Philosophy of Melancholy in 1941, and after reading Miki’s Selected Works of
Kierkegaard, wrote that ‘Kierkegaard’s characteristic words permeated my
very soul.’ This same influence appears in his ‘Journey in Melancholy

Fog’. Recalling his literary activity immediately after the war, he goes so
far as to say that, ‘my early works were much influenced by Kierkegaard ...
How much agony I endured on account of Kierkegaard cannot be really
known.’ Despair, melancholy, and how to overcome them, not only form
the keynotes of his novels but also define their very essence, something
that might be called ‘the literary method of relativity’.
It should be obvious from this brief study alone that the relation
between Kierkegaard and Japanese thought is vast and complex.
Looking at the reception of Kierkegaard in Japan we discover a way of
deciphering Kierkegaard that is different from that of his countrymen
and other Westerners. It not only offers a new way of understanding
Kierkegaard from the Western point of view, but also deepens our way of
understanding ourselves; for to read Kierkegaard is to read about ourselves.
I hope that this different way of seeing Kierkegaard will be illuminating.
Still, there are many difficulties in considering the relationship between
Kierkegaard and Japanese scholars and intellectuals. Unravelling these
difficulties will obviously help in creating a mutual understanding be-
tween Western and Japanese thinkers. But this kind of study is not merely
for the purposes of mutual understanding, it will also be useful in formu-
lating a fundamental understanding of both philosophy and religion.27
Notes
1. Yasuji Ohtsuki, ‘Romanchikku wo ronjite wagakuni bugei no genkyo ni oyobu’, Taiyō, 8,
4 (April 1902): 13. This and other translations of Japanese works are my own.
2. Tetsuro Watsuji, Watsuji Tetsuro zenshū (Complete Works of Tetsuro Watsuji) 1
(Tokyo: Iwanamishoten, 1961) pp. 395 and 404.
3. Chikusui Kaneko, ‘Shukyoteki shinri’ [‘Religious Truth’] Waseda bungaku
[Waseda Literary Magazine] third series, 11 (1906).
4. Kitaro Nishida, ‘Jikaku shugi’ [‘The Principle of Self-Awareness’] Hokusinkai
zasshi [Hokushinkai Magazine] 45, Kanazawa (1906).
5. Kanzo Uchimura, ‘Dai yashin’ [‘The Great Ambition’] Seisho no kenkyu
(Biblical Study), p. 76.
6. Kanzo Uchimura, Uchimura Kanzo zenshū [Complete Works of Kanzo Uchimura]
1, ed. with notes and comments Taijiro Yamamoto and Yoichi Muto (Tokyo:
Kyobunkan 1971) p. 166.
7. Uchimura, Uchimura Kanzo zenshū, 1, p. 175.
9. Maria Wolff, ‘Preface’, in Kanzo Uchimura, Hvorledes Jeg Blev en Kristen,
Danish trans. M. Wolff (Copenhagen: 1906).
10. See the Japanese translator’s comments on Uchimura’s How I became a
Christian [Yo wa ikanishite kirisuto shinto to narishika], trans. with comments
Toshiro Suzuki (Tokyo: Iwanamibunko, 1967) pp. 282–3.
11. Carl Skovgaard-Petersen Aus Japan, wie es heute ist, Persönliche Eindrücke von
C. Skovgaard-Petersen [From Contemporary Japan: a Personal Impression by C.
Skovgaard-Petersen] German trans. H. Gottsched (Basel, 1912) p. 121.
Christian, p. 283.
13. Uchimura, Uchimura Kanzo zenshū, 1, pp. 188–9.
Christian, p. 275.
17. Umenosuke Bessho, ‘Kutsu no hukuin, Vine to Kiyarukegorudo’ [‘The Gospel of
Suffering, Vigny and Kierkegaard’] Seisho no kenkyu, 125 (1910).
18. Watsuji Tetsuro zenshū, 1, p. 404.
19. Masaaki Kohsaka, ‘Afterword’, in Kozo Mitsuchi, Suika (Tokyo: Kobundo,
1948).
20. Kiyoshi Miki, Miki Kiyoshi zenshū [Complete Works of Kiyoshi Miki] 18 (Tokyo:
Iwanami Shoten, 1968) p. 8.
21. Miki, Miki Kiyoshi zenshū, 18, p. 31.
22. Keiji Nishitani, Nishida Kitaro (Tokyo: Chikumachobo, 1985) p. 128.
23. Hajime Tanabe, Hegeru tetsugaku to benshōhō [Hegelian Philosophy Dialectics]
(Japan: Iwanami Shoten, 1971) p. 3.
24. Tanabe, Philosophy as Metanoetics, trans. Takeuchi Yoshinori (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1986) p. 278.
25. See Tanabe, Hegeru tetsugaku to benshōhō, p. 142.
26. Tanabe, Hegeru tetsugaku to benshōhō, p. 211.
27. Some of the material in this chapter was previously published as ‘Kierkegaard’s
Reception in Japan’, Memoir of Osaka Kyoiku University, Series 1, 38 (1989),
pp. 49–66.
3
Japanese Pure Land Buddhism
and Kierkegaard
Hidetomo Yamashita
Pure Land Buddhism in Japan
It was not until the Kamakura period (1185–1336) that Buddhism began
to take firm root in Japan. While earlier Buddhism had, for the most
part, been monopolized by the nobility, in the Kamakura period more
popular schools of Buddhism arose. This reformation was largely a
result of the great numbers of political disturbances and natural disas-
ters that characterized the end of the Heian period (746–1185). People
believed that the age of hopelessness had come. Buddhist eschatology
expresses this through the idea of shoˉzoˉmatsu or the three periods of the
teaching. These are the period of the shoˉboˉ (righteous law), the period
of the zoˉboˉ (imitative law), and the period of the mappoˉ (last law). The
period of the righteous law is the time when Buddhist doctrines, prac-
tices, and enlightenment all exist. The period of the imitative law is the
time when doctrine and practices still exist, but there is no longer any
enlightenment. That is why it is called imitation of the law. The period
of the last law refers to the time when doctrine alone is still alive, but
there is neither practice nor enlightenment. After these three periods,
the doctrine itself vanishes. In the Kamakura period it was believed that
the last period (mappoˉ) had begun at the end of the Heian period.
In such seemingly hopeless times many Buddhist thinkers started to
propagate the idea that Buddhism could save not just the noble class but
all people. Thus they tried to extend Buddhism by making it accessible
to ordinary people. In Pure Land Buddhism this message was spread by
Hōnen (1133–1212), Shinran (1173–1262) and Ippen (1239–89), while in
Zen Buddhism it was given by Eisai (1141–1215) and Dōgen (1200–53).
Similarly, Nichren (1222–82), who founded his own Buddhist sect,
worked hard to bring this idea to common people. The Buddhist schools
53
which these thinkers founded are still in existence in present-day Japan.

I believe that the driving force behind these Buddhist thinkers was
Saichō (767–822), the founder of the Japanese Tendai sect. Saichō’s pas-
sion to uphold the Mahāyāna platform of precepts allowed a unique
form of Japanese Buddhism to blossom.
It is Shinran, the founder of the joˉdo shin, or True Pure Land sect, that
I wish to consider here. The development of his thought can be seen in
his main work Kyoˉ gyoˉ shin shoˉ or Teaching, Practice, Faith, and Attainment
which is the basic scripture of the joˉdo shin sect and consists of six
parts. This work largely consists of quotations from various Buddhist
scriptures to support his contention that rebirth in the Pure Land is
made possible only through the compassion of Amida, the Buddha of
the light and life that cannot be measured. This work includes the
Tannishoˉ or A Record of Lament of the Divergences, a well-known work by
Shinran’s disciple Yuien (d. 1288) in which many of Shinran’s ideas are
preserved.
The Buddhist sūtras used as the foundation of Japanese Pure Land
Buddhism are Muryoˉju kyoˉ (Suˉtra of Immeasurable Life), Kanmuryoˉju kyoˉ
(Contemplation Suˉtra) and Amida kyoˉ (Amida Suˉtra). In Muryoˉju kyoˉ, forty-
eight vows of Hōzō bodhisattva (which is the name of Amida Buddha
before his enlightenment) are described. It is well known that the
eighteenth vow forms the heart of the sutrā. It is described there as
follows: ‘If, when I attain Buddhahood, the sentient beings of the ten
quarters, with sincere mind entrusting themselves, aspiring to be born
in my land, and saying my Name perhaps even ten times, should not
be born there, may I not attain the supreme enlightenment. Excluded
are those who commit the five grave offences and those who slander
the right dharma.’1 Japanese Pure Land followers have been moved
by the words ‘should not be born there, may I not attain the supreme
enlightenment’.
In order to envisage the vows, Hōzō bodhisattva had thought for five
kalpas (an aeon) and practised for an immeasurably long time until at
last he became Amida Buddha. Moreover, in order to save all sentient
beings Amida Buddha imbued his name with all his wishes and all his
virtues and directed it to them. Therefore we are liberated by the name
(Namu Amida Butsu) of Amida Buddha. This is the easiest way and is
therefore called ‘the way of easy practice’.
According to Pure Land Buddhism only by such a name (or reciting
Namu Amida Butsu) can all beings be saved. How is this possible? It is
assumed in Pure Land Buddhism that people can never be saved by
their own good acts of self-power (tariki in Japanese). The human being
Japanese Pure Land Buddhism and Kierkegaard 55
is ‘the one whose karmic evil is deep and grave and whose blind pas-
sions abound’ (p. 661); such a being is incapable of good behaviour or of
recognizing good and evil.
Thus, those who are able to know and experience the great joy of
hearing the vow of Amida Buddha become aware simultaneously that
‘their karmic evil is deep and grave and [that their] blind passions
abound’. This great joy and great burden is called nishu jinshin or ‘two
aspects of deep faith’ by the True Pure Land sect. It is noteworthy that
this awareness differs qualitatively from what a person might regard as
being evil or immoral within his or her own consciousness. The former
is awareness that is attained through encounter with the vow. From this
standpoint the self-consciousness of immorality can be seen to derive
from an arrogant attitude.
Saichi Asahara
Saichi Asahara (1850–1932) was born in a little harbour town called
Obama in the prefecture of Shimane. He was a carpenter who made
Japanese wooden footwear (geta in Japanese). He believed deeply in the
vows of Amida Buddha and led the life of a follower of True Pure Land
teachings. He was not a priest but an ordinary believer. Many lay per-
sons who appear in the history of Pure Land Buddhism are called
myoˉkoˉnin (a wonderful excellent person) and Saichi was one of them.
Myoˉkoˉ nins practise calling the name of Amida Buddha devoutly and
joyously, while being simultaneously aware of their own karmic evil.
A well-known painting of Saichi can teach us many things about ‘two
aspects of deep faith’. Saichi became famous as an eager and great Pure
Land practitioner in the local area. Because of this an artist wanted to do
his portrait. Saichi agreed on one condition, namely, that the artist was
to paint two horns on his head. This portrait of Saichi with his two
horns and his palms joined can still be seen in the temple connected
with him.
What do these horns really symbolize? There is an idea in Buddhism
called ‘karman samsāra’. This holds that people exist in the six worlds of
the samsāra (the everyday world of delusion) through their own actions.
The six worlds – through which the souls of living beings transmigrate –
are hell, the world of hungry spirits, the world of animals, the world of
asuras or demons, the world of people, and heaven. I do not think that
the idea of karman samsāra should be considered literally true; such an
approach is likely to lead to considerable misunderstandings. Rather, it
should be seen as an instance of expedient means, which James Giles
refers to in the introduction. To put it another way, it is an idea that must
be appropriated in a thoroughly existential way. However, this is not the

theme that I wish to discuss in this chapter.
Saichi felt like a hungry spirit full of worldly desires. The portrait
shows him as a being whose karmic evil is deep and grave and whose
blind passions abound. Although he was deeply aware of his immoral
desires, he joined his palms together in reverence. The person who is
deeply moved by the vows of Amida Buddha simultaneously realizes his
own immorality. Here the simultaneousness is decisive. The proper
guidance of ‘two aspects of deep faith’ is found in the Kanmuryoˉju kyoˉ
sho or Commentary on the Contemplation Suˉtra by the Chinese Pure Land
master Shan-tao (Zendo in Japanese) (613–681).
Second is deep mind. Deep mind is the deeply entrusting mind. There
are two aspects. One is to believe deeply and decidedly that you are
a foolish being of karmic evil caught in birth-and-death, ever sink-
ing and ever wandering in transmigration from innumerable kalpas
in the past, with never a condition that would lead to emancipation.
The second is to believe deeply and decidedly that Amida Buddha’s
Forty-eight Vows grasp sentient beings, and that allowing yourself to
be carried by the power of the Vow without any doubt or apprehen-
sion, you will attain birth. (Cited in Shinran’s works, p. 85)
Here Shan-tao emphasizes that human beings can never leave the
realm of worldly desires, but simultaneously assures devotees that
Amida Buddha saves those who are most difficult to save. This seems
paradoxical. In the human realization of not being saved, the power of
Amida Buddha is demonstrated for the first time. Here, the paradox is
that to not be saved is to be saved.
Positioning of the negative in Kierkegaard
Now I want to compare the above structures of ‘two aspects of deep

faith’ with Kierkegaard’s conception of faith. Generally, Kierkegaard is
looking at the mark of the affirmative in the negative. In one typical
text here it is said that the highest principle of thinking can only be
demonstrated in the negative. More specifically, the existence-relation
to the absolute good is also only able to be prescribed negatively and the
relation to eternal happiness is only able to be defined by uncertainty.
In Kierkegaard’s words,
Just as for an existing person the highest principles of thinking can

be demonstrated only negatively, and to want to demonstrate them
positively promptly betrays that the demonstrator, insofar as he is

indeed an existing person, is on the point of becoming fantastical –
so also for an existing person the existence-relation to the absolute
good can be defined only by the negative – the relation to an eternal
happiness by suffering, just as the certitude of faith that relates itself
to an eternal happiness is defined by uncertainty. 2
Here I want to examine the problem of Kierkegaard’s interpretation of

the biblical concept of the thorn in the flesh, which is discussed by the
apostle Paul. The words ‘thorn in the flesh’ are found in Paul’s letter to
the Corinthians (12: 7): ‘And lest I should be exalted above measure
through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a
thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be
exalted above measure.’ This part is explained in one biblical dictionary
as follows:
Paul was taken and possessed by a certain troublesome illness.

According to him, the thorn which burrowed into his flesh was a
messenger of Satan given to him so that he would not become proud
of his unique experience. Of course, Satan simply struck to hurt him.
But it is through the blessing of God that he is struck and is made
humble. God uses Satan’s action. God permits Satan to demonstrate
his power. There are various views about what Paul’s illness was.
Seeing it from the medical viewpoint where Satan is not related, was
it not most likely an instance of mental illness accompanied by an
intense convulsion?3
The nature of Paul’s illness is unclear and of course we cannot deter-

mine what it was. The purpose of this chapter is not to investigate the
concrete nature and type of this illness but to show clearly what kind of
meaning it had for Paul. Kierkegaard says that the thorn in the flesh is
originally opposed to the highest happiness, which is replaced by pain.
This is not something that seems opposed to the various glories of this
world. Moreover, Satan’s messenger was not only an object of fear but
also something of value for Paul. Here is how Kierkegaard explains it:
When the angel of Satan darts out from his darkness, when he comes
with the speed of lightning to terrify the apostle, it is indeed an
angel of Satan, as the apostle says, but if he nevertheless knows that
it is beneficial to him, then that terror is no longer an angel of Satan,
because no one has ever heard that an angel of Satan came to benefit
a human being. It is not the case, as human flabbiness might wish,
that the highest life is without dangerous suffering, but it is the case
that an apostle is never without an explanation, never without
authority. (1990, p. 329)
Knowing that the appearance of Satan is beneficial for him, Paul

becomes qualitatively different from everyday people. A weak human
being’s common-sense regards life without suffering as the highest
state of existence. The apostle holds to the opposite of this. He under-
stands that it is impossible to divide suffering from the highest and
happiest life. I want to consider this interpretation according to the
Christian dialectic. Salvation is the highest and strongest power in
Christianity; however, before such power is demonstrated, people
must suffer. Kierkegaard says that suffering should be softened, but
there is no gate through which to enter heaven without suffering.
‘We must warn that no one is tried in a self-made conflict but is only
cultivated in a new vanity so that the last becomes worse than the
first. But then we are also reminded that suffering is a component
and that no one enters the kingdom of heaven without suffering’
(1990, p. 331).
Heaven is reached through suffering, and if we are fully aware of this,
we will not waver in the face of unexpected trials and tribulations.
These trials enable us more and more to realize the actuality of heaven,
paradoxical as it may seem. And the overriding element in this suffer-
ing is the ‘thorn in the flesh’.
The person who has grasped the highest happiness cannot go to
heaven simply because of this. Through the thorn in the flesh as a neg-
ative opportunity (and the paradoxical correspondence with it), heaven
is realized. Therefore, not entering heaven is, in a sense, the entrance to
heaven.
A Record of Lament of the Divergences

These paradoxical ideas are also found in Yuien’s A Record of Lament of
the Divergences, especially in Chapter 17. Yuien says,
On the assertion that a person born in the borderland will in the end fall into
hell. In what authoritative passage do we find such a statement? It is
deplorable that this is being maintained by people who pretend to be
scholars. How are they reading the sūtras, treaties, and other sacred
writings? I was taught that practitioners who lack shinjin [faith] are
born in the borderland because of their doubt concerning the Primal
Vow, and that, after the evil of doubt has been expiated, they realize
enlightenment in the fulfilled land. Since practitioners of shinjin are
few, many are guided to the transformed land. To declare, despite
this, that birth there will ultimately end in vain would be to accuse
Shākyamuni Buddha of lying. (pp. 676–7)
What is the borderland? It was created by the Amida Buddha through

miraculous power for the benefit of all living beings, and then adapted
to the natures and potentialities of the various beings. It is the provi-
sional Pure Land, made by Amida Buddha for those who do not yet have
the ability to envisage the real Pure Land.
After Shinran died, the idea eventually arose that those who are born
to this borderland fall into hell. Against this idea, Yuien asserts persist-
ently that most human beings are first reborn in this borderland upon
death. He then asks the question of whether those who think they will
be born straight away in the Pure Land know their own immorality or
not. He argues that those who think that they will go directly to the
Pure Land cannot go. Rather, states Yuien, the gate of the Pure Land will
open to those who make up their mind to go only to the borderland.
Here exists a paradoxical logic similar to Kierkegaard’s interpretation of
the thorn in the flesh of Paul.
This apparently paradoxical logic, it should also be noted, is mirrored by
‘the logic of identity and difference’ of Daisetu Suzuki (1870–1966), a major
figure in bringing Zen philosophy to the West (he also wrote on Pure Land
Buddhism). Suzuki bases this logic on The Diamond Suˉtra, one of the prin-
ciple sūtras of Zen Buddhism. In this sūtra there are many expressions of
the type ‘A is not A, therefore A is A’. For example, enlightenment is not
enlightenment, therefore it is enlightenment. Or I am not I, therefore I am
I. Based on this logic, to enter the Pure Land is not to enter there, not to be
able to enter there is to enter. How can this paradoxical logic be realized? It
is because expectations are the very things that keep one from achieving
one’s expectations. Here expecting to achieve enlightenment stops one
from achieving enlightenment. Taking this idea into Pure Land Buddhism
we could say, expecting to have faith is not to have faith. Therefore, only
when one stops expecting to have faith can one have faith. In other words,
faith is not (to expect) faith, therefore it is faith.
The actuality of faith
I have been considering the structure of faith as a unity of ‘already

and not yet’. Kierkegaard investigates this idea in relation to the
notion of the thorn in the flesh. Shinran does it in relation to various

delusions.
As we have seen, for Kierkegaard the thorn in the flesh corresponds to
the idea of supreme happiness. Even if the doctrine of Christianity were to
spread and be upheld throughout this world, supreme happiness will not
be the outcome. For Kierkegaard, ‘as soon as the suffering is perceived and
the thorn festers the apostle has only himself to deal with. The beatitude
has vanished, vanishes more and more – alas, it was inexpressible to have
it; the pain is inexpressible since it cannot even express the loss, and rec-
ollection is unable to do anything but languish in powerlessness!’ (1990,
p. 336). Even if the God-relation has been accomplished once, it cannot
continue, but fades immediately. However, true faith arises from here.
Transient nature is the truth of this world and supreme joy is also tran-
sient. But, in fact, this brings the human being true profit: ‘The apostle
declares that he knows that this variation is beneficial for him. How
simple, how straightforward, how quiet these words! After having spoken
of the most beatific and the most oppressive in the strongest terms, after
having won and lost, and then to be so composed!’ (1990, p. 337).
Suffering becomes the firewood which kindles the fire of supreme
happiness. We must take notice that the thorn in the flesh is the know-
ledge of having been forsaken by God and the expression of the sense
of radical separation from God. However, only this deep separation
offers an opportunity for a relation with God for the first time. Here a
person returns to the original state of self with the thorn in the flesh.
This self is a sinful self, and if it is not in a state of freedom, it is not in
an un-free state either. And this return forms the actuality of faith. The
suffering which arises from this state of nothingness is where the true
development of religious existence takes place.
Kierkegaard says:
Paul was brought to Agrippa in chains, and the king said to him: You
are raving, Paul. What if these words – you are raving – had halted him,
had given an opportunity for the confounding of recollection; what if
that holy fieriness that burned in him, a well-pleasing offering to God,
had again become raving; what if he had become a self-torture in order
to praise God, because that also requires a great soul! (1990, p. 342)
The past is never nothing for Paul. It continues to exist within the
depth of his consciousness. It is unknown until it draws him into
unexpected passions. Perhaps the concept of the ‘thorn in the flesh’
could refer to the past actions that have been precipitated by one’s
unconsciousness. However, even if such a thing happens to Paul, it leads

him only to deeper faith.
What does this mean? If we were to interpret this from a Buddhist point
of view, it could illustrate the concept that delusion is inseparable from
Buddhahood. In Mahāyāna Buddhism, delusions and Buddhahood are
considered to be two sides of the same coin. This is the basis of the famous
Mahāyāna assertion that samsāra is nirvāna. Since all existence has the
tathatā (‘suchness’ or ‘things as they’) as its underlying essence, delusion too
must rest on this tathatā. Once this is understood and appropriated (Tilegnelse
in Danish), no matter what worldly desires may arise again, the ‘unmovable
mind’ (heijoˉshin in Japanese) has already been established. Rather than
simply becoming a hindrance, worldly desires will play a role in the oppor-
tunity for the experience of religious truth. Worldly desires change to the
flame of the soul (that is, enlightenment) rather than becoming the fire-
wood for the fire of supreme happiness. This is also the way to understand
Nichiren’s claim that worldly or earthly desires are enlightenment.
However, in order for the conversion to take place it is necessary to gaze
at one’s evil karma without faltering. This instant will be the awakening
of what Shinran calls kino jinshin or the deep faith of oneself. It is what is
expressed in the picture of Saichi with his horns and his palms together.
In Kierkegaard’s view, Paul also follows such a way: ‘The longer he
looks, the more clearly he perceives that it is an emissary of God who is
visiting him, a friendly spirit who wishes him well. One almost sympa-
thizes with the poor devil, who wants to be so terrifying and then
stands there unmasked, changed into the opposite, and thinking only
of masking his escape’ (1990, p. 342).
It seems clear then that there are some remarkable connections be-
tween the structure of faith in Shinran and Kierkegaard. Now I want to
bring in another important concept about which both these thinkers
have much to say, namely, the concept of love.
Faith and religious love
In Western thought the concept of love has been considered in such di-
verse terms as eros or erotic love, philia or love within friendship, and
agape or religious love. The concept of erotic love is considered by Plato
as a form of divine insanity in which people begin with the erotic love
of a particular individual and eventually progress to the love of the
eternal forms. Love within friendship, on the other hand, is argued by
Aristotle to be something that is based on human virtue. It therefore
cannot reach the essence of religion. The concepts of erotic love and
friendship are also dealt with by Christianity, but exploring the relations
here lie beyond the scope of this chapter. It is rather the concept of
religious love and how it appears in Christianity that I want to discuss
here. Religious love is particularly emphasized in the New Testament by
John and Paul.
In Buddhism, love is connected with the idea of compassion. It is typ-
ically defined as that which removes pain and gives happiness. This is
expressed as jihi in Japansese. Ji means giving happiness and hi means
saving sentient beings from suffering. Compassion is here seen to arise
from three en or conditions. The first is shujoˉen no jihi or the compassion
arising from the perception of sentient beings. This is awakened in the
minds of ordinary people and also in the minds of followers of Hı̄nayāna
Buddhism. It is called ‘small compassion’. The second is called hoen no
jihi or the compassion arising from the observation of the component
elements of sentient beings. This is awakened in the minds of arhats
(Buddhist sages) or bodhisattvas below what is called the first stage of
enlightenment. It is called ‘medium compassion’. The third is called
muen no jihi or the compassion arising from realization of the emptiness
(Sanskrit: shuˉnya) of all things. This is awakened in the minds of bodhisat-
tvas of the first stage or above and is called ‘great compassion’. This type
of love, which is unconditional love, is the topic I wish to take up next.
What kind of meaning does love and compassion have for human
existence? I think that a fundamental sense of fulfilment for many
people is based on fulfilment in love and compassion. Although the
essence of humanity can be discussed from various viewpoints, in some
deep sense it seems at least to consist in maturing and benefiting both
oneself and others. However, the question remains: Is loving all other
people and living creatures really possible for a human being? I would
say that from an everyday perspective such an extent of love and com-
passion is impossible. By ‘everyday perspective’ I mean the perspective
of a human being within whom selfish thinking is alive. Selfish thinking
is the ignorance of truth, because it is accompanied by selfish love. There
is nothing more difficult than to transcend selfish thinking. In Buddhism,
the Yogacārā school makes an issue of the grounds of the existence of
the self (the manas-consciousness). Unless this changes to the byoˉdoˉshoˉchi
or non-discriminating wisdom (Sanskrit: samata jnāna), true compassion
is never realized. Non-discriminating wisdom is partially realized in the
kendo (step to understanding) stage of enlightenment, as it is called, and
is fully realized in the stage of Buddhahood. It is the non-discriminating
wisdom that perceives the underlying identity of all things, which also
means the identity of oneself and others. This makes it possible to
overcome the feelings of separation of oneself from others. The reason, I

think, why Kierkegaard distinguishes qualitatively between Christian
and natural love in his Works of Love is that he perceived that there is
nothing more difficult than to transcend selfish thinking.
In order for love and compassion to be accomplished, selfish thinking
must be exposed in its entirety. But this occurs only by the manifest-
ation of the dharma (the Buddhist teachings) or the work of another
(the Christian God). It is called faith or the heart of faith. Religious love
is thus accomplished through faith.
The mind to save all sentient beings

and Christian love
This brings us to the structure of religious love as the accomplishment
of faith or the heart of faith. I should also like to note that religious love
is frequently connected with the expressions ‘pour’, as in something that
can be caused to flow from one place to another, and ‘pervade’, as in
something that spreads in and through something else. For example, in
Paul’s epistle to the Romans (5:5) we find the expression that ‘hope does
not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts
by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us’. This is explained in the fol-
lowing commentary on this passage: ‘As the love of God is described
below, it is the work of “the Holy Spirit granted to us”. A believer’s heart
is strengthened in Christ. The Holy Spirit is the living power which is
poured out from God into faith and is the work of God. The heart of a
human being is the place wherein this work of God is accepted.’4
The following extract is from Yüan-chao, master of the Vinaya school of
Buddhism. It is cited in Shinran’s Teaching, Practice, Faith, and Attainment:
Needless to say, our Buddha Amida grasps beings with the Name.
Thus, as we hear it with our ears and say it with our lips, exalted
virtues without limit grasp and pervade our hearts and minds. It
becomes ever after the seed of our Buddhahood, all at once sweep-
ing away a koti of kalpas of heavy karmic evil, and we attain the
realization of the supreme enlightenment. (1997, p. 48)
Does not the word ‘pervade’ express the nature of what has occurred
in the accomplishment of our compassion or love? True compassion
and love are attained with the accomplishment of faith or the heart of
faith in this way.
To explain this further I want to examine that which Shinran refers
to as oˉchoˉ shidanru or a two-part classification sub-divided into four
parts. It is well known that Hōnen’s Senchaku hongan nembutsu shū or

The Choice of the Nembutsu of the Original Vow was criticized severely by
Myōe (1173–1232), a monk of the Kegon school (Kegon was one of the
original six schools of Nara Buddhism). In Saijarin or Breaking the Wheel
of False Teaching Myōe radically criticized Hōnen, asserting that in
Hōnen’s teachings the idea of bodaishin or the aspiration to Buddhahood
(enlightenment) was missing. Against this criticism some counter-
arguments were made by various of Hōnen’s students, but Hōnen him-
self left this world before being able to reply.
Shinran was one of Hōnen’s students to respond to the criticism.
Indeed, Shinran’s Teaching, Practice, Faith, and Attainment could be said
to be written as a counter-argument to Myōe’s critique of Hōnen. The
essence of this work is expressed within a four-fold classification. This
involves the concepts of transcending lengthwise and departing length-
wise, and transcending crosswise and departing crosswise:
Further, the mind aspiring for enlightenment is of two kinds [of ori-
entation]: lengthwise and crosswise. The lengthwise is further of two
kinds: transcending lengthwise and departing lengthwise. These are
explained in various teachings – accommodated and real, exoteric
and esoteric, Mahayana and Hinayana. They are the mind [with
which one attains enlightenment after] going around for many
kalpas, the diamond-like mind of self-power, or the great mind of the
bodhisattva. The crosswise is also of two kinds: transcending cross-
wise and departing crosswise. That characterized by departing cross-
wise is the mind of enlightenment of right and sundry practices or
meditative and non-meditative practices of self-power within Other
Power. That characterized by transcending crosswise is shinjin [faith]
that is directed to beings through the power of the Vow. It is the
mind that aspires to attain Buddhahood. The mind that aspires to
attain Buddhahood is the mind aspiring for great enlightenment of
crosswise orientation. It is called ‘the diamond-like mind of cross-
wise transcendence’. (pp. 107–8)
It is argued here that our aspiration to attain Buddhahood or enlight-

enment is based on faith in the power of the vow of Amida Buddha.
Amida created the original vow of ‘to aspire to be born in my pure land’
in order to save all sentient beings. Pure Land followers who realize this
vow will experience the daibodaishin or great aspiration sent by the
Buddha, which is qualitatively different from the small aspiration found
within our everyday frame of thinking. This great aspiration is different
from the idea of aspiration considered by Myōe.
Moreover, this great aspiration is nothing less than the mind to save
all sentient beings. The following words of Donran’s Joˉdo ron chuˉ or Com-
mentary on the Treatise on the Pure Land express this clearly: ‘This mind
aspiring for supreme enlightenment is the mind that aspires to attain
Buddhahood. The mind that aspires to attain Buddhahood is the mind
to save all sentient beings. The mind to save all sentient beings is the
mind to grasp sentient beings and bring them to birth in the land where
the Buddha is’ (p. 108). In the great aspiration to attain enlightenment
Buddha’s heart is dwelling in the Pure Land practitioner, therefore it is
precisely this great aspiration that can save all sentient beings. Thus,
the unconditional love (compassion) which is absolutely impossible
within everyday existence blossoms in the heart of the one who calls
the Buddha’s name. This brings us at last to the world of Works of Love.
Here Kierkegaard offers a description of true love:
True love, which has undergone the change of eternity [undergik

Evighedens Forandring] by becoming duty, is never changed; it is
simple, it loves and never hates, never hates – the beloved. It might
seem as if that spontaneous love were the stronger because it can
do two things, because it can both love and hate. It might seems as
if it had an entirely different power over its object when it says, ‘If
you will not love me, then I will hate you’ – but this is only an
illusion.5
Human beings changed and reconstructed by eternity are none other

than those who realize faith. Simultaneously with this faith, we natu-
rally appropriate the holy love to ourselves, since ‘God is love’. Thus, the
materialized love is not a person’s love but primarily the love of God.
The concept of true love sent by eternity into oneself is what is meant
by the love of God. I think that this has the almost same structure as
Shinran’s concept of the formation of the mind to save all sentient
beings. In this way, Kierkegaard’s idea of Christian love, like Shinran’s
idea of compassion, shows the aspect of eternal love.
Attributes of love: self-negativity

I shall now examine the two main attributes of love or compassion.
(Kierkegaard develops further characteristics of love from these
attributes.)
First, love has the attribute of self-negativity. That is, the self must be
negated when Christian love is materialized. Everywhere love is enclosed
within selfish thinking; such is not yet true love. Conversely, selfish
thinking is torn apart when a person receives faith and true love. There
is, by definition, an unconscious attachment to self at the root of selfish

thinking. Therefore the gaining of faith or love is, at the same time, the
loss of unconscious attachment to oneself. Jesus’ commandment, ‘Love
your neighbour as yourself’ (Matthew 22: 39), is well-known. Kierkegaard
interprets this passage by saying:
it is Christianity’s intention to wrest self-love away from us human

beings. In other words, this is implied in loving oneself; but if one is
to love the neighbour as oneself, then the commandment, as with a
pick, wrenches (Danish: viste) open the lock of self-love and wrests
(Danish: fravriste) it away from a person. If the commandment about
loving the neighbour were expressed in any other way than with this
little phrase, as yourself, which simultaneously is so easy to handle
and yet has the elasticity of eternity, the commandment would be
unable to cope with self-love in this way. (1995, p. 17)
The commandment is a direct exhortation to ‘love your neighbour as

yourself’. That is, as people protect and love themselves right to the very
end. We can consider this in relation to the manas-consciousness in the
Yogacārā school. The commandment teaches that we should offer our
neighbour the same unconditional love that we hold for ourselves. To
‘love your neighbour as yourself’ is by no means a complicated phrase,
yet how can we love our neighbour? Loving our neighbour, indeed lov-
ing any living creatures truly, must mean loving right to the very end,
and at the risk of our own life. This commandment contains a dialecti-
cal contradiction between unconditional self-love and unconditional
neighbourly love, and the contradiction causes a complete self-negativity.
Moreover, this commandment undermines the truth of self-love. This is
because self-love, which is necessary and thus valid for self-preservation,
cannot also contain the love of others. Such love is, in the end, based on
manas-consciousness.
True self-love is that which contains love for others. Everyday self-
love must be destroyed by it. This love is rewarded by Jesus’ love. In
Works of Love Kierkegaard says:
Only for self-denying love does the specification ‘mine’ disappear

entirely and the distinction ‘mine and yours’ become entirely can-
celled … Then the wondrous thing occurs that is heaven’s blessing
upon self-denying love – in salvation’s mysterious understanding all
things become his, his who had no mine at all, his who in self-denial
made yours all that was his. In other words, God is all things, and by
having no mine at all self-denial’s love won God and won all things.
(1995, p. 268)
Here it is stated that a miraculous result arises from the love based on
self-denial, namely, that it owns nothing but to it all are given. This
situation parallels the Buddhist view that ‘nothing to cling to is an in-
exhaustible store’ (Japanese: muichimotu chuˉ mujinnzoˉ ). It is also tied to
the Taoist idea of wu-wei or non-action, an idea that influenced Japanese
Buddhism. As mentioned in the Introduction, for Taoism the sage is
‘free from self-display, and therefore he shines; from self-assertion, and
therefore he is distinguished; from self-boasting, and therefore his merit
is acknowledged’. This is essentially the same idea. In Christianity this
idea arises from the notion that all is created by God.
Moreover, as Kierkegaard states:
When one thinks only one thought, one must in connection with
this thinking discover self-denial, and it is self-denial that discovers
that God is. Precisely this becomes the contradiction in blessedness
and terror: to have an omnipotent one as one’s co-worker. An omni-
potent one cannot be your co-worker, a human being’s co-worker,
without its signifying that you are able to do nothing at all; and on
the other hand, if he is your co-worker, you are able to do everything.
(1995, p. 362)
So Kierkegaard says that in self-denial one discovers God. But this

also means that discovering God is simultaneous with the denial of the
selfish ego. This is precisely the same as Shinran’s ‘two aspects of deep
faith’. Although it is faith that is the basis of Christian love, this love is
accompanied by the consciousness that the person can do nothing by
himself or herself. At the same time, in the sense that the believer is a
co-worker who works with God, he or she is also all-powerful. This is
close to the Pure Land position given in the fourth chapter of A Record
of Lament of the Divergences.
Attributes of love: unchangeableness

I will end this chapter by examining another attribute of love discussed
by Kierkegaard. This is the unchangeableness of love. Here Kierkegaard
says:
Be honest, admit that with most people, when they read the poet’s
glowing description of erotic love or friendship, it is perhaps the case
that this seems to be something far higher than this poor: ‘You shall
love.’ ‘You shall love.’ Only when it is a duty to love, only then is
love eternally secured against every change, eternally made free in
blessed independence, eternally and happily secured against despair.
(1995, p. 29)
The love of ‘You shall love’ is unchangeable compared with the

changeableness of natural love and attachment. The first type of love is
not influenced by the attributes of its object and has a non-dependability
to it. ‘In other words’, says Kierkegaard, ‘since the neighbour is every
human being, unconditionally every human being, all dissimilarities
are indeed removed from the object, it is without any of the more pre-
cise specifications of dissimilarity, which means that this love is recog-
nizable only by love’ (1995, p. 66). Kierkegaard says here that the
neighbour is every human being, and he repeats the same assertion
elsewhere: ‘You can never confuse him with anyone else, since the
neighbour, to be sure, is all people. If you confuse another person with
the neighbour, then the mistake is not due to the latter, since the other
person is also the neighbour; the mistake is due to you, that you will
not understand who the neighbour is’ (1995, p. 52).
Targeting the other, Christian love is completely independent of the
infinite variety found in the other’s character, and loves the other
without reference to particular human characteristics. For human
beings whose selfish thinking has been crushed the differences that
separated people from each other become completely lost; here the
neighbour is every human being.
This has direct connections with the idea of the Buddha’s compassion
applied, as it is said, to all beings in ten quarters. Moreover, in Practice
in Christianity, it becomes the problem of the ‘all’ in ‘come here, all you
who labour and are burdened, and I will give you rest’ (Matthew 11: 28).
We have to understand that this universality of the neighbour does not
mean the abstractness of a neighbour, but rather the most concrete
neighbour in himself or herself. Using the words of Buber, it corresponds
to the Thou of the ‘I-Thou’ relation. Dostoevsky says, ‘we can love a far
person but cannot love a near person’. A neighbour is the person who
stands before us as he or she is, and who disappears at the precise moment
we begin to conceptualize or categorize him or her. From a Buddhist
perspective, this has features in common with Lin-chi’s concept of ‘one
true person of no rank’ referring to love that is not based on the
attributes of its object. Kierkegaard says, ‘it is indeed true (as pointed out
earlier, where it was shown that the neighbour is the pure category of
spirit) that one sees the neighbour only with closed eyes, or by looking
away from the dissimilarities. The sensate eyes always see the dissimilar-
ities and look at the dissimilarities’ (1995, p. 68).
However, the fact that love is not dependent on the particular
attributes displayed by different objects does not mean that such love
disregards them. Rather, for Kierkegaard, the aspects of actual discrim-
ination are repeatedly (as in his concept of repetition) understood
through their transcendence. This concept is expressed in his claim
that ‘when the dissimilarity hangs loosely in this way, then in each in-
dividual there continually glimmers that essential other, which is com-
mon to all, the eternal resemblance, the likeness’ (1995, p. 88). He insists
that we shall see them loosely. This is a delicate religious position and
we can compare it with the idea that ‘Emptiness is immediately form’ as
stated in Hannya shin kyoˉ or The Heart Suˉtra. By meditating on shuˉnyatā
(emptiness) one recognizes that all is empty and has no substance.
However, when this is realized, the aspects of reality are truly received
again as something irreplaceable. I think that this is a momentous idea,
an idea that Buddhism calls ‘the middle way’. It is the principle of reality
which lies beyond existence and non-existence. Hence, it is the ‘mid-
dle’. This principle teaches that even a colour or a smell has the truth of
the middle way, that is, the middle path is found in all things. In
Japanese this is called isshiki ikkoˉ muhi chuˉdoˉ.
I think that Kierkegaard asserts the same thing here. This is what he
is saying, I feel, when he says that in Christianity everything is received
as something irreplaceable. Kierkegaard expresses a keen insight here:
‘When it is a duty to love the people we see, one must first and foremost
give up all imaginary and exaggerated ideas about a dream-world where
the object of love should be sought and found; that is, one must become
sober, gain actuality and truth by finding and remaining in the world
of actuality as the task assigned to one’ (1995, p. 161). This is exactly the
world of ‘Emptiness is immediately form’. Here, I think, is a feature of
religious existence which both Japanese Pure Land Buddhism and
Kierkegaard hold deeply in common.
Notes
1. The Collected Works of Shinran, 1 (Kyoto: Jōdo Shinshū Hongwanji-ha, 1997)
p. 80. Further references to this edition are given in the text.
2. Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientif ic Postscript, trans. H. V. Hong and
E. H. Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1992) p. 455.
Further references to this edition are given in the text.
3. Shinyakuseisho ryakukai [Compact Dictionary of the New Testament] ed. Shogo

Yamatani, Isaburou Takayanagi and Jirou Ogawa (Tokyo: Nihon kirisuto
kyodan shuppannbu, 1989) p. 835 (my translation).
4. Shinyakuseisho ryakukai, p. 527.
5. Kierkegaard, Works of Love, trans. H. V. Hong and E. H. Hong (Princeton, New
Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1995) p. 34. Further reference to this edition
are given in the text.
4
A Zen Understanding of
Kierkegaard’s Existential Thought
Eshin Nishimura
A creative encounter with Kierkegaard
I am a Japanese Buddhist priest who belongs to the orthodox Rinzai school

of Zen Buddhism, a school that has its roots in Chinese ch’an Buddhism.
Therefore, my way of approaching Kierkegaard is essentially different
from that of other Japanese Kierkegaard scholars, most of who seem to be
academic scholars outside the Buddhist sangha (or community).
My encounter with Kierkegaard’s existential thought came about
unexpectedly during my study of Zen thought, while I was still an
undergraduate at Hanazono University, the sole academic institution of
Rinzai Zen Buddhism in Japan.
Japanese Kierkegaard scholars, it seems to me, typically focus on
Kierkegaard’s existential thought at the end of their philosophical jour-
ney through the ideas of various other Western philosophers. My case
was entirely different. In fact, I had not received any training in Western
philosophy until I came across Kierkegaard. At that time I was studying
East Asian philosophy that was based mainly on Zen training. This phi-
losophy does not involve the reflective speculation of rational thinking.
For this reason, students who major in the study of Zen Buddhism face
a difficult obstacle in graduating. For in their studies they must be able
to give a rational account of a non-rational way of thinking.
My encounter with Kierkegaard happened by chance one late after-
noon in the autumn of 1955 when I was at a bookseller’s in Kyoto.
While perusing various volumes in the philosophy section, I came upon
a book that was a special issue to mark the one hundredth anniversary
of Kierkegaard’s death. It was the first time I had seen Kierkegaard’s
name. This book caught my interest and eventually I embarked on read-
ing several of Kierkegaard’ works.
71
Subjectivity as the common subject
Two things that caught my attention in the book were the word ‘subjec-
tivity’ and the title of the chapter ‘How to be a good Christian?’ One of
my lecturers, Shinichi Hisamatsu (1889–1980), a leading philosopher of
the Kyoto school of philosophy and a follower of Nishida, was always
stressing the importance of the subjectivity of human existence in the
thought of Zen Buddhism. I was thus, well before reading Kierkegaard,
sensitive to the notion of subjectivity.
As a Buddhist monk, my interest was also awakened by Kierkegaard’s
quest to be a good Christian. I suddenly realized that I had no special
concern about how to be a good Buddhist. My unadulterated heart was
rocked to its foundation at that moment. I harboured deep doubts about
my own religious life, being enrolled, as I was, in a merely traditional or
cultural Buddhist organization. For Kierkegaard, an authentic Christian
life is only possible when one stands before God as an existing indi-
vidual. For this very reason, the Christian church, a traditional and
cultural organization, was an obstacle for him.
How to be authentic
Kierkegaard devoted himself to being an anti-church Christian: refus-

ing his father’s wish that he be a pastor he instead spent his whole life
trying to be a true Christian. ‘How can one be an authentic Christian?’
is not an objective question like ‘What is an authentic Christian?’, but
rather a thoroughly existential and subjective question.
It thus became a particular interest of mine to investigate the relation
between subjectivity and the Christian idea of faith. This was especially
so because I understood Christianity as a religion of salvation by God or
an ‘other power’ (jiriki in Japanese). The question, as I saw it, was how
subjectivity and the salvation by an other power could coexist. This
seemed a central problem in the comparative study of Zen Buddhist
experience and Christian faith.
Also, the Zen subjectivity that I was learning about from Hisamatsu
came into question for me as I wondered whether it was sufficient. My
view of Zen Buddhism as the absolute was challenged by the realm of
relativity. This opened my eyes to other religions, such as Christianity
and the Pure Land faith of Shinran in Japanese Buddhism. (The relation
between Shinran’s Buddhism and Kierkegaard’s Christianity is explored
in Chapter 3 by Hidetomo Yamashita.)
A Zen Understanding of Kierkegaard’s Existential Thought 73
Hisamatsu was enthusiastic in pointing out the significance of ‘the

subjectivity of no-self’, as he called it, in Zen Buddhist thought. This, he
felt, was an ideal image of the human being in the contemporary world.
In his latter days Hisamatsu used to call himself a ‘post-modernist’ (ko
kindaijin in Japanese). Through this view he tried to overcome both the
pre-modern way of being that is atheistic and the modern way of being
that is nihilistic.
In my undergraduate thesis, which I submitted to Hisamatsu, I
argued for the superiority of the Zen concept of subjectivity over
Kierkegaard’s similar concept. I criticized the weakness of his notion
of subjectivity which seems to be unable to stay on the level of what
he calls religiousness A (the Socratic level). Consequently, subjectiv-
ity here would move to the level of what he calls religiousness B (the
Christian level). At the defence of my thesis, Hisamatsu severely criti-
cized my understanding of the specific significance of the double
structure of Kierkegaard’s Christian faith. In this way I came to see
the meaning of authenticity contained in Kierkegaard’s idea of sub-
jectivity. This is something that is admitted at the deeper level of
religiousness B.
Through Hisamatsu’s stern criticism of my view of Kierkegaard’s con-
cept of faith even my understanding of Zen Buddhist thought was
brought into an entirely different dimension. The more I immersed
myself in Kierkegaard’s Christian existentialism, the more I came to
investigate the logical structure of Zen Buddhism itself. It was through
this investigation that I finally arrived at what I call the ‘creative theory
of Zen existentialism’.
With this background laid out, I should now like to explore the simi-
larities between Kierkegaard’s Christian existentialist thought and Zen
Buddhist thought. These similarities transcend the differences between
Eastern and Western religious traditions.
The Buddha’s suffering
Zen Buddhism is a branch of Mahāyāna Buddhism, which ultimately

has its origins in the Buddha’s self-awakening in the fifth-century BCE.
The Buddha, who was the crown prince of a small kingdom of India,
was such a deep thinker in his young days that his father was concerned
for the boy’s future. One day the young boy happened to see an aged
man who was hobbling along the road. This shocked him into the real-
ization that ageing was the unavoidable fate of all beings.
In the same way he saw that disease and death were also unavoidable
realities, realities which, together with ageing, constituted nothing but
the ‘law of suffering’ rooted in all living beings. How to overcome these
existential sufferings became the crucial subject in his life. He says:
The luxuries of the palace, this healthy body, this rejoicing youth!
What do they mean to me? ... Someday we may be sick, we shall
become aged, from death there is no escape. Pride of youth, pride of
health, pride of existence – all thoughtful people should cast them
aside. A man struggling for existence will naturally look for help.
There are two ways of looking for help – a right way and a wrong
way. To look in the wrong way means that, while he recognizes that
sickness, old age, and death are unavoidable, he looks for help among
the same class of empty, transitory things. To look in the right way
means that he recognizes the true nature of sickness, old age, and
death, and looks for help in that which transcends all human suffer-
ings. In this palace life of pleasures I seem to be looking for help in
the wrong way.1
Under the sway of such reflections, the Buddha fled his life at the pal-
ace and, at the age of 29, entered the mountains to practice yogic asceti-
cism. But after six years of such practice he decided to stop. Asceticism,
he felt, was not the right way to overcome human suffering.
Human suffering is tied to the physical suffering of disease, old age,
and death. Therefore the overcoming of this kind of suffering should
not, it seems, involve the infliction of more physical suffering. Rather,
it should involve physical relaxation. But yogic asceticism seems to aim
at just the opposite: here the yogin tries to emancipate his or her mind
by afflicting the body. I believe that this might be the reason why the
Buddha abandoned ascetic practice.
The self as a synthesis
In other words, yogic asceticism is based upon the traditional Arian

dualism in which mind and body are separate. For the Buddha, bodily
suffering should be overcome through both body and mind, which
cannot be separated one from the other. Bodily suffering cannot be
conquered by the mind through afflicting the body. Rather, bodily suf-
fering is only to be healed with a peaceful mind. This idea created an
entirely new concept of meditation, one which had not existed before
in India.
This idea of the identity of body and mind and its relation to suffer-
ing reminds me of Kierkegaard’s concept of human existence as a syn-
thesis and its relation to despair. Kierkegaard writes:
The self is a relation which relates itself to its own self, or it is that
in the relation [which accounts for it] that the relation relates
itself to its own self; the self is not the relation but [consists in the
fact] that the relation relates itself to its own self. Man is a synthe-
sis of infinite and finite, the temporal and the eternal, freedom
and necessity … Despair is the disrelationship in a relation which
relates itself to itself. But the synthesis is not the disrelationship,
it is merely the possibility, or, in the synthesis is latent the possi-
bility of the disrelationship … if he were not a synthesis, he could
not despair, neither could he despair if the synthesis were not
originally from God’s hand in the right relationship. 2 (brackets in
original)
Kierkegaard defines the human being as the synthesis of infiniteness

and finiteness, temporality and eternity, freedom and necessity. Despair
is nothing but the separation of those elemental pairs. And to despair is
a particularly human failing. Consequently, if someone were completely
unable to despair, such a person would be lacking in what it means to
be human.
But this despair is the mere separation of relation of a person to him-
self and is not yet real despair. Authentic despair appears in the relation
to the third party, namely God, who created the person’s relation to
himself.
The fundamental question
Among the many branches of Buddhism, each of which tries to study

what the Buddha taught, the Rinzai school of Zen Buddhism is unique.
This is because in their practice Zen Buddhists of the Rinzai school try
to re-experience the way in which the Buddha overcame his suffering.
This starts with trying to experience the great doubt about the funda-
mental contradictions in human existence, namely, contradictions
between life and death, animal instinct and human intelligence, and so
on. This idea of experiencing the great doubt, is one which, in the
Japanese Rinzai school, was expounded by the Zen master Hakuin
(1685–1768). Hakuin’s philosophy of the great doubt is discussed in
Chapter 7 by Archie Graham.
Hakuin’s approach, however, had its roots in Chinese Zen Buddhism.

For example, the Chinese Zen master Huang-lung Hui-nan (1002–69),
used to put three problems to the newly arrived student. These, which
are called ‘the three barriers of Huang-lung’, are as follows:
1. Each individual has his own karmic cause to be born into this
world. Show me your karmic cause!
2. Why does your hand look like the Buddha’s hand?
3. Why do your legs look like donkey’s legs?3
The first problem concerns the fundamental contradiction between

what is caused by one’s karma or earlier deeds in a past life and one’s
present freedom to live as an individual. In other words, it is pointing
out the contradiction between necessity and freedom, a contradiction
which each individual must somehow deal with.
By raising the second and the third problems, Master Huang-lung is
trying to draw the student back to a further paradox of human existence,
namely, that all people are a ‘synthesis’ of the Buddha (enlightenment)
and an animal nature. In this way, the student might be returned to his
original situation and become aware of the existential root of human suf-
fering or despair. A further example can be found in the works of Zen
master Tou-shuai Ts’ung-yueh (1044–91), who inherited the teachings of
Huang-lung. He raises similar problems but approaches the issue from a
different direction. He would ask his students the following:
1. A purpose of Zen training is to realize the inborn nature of your

existence. Now, show me your inborn nature.
2. Once you realize your inborn nature, you may be able to be released
from reincarnation and the cycle of life and death. If so, how do
you transcend your reincarnation and the cycle of life and death?
3. You might know the place where you go after your death. Where
do you go then?4
Thus, Zen Buddhism tries to capture the individual as a temporary

being existing amid the ocean of life and death, and to bring him or her
to the eternal within the temporal flow.
The well known line from Lin-chi (Japanese: Rinzai) (d. 866) indi-
cates a similar reality that exists amid the inconsistencies of human
existence:
The Master (Lin-chi) took the high seat in the hall. He said: ‘On your
lump of red flesh is a true man without rank who is always going in
and out of the face of every one of you. Those who have not yet
proved him, look, look!’5
‘Red flesh’ here indicates the human body, which has substance
within it, and yet in and out of which goes an eternal true man, within
and through all the senses and organs of every body at each moment.
In this way, Master Lin-chi requires students to capture an eternity
within the temporality of the physical body.
This contradictory structure of the ‘true self’ which Lin-chi teaches
his students reminds me immediately of Kierkegaard’s definition of the
ideal self which an individual has to realize as a synthesis of the infinite
and the finite. Since the individual is a synthesis of the infinite and the
finite, to emphasize only one side of this synthesis is always wrong and
is none other than despair. Kierkegaard writes of this synthesis saying,
‘the development consists in moving away from oneself infinitely by
the process of infinitizing oneself, and returning to oneself infinitely
by the process of finitizing. If on the contrary the self does not become
itself, it is in despair.’6 In these lines, Kierkegaard emphasizes the fact
that ‘moving away from oneself’ and ‘returning to oneself’ should be
done simultaneously. Otherwise, the individual would remain in
despair. The individual has both to transcend himself or herself and yet
has to stay within himself or herself. In this way the self that is being
moved towards becomes the self that one really is.
The great doubt and untruth
In Rinzai Zen Buddhism the central concern to which a person is led is

the realization of his true self (also called the Buddha or the awakened
one) within his lifetime. This life-long task is called ‘a long path of self-
enquiry’ (koji kyuˉmei no gyoˉdoˉ in Japanese). And this life-long religious
procedure starts with a person’s great doubt, as Hakuin puts it, over an
inconsistency in human existence.
This great doubt, therefore, is not the same sort of conscious doubt
which Descartes used as a method to establish the existence of the I as
opposed to the existence of the world of physical things. The content of
the great doubt is, in fact, nothing but the despair which people meet
in their lives and by which they lose the meaning of their lives. Under
the burden of this absolute frustration a person becomes no more than
an animated corpse. This is known as the ‘ball of doubt’, where there is
no distinction between the person who is doing the doubting and what
is being doubted. This great doubt (taishi ichiban in Japanese) in the Zen
procedure is similar, I feel, to the idea of the dark night of the soul
which occurs in Catholic mysticism. Such a crisis could also be com-

pared with Kierkegaard’s notion of ‘untruth’ in the awareness of sin
before God.
The Zen student tries to break free of this situation through his own
effort. But the more he tries to escape his crisis, the more he loses his
own power to break through it; for in Zen training there is no saving
God to which the student can turn.
This is a horrendous ordeal for the Zen student, a dangerous train-
ing which the student experiences as a risking of life. Hakuin refers
to this through the metaphor of ‘letting go of one’s hold from a prec-
ipice’ (kengai sasshuˉ in Japanese). At this moment the student suddenly
experiences a breaking through the darkness of despair and realizes
his real inborn self – which is no self – for the first time. In Japanese
this is called the satori realization (enlightenment in English), and
it is accompanied by the joy of freedom from existential human
suffering.
The jump into truth
In Zen, this ‘jump’ from the suffering self (untruth) to the joyful self
(truth) is achieved through the individual’s own effort, which contrasts
with Kierkegaard’s case in which the help of God is instrumental. It can
be seen as analogous to Kierkegaard’s concept of ‘becoming from non-
existence (a person of sin) to existence (a person of faith)’. Here we may
note that ‘despair’ is the state common to both cases and is that which
makes man jump up from the untruth to truth. Both in Zen experience
and Kierkegaard, deep awareness of the untruth of self-existence is cru-
cial to the achievement of truth. We may say, after Kierkegaard, that
true subjectivity is achieved in Zen only through the ‘one jump into the
land of Buddha’ (icchoˉ jikinyuˉ nyoraiji in Japanese) from ‘the darkness of
non-existence’ (kokumanman ji in Japanese) to ‘the brightness of exist-
ence’ (koˉmei rekireki ji in Japanese).
This is not the ‘recollection of truth’ in a Socratic sense of awareness
of the truth, but a kind of transcendence within immanence. A Socratic
realization of truth seems to be a recollection of metaphysical truth
transcendentally existing within us, while realization of reality in Zen
experience is not a realization of transcendental being in any sense. Zen
does not involve a metaphysics which postulates the existence of an
eternal being or reality somewhere beyond the physical world. Rather,
it is an existentialism which has no super-physical being outside our
own corporeality.
Subjectivity as complete independence
There seems to be a sharp contrast here between Kierkegaard’s subjec-

tivity and the subjectivity of Zen. While in Kierkegaard one can be sub-
jective only in front of God, in Zen one can be subjective only when
one is independent from any other support. This subjectivity of Zen
becomes clear when a Zen master demonstrates his absolute subjectivity
by denying all outside authorities, such as the Buddha or Patriarchs.
This is what Lin-chi tries to express in the quote above.
It is interesting to see, however, that there are two different types of
such denial. Typical examples of these two types of denial of authority
can be found in the ideas of Lin-chi and the Zen master Chao-chou
Ts’ung-shen. For Lin-chi, true subjectivity is possible only when one is
completely emancipated from all bondage – internal and external – so
that one may be ‘a man of complete independence who does not
depend on any thing’ (dokudatsu mue no doˉnin in Japanese). Lin-chi
thus directs his students to cut themselves off from all authority, say-
ing, ‘if you want insight into Dharma as it is, just don’t be taken in by
the deluded views of others. Whatever you encounter, either within or
without, slay it at once: on meeting a Buddha slay the Buddha, on
meeting [a] Patriarch slay the Patriarch.’7 Lin-chi describes this lack of
self-confidence as a disease and says:
students today can’t get anywhere: what ails you? Lack of faith in your
self is what ails you. If you lack in yourself, you’ll keep on tumbling
along, following after all kinds of circumstances, be taken by these
myriad circumstances through transformation after transformation,
and never be your self. Bring to rest the thoughts of the ceaselessly
seeking mind, and you’ll not differ from the Patriarch-Buddha.8
At the extreme opposite pole to Lin-chi’s subjectivity, there is Chao-

chou who says, ‘I dislike to hear the name of Buddha!’ An officer, Ts’ui,
once asked Chao-chou, ‘Even with great masters like you, is it possible
to fall into hell after death?’ ‘Surely I will fall into hell at the very first!’
replied Chao-chou. The officer asked, ‘How is it possible for a holy per-
son like you?’ Chao-chou replied, ‘So that I might meet you there!’9
However, Chao-chou’s dislike of hearing the Buddha’s name represents
no less than a confession of his helplessness at not being able to become
Buddha. (Here is a way in which Zen contrasts with Pure Land Buddhism
wherein one depends on the name of the Buddha – conceived as an
‘other power’ – to gain enlightenment; see Chapter 3.)
This is also an expression of the consciousness of shame (shikishuˉ in

Japanese). Chinese Zen master Hsu-t’ang Chih-yu (1185–1269) says
here, ‘be sensible to your shame, then you might understand the ulti-
mate of Zen’.10 Thus, we can see how Zen subjectivity is in a way close
to Kierkegaard’s self-consciousness of sin. Yet in Zen subjectivity it is a
choice to fall into hell instead of being saved by the Buddha, not, as is
the case with Kierkegaard, a matter of hope for salvation by God. Here
we may see the unique characteristic of Zen subjectivity, a subjectivity
which is thoroughly subjective.
The absolute subjectivity of no-self
Besides the examples that we have just seen of denying outer authority,
there is also the extreme example of Zen subjectivity in which one
refuses even the authority of the Zen tradition on which Zen subjectiv-
ity stands. K’uo-an Shih-yuan – a Zen master of the Sung dynasty in
China – added a comment to the tenth picture of his ‘Ten Ox-herding
Pictures’, which reads as follows:
A man (who accomplished his Zen journey) is now resting in his

hermitage, closing a gate, so that even a wise man does not know he
exists. No glimpses of his inner life are to be caught; for he goes on
his own way without following the steps of the ancient sages.
Carrying a (wine) gourd he goes out into the market, leaning against
a staff he comes home. He is found in company with wine-bibbers
and butchers, he and they are all converted into the Buddha.11
The subjectivity shown above typifies the ideal person in Zen

Buddhism. Such a subjectivity seems to be more subjective than the so-
called Socratic subjectivity in the sense that it goes beyond even con-
sciousness of self. Therefore, it was specially called ‘the absolute
subjectivity of no-self’ (zettaimu teki shutai in Japanese) by Hisamatsu.
The specific terms ‘absolute subjectivity’ or ‘fundamental subjectivity’,
which were used by the Kyoto school philosophers, are not meant to
refer to the idea of a subject which opposes the objective world. Here,
contrary to the idea of a subject, the subjectivity is something that is
identified with the objective world.
Hisamatsu named this kind of absolute subjectivity ‘oriental noth-
ingness’, or ‘awakened-existence’ (kakuzon in Japanese). Such subjective
being is no longer an ordinary existence which is opposed to the world
but the existence of non-existence (the self of no-self), which might be
called the universal self. Hisamatsu tells us about this Zen way of being
through describing various types of persons. He says:
The fourth type of person (the ideal Zen type of person) appears in
the case in which the second type of person (a nihilist facing his
despair) is awakened to himself in an automatic way from within
himself. This is not like the third type of person (the theist who is
reborn from absolute negation, which is despair, to absolute affirma-
tion, which is salvation by the other God).
In the case of the fourth type of person (the Zen type of person),
the true person (true nature, original face, or Buddha-nature) exist-
ing within him or her becomes an absolute affirmation by the abso-
lute negation. In this type of true person, self nature or Buddha-nature
is not immanent any more but is rather absolutely present. Ordinarily,
Buddha-nature is thought to be immanent, but the true being of
the Buddha-nature is neither transcendent nor immanent, nor in
between them, but the eternal present which transcends all those
levels. A realization or awakening of this self nature is nothing but
satori (enlightenment) awareness.12
Not wisdom but compassion
In Zen Buddhism, as well as in Kierkegaard, there is a kind of proce-

dure for the movement from the so-called religiousness A to religious-
ness B. Let me take an example from Hakuin. Hakuin left his home at
the age of fifteen to become a Zen student. He did this because of a
fear of hell which he had acquired after hearing a sermon given at the
neighbouring temple. Through his study of Zen he overcame his fear
by an early realization of his true self-nature (kenshoˉ in Japanese). He
then began teaching and related his experience to his students.
Through this he became a well-known Zen master among the Japanese
people of his day.
Although, Hakuin’s Zen subjectivity seemed to remain steadfast, at
the age of 42 he began to feel that his early Zen experience was still
imperfect. One summer evening when he was reciting The Lotus Suˉtra
with his students and reflecting on the meaning of the sūtra he came to
understand the severe criticism of his early kenshoˉ experience given by
his master Dōkyo Etan (1642–1721). Hakuin’s biography divides his life
into two parts. The second part starts in the year of what he calls his
second ‘great experience of thoroughgoing awareness of true self’ (taigo
tettei in Japanese).
We do not know what Hakuin realized at this particular moment, but

I can easily suppose that in this second awareness of his true self, Hakuin
was completely released from the confidence of his self-power and could
transcend into a deeper level of self which is supported by the great
power of the Buddha’s compassion.
Further instances of this sort of movement are expressed in Hakuin’s
powerful calligraphies and drawings, for which he was also well known.
In one such work, entitled ‘Play for the great hell-bodhisattva’, which
was made after he was eighty years old, we are presented with the idea
of a movement from the suffering of hell to the compassion of the
bodhisattva.
These instances of transcendence within Zen subjectivity are, it seems
to me, analogous with the double structure of religiousness A and B in
Kierkegaard’s Christian faith.
This kind of transcendence within the individual being is taught as
‘The other path left over after completing the study of Zen.’ Zen prac-
tice requires the student to ‘take one more step from the top of a one-
hundred meter pole’. This is a harder step for the Zen student than the
process of reaching the top of the pole. To achieve the ‘other path’, the
student has to forget the severity of the earlier process of training. This
is necessary so that he or she can once again return to the beginning –
or even to before the beginning – of the path of Zen.
Contemporariness
In Philosophical Fragments, Kierkegaard discusses ‘the contemporariness’

of Jesus who is a teacher of the truth. Kierkegaard says that a disciple of
Jesus from two hundred years after Jesus’ death is the equal of the disci-
ples who were Jesus’ contemporaries. This is because the latter-day dis-
ciple still has contemporariness with Jesus. What does contemporariness
mean for Kierkegaard?
For Kierkegaard, contemporariness does not mean direct historical
contemporariness. Rather, it means indirect contemporariness, some-
thing that is established in the subjective relationship to Jesus. In other
words, for Kierkegaard, subjective contemporariness – what he calls true
contemporariness – is the only condition for being a true disciple of
Jesus. He writes:
The genuine contemporary is the genuine contemporary not by

virtue of immediate contemporaneity; ergo the non-contemporary
(in the sense of immediacy) must be able to be a contemporary by
way of the something else by which a contemporary becomes a

genuine contemporary. But what the non-contemporary (in the
sense of immediacy) is, of course, the one who comes later, conse-
quently, someone who comes later must be able to be the genuine
contemporary.13
For Kierkegaard, the definite condition of contemporariness is ‘one’s

witness in belief’ which transcends historical distance. A person’s witness
that Jesus is a teacher of truth who gave people both truth and the condi-
tion of truth (that is, he created the human being as a being in need of
truth) makes it possible for a person to ‘become’ from untruth to the
truth. This is not a ‘recollection’ of the truth in the Socratic sense, but the
transcendental ‘becoming’ which happens in faith.
In Zen experience, the same sort of experience is achieved when a
person breaks through the bottom of his existence into the ground of
being. He does this to get out of himself and arrive at the horizon where
absolute nothingness (‘non-existence’ in Kierkegaard’s sense) is being
opened. Nishitani, the Kyoto-school philosopher, often referred to this
experience as ‘the openness of Sunyata or the void’.14
Breaking beyond oneself
This transcendental horizon is the common ground which each indi-

vidual being is trying to attain. It is the only place where a person can
meet the Buddha or Patriarchs or go beyond historical distance. One
technique for gaining the transcendental horizon is that of koan study,
something often used in the Rinzai school. A koan is an illogical puzzle
usually involving typical episodes of self-awareness gained by the ancient
Zen Patriarchs and transmitted through Zen teachings. In the first koan
of the well-known Zen text Wu men kuan (Mumonkan in Japanese, The
Gateless Gate in English), Wu-men Hui-k’ai (1183–1260) says:
In studying Zen, one must pass the barriers set up by ancient Zen
masters. For the attainment of incomparable Satori, one has to cast
away his discriminating mind. Those who have not passed the bar-
rier and have not cast away the discriminating mind are all phan-
toms haunting trees and plants ... Those who have passed the barrier
will not only see Joshu (Chao-chou, hero of this koan) clearly, but
will go hand in hand with all the Masters of the past, see them face
to face. You will see with the same eye that they see with and hear
with the same ear.15
To the question raised by a student; ‘Does a dog has the Buddha-

nature?’, Chao-chou replies; ‘No, she hasn’t!’ But when asked the same
question another time, he replies ‘Surely she has!’ Between the two con-
tradictory answers, yes and no, there is the ‘moment’ which Kierkegaard
refers to. There is, of course, no possibility of uniting them by a ‘both-
and’ synthesis but only by jumping from one choice to the other in an
instance of ‘either-or’.
Koan study used in Zen training seems to be useful for students in
breaking through the rational way of understanding the self and the
world that causes human suffering. By confronting the irrational sub-
ject of a koan, the Zen student tries passionately to break free of his
deluded idea of self or ego.
This is the same with Kierkegaard when he says that a person becomes
more passionate by standing in front of ‘the absolute paradox’ that is
the historical Jesus. It is fascinating to see in both Zen and Kierkegaard
the idea of breaking beyond oneself by confronting a paradox.
Indirect transmission of truth
Truth is not directly transferred from teacher to student. Socrates, a

teacher of truth, went into the market place where he used his own
method of dialogue to urge people to awaken to the truth within them-
selves. In this way, which he saw as a form of midwifery, he tried to
persuade people back onto a dependence on themselves instead of
directly presenting them with the truth.
A unique method of transmission of truth used by Zen masters has
resonances with the Socratic method. The master never answers exis-
tential questions raised by students and may even avoid a student who
wants to ask such a question. This is designed to transmit truth indi-
rectly to the student. Let me close this chapter by presenting some
examples of indirect transmission in the Zen tradition:
Once Wei-shan Ling-yu (771–853) was asked by his student Hsiang-

yen Hih-hsien (d. 898), ‘Teach me, Master, where can I find what
should concern me most?’ Wei-shan replied, ‘My understanding is
not yours. You have to find it for yourself.’ Long after that day,
Hsiang-yen realized his true self at a moment of hearing the sound of
a stone hitting bamboo while he was cleaning the garden …
When young Yun-men Wen-yen (864–949) visited Zen master
Mu-chou Tao-tsung (dates unknown) at his hermitage, the master,
upon seeing him, closed the gate. On the third occasion of being
similarly refused, Yun-men jumped at the gate and his leg was bro-
ken. At this moment Yun-men realized truth for himself.16
A similar demonstration of indirect transmission is given by the

Japanese Zen master Shuhō Myōchō (1282–1337) when he asserts:
Let there be just ‘one individual’, who may be living in the wilderness
in a hermitage. No matter how you passed your simple everyday life
in the way of eating the roots of wild herbs which are cooked in a pot
with broken legs; unless you hang on your breast the words ‘A supe-
rior Truth which Buddha and Patriarchs have never taught’, I would
not permit you to call yourself a descendant of my teaching.17
The transmission of Zen should therefore correctly be called the

‘untransmitted transmission’. Since the subjectivity of the individual
being cannot be shared with the other, how is it possible to transmit to
the other individual being? In other words, authentic transmission of
the truth can only be possible through indirect transmission. This is
exactly what Kierkegaard asserts when he says that only the indirect
disciple of Jesus can be a true disciple. Similarly, the Zen student seeks to
meet the Buddha and Patriarchs within his own subjective existence
instead of seeking them outside of this. Throughout its long history, Zen
Buddhism has always transmitted its universal truth in just this way.
Notes
1. The Buddha, Bukkyo dendo kyokai [The Teachings of the Buddha] 38th revised
edition (Tokyo: Society for Promotion of Buddhism, 1977) p. 5. Translations
from Chinese and Japanese works in this and further citations are
my own.
2. Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death, trans. Walter Lowrie (Princeton, New
Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968) pp. 146–9.
3. Aishin Imaeda (ed.), Wu-teng hui-yuan [The Arranged Issue of the Five Biographies
of Chinese Zen Masters] (Tokyo: Rinrōkaku-shoten, 1971) p. 326.
4. Imaeda, Wu-teng hui-yuan, p. 339.
5. Lin-chi, The Record of Lin-chi, trans. Ruth F. Sasaki (Kyoto: The Institute for
Zen Studies, 1975) p. 3.
6. Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death, p. 163.
7. Lin-chi, The Record of Lin-chi, p. 25.
8. Lin-chi, The Record of Lin-chi, p. 7.
9. Chao-chou, Chao-chou lu [A Record of Chao-chou] in Zen no goroku [A Series
of Zen Classics] 11, ed. Ryomin Akizuki (Tokyo: Chikuma shobō, 1972)
p. 125.
10. Chao-chou, Chao-chou lu, p. 170.
11. Süeh-t’ang, Süeh-t’ang shih i lu [Remaining Records of Zen Master Süeh-t’ang],

ed. Tao-hsing, 142 (Taipei, Taiwan: Hsü tsang-ching, 1972 [reprint of 1637
Japanese edition]) p. 955.
12. Shinichi Hisamatsu, Zettai shutaidoˉ [The Way of Absolute Subjectivity] in
Hisamatsu Shinichi Chosakushū [Collected Works of Shinichi Hisamatsu] 2, ed.
Masao Abe (Tokyo: Risōsha, 1972) p. 343.
13. Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1985) p. 67.
14. Kenji Nishitani, Religion and Nothingness, trans. Yan Van Bragt (Berkeley,
California: University of California Press, 1982) p. 119.
15. Zenkei Shibayamna, Zen Comments on the Mumonkan, trans. Sumiko Kudō
(New York: Harper and Row, 1974) p. 19.
16. Record of Hsiang-yen in Ching-te ch’uan-teng lu [Records of Chinese Zen Masters]
11, ed. Tao-yüan (Tokyo: Daizō shuppan, 1990) 51, p. 284.
17. Imaeda, Wu-teng hui-yuan, p. 276.
5
To Practise One Thing:
Kierkegaard through the
Eyes of Dōgen
James Giles
‘An Occasional Address’ is among Kierkegaard’s better known writings

and was one of the first to be translated into English (it was translated
under the title of Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing in 1938). It is, never-
theless, a difficult work in several ways, and it can be hard to understand
what exactly Kierkegaard is saying. One way of trying to penetrate these
difficulties, I shall argue, is to turn to the writings of the thirteenth-cen-
tury Japanese Zen master Dōgen (1200–53). Obviously, Dōgen and
Kierkegaard come from different times and cultures and thus also from
different traditions with different assumptions. Nevertheless, both Dōgen
and Kierkegaard are perceptive observers who are deeply concerned with
overcoming self-deception and with the impact that such an overcoming
has on the human condition. This provides a common ground for the
interpretation of their philosophy. Indeed, anyone familiar with the ideas
of these two thinkers will see some striking parallels between them.
A major theme in ‘An Occasional Address’ is the attack on what
Kierkegaard calls double-mindedness. Double-mindedness, he says,
obscures our ability to understand what lies hidden in the depths of our
souls. It can take many forms, but in each case it is a fragmenting of
awareness where our thoughts, intentions, or desires work against each
other by moving in conflicting directions at the same time. Thus, says
Kierkegaard, to love someone for her money, to mingle envy with friend-
ship, or to do good out of desire for a reward or fear of punishment sets
the mind against itself by willing two inconsistent things. Loving some-
one, for example, is inconsistent with wanting that person’s money. For
true love is supposed to be focused purely on the person of the beloved,
not his or her possessions.
87
Kierkegaard argues that in order to overcome this sort of double-

mindedness a person must will one thing. However, even here, depend-
ing on what one wills, double-mindedness can still make its appearance.
What often seems, at one level, to be one thing is really, at another
level, a multiplicity of things. Thus, the person who, in willing pleasure,
riches, or honour, feels he or she is single-mindedly willing one thing is
in fact willing in double-mindedness. For such things are themselves a
multiplicity. In solely willing pleasure, for example, a person is really
willing a variety of pleasures. As each instant of pleasure is achieved,
the person loses interest and so seeks out new and different pleasures.
Even the person who single-mindedly wills love is not really willing
one thing. This is because, we are told, although the lover can faithfully
will just his love, the danger is that he ‘may swerve from his goal and
swerve towards the impressive, instead of being led to the good’.1
And here we see that, for Kierkegaard, the only thing that can be
willed single-mindedly is the good. The problem is that Kierkegaard
never tells us exactly what the good is. He does, however, tell us various
things that are related to this willing of the good. He says, for example,
that to be in the state of willing the good one must explore one’s soul
and confess one’s double-mindedness. He places the idea of willing one
thing within the Christian context of the confession of guilt. Indeed,
the purported overall purpose of ‘An Occasional Address’ is to give an
account of the preparation for the Christian act of confession. Although
this is proposed as a confession to what Kierkegaard calls ‘an omniscient
one’ – and other places calls ‘the eternal’ or ‘God’ – since this omnis-
cient one is supposed already to know our double-mindedness, it is
really a confession to ourselves: ‘The all-knowing one does not get to
know something about the confessor, rather the confessor gets to know
about himself’ (1963, 11, p. 28).
We are also told that silence is something that brings a person to self-
examination, and thus also towards willing the good: ‘When the wan-
derer comes away from the hectic and noisy highway into places of
stillness, then it seems to him (for stillness is gripping!) as if he must
consult with himself, as if he must say what lies hidden in the depths of
his soul’ (p. 26).
Kierkegaard then turns to the surroundings of the person who has, by
chance, come upon this silent place and examines the way the sur-
roundings appear to him or her. He says:
the surprise expressed by the trees that inquisitively look down on

the wanderer, explains nothing. And the wood’s echo explains well
Kierkegaard through the Eyes of Dōgen 89
enough that it explains nothing … And the clouds hang only accord-
ing to their own thoughts, dream only of themselves; with either the
thoughtful view of resting or enjoying voluptuous movements. With
either a transparent swiftness they move off driven by the wind, or
darkly collect themselves to fight against the wind: they do not trou-
ble themselves over the wanderer.
And the sea, like a wise man, is enough unto itself. Whether it lies
like a child and amuses itself with little ripples as a child that plays
with its mouth, or at noon lies like a drowsy self-satisfied thinker gaz-
ing out over all, or in the night deeply ponders its own being; whether
in order to observe things it inexplicably makes itself into nothing, or
whether it rages in its own passion: the sea has a deep ground, it
knows well enough what it knows … And the stars are plainly an enig-
matic arrangement. Yet there seems to be an agreement between
them to arrange themselves in just this way. (pp. 26–7)
The difficulty, however, says Kierkegaard, is that the wanderer, who

has only accidentally come upon the quiet place, feels he is surrounded
by a nature that does not understand him ‘even though it always seems
as if an understanding must be arrived at’. Therefore, he says, the wan-
derer can see the stars, but the stars cannot see him, ‘thus there is no
agreement between him and the stars’. With the person who confesses,
however, things are different: ‘the environment knows well enough
what that stillness means and that it asks for earnestness. It knows that
it is its wish to be understood’ (p. 28).
From all of this it seems clear that the good is, for Kierkegaard, inti-
mately related to a state of awareness, but one in which normal aware-
ness is altered in some fundamental way. It is easy to think that he is
using the term ‘the good’ to refer to a normative ethical principle or
even perhaps to something like a Platonic form. This is suggested by one
common meaning of the term and also by the fact that Kierkegaard
sometimes uses the term ‘evil’ as a contrast to the good.
However, the text, the examples, and the general structure of the
argument do not support such an interpretation. Rather, it is evident
that the good refers to a state of awareness and not to any particular
content of awareness. It is worth looking at the argument that
Kierkegaard offers against the possibility of love being something that
can be willed single-mindedly. Kierkegaard’s reason for rejecting love in
this instance is that the lover ‘may swerve from his goal and swerve
towards the impressive’. But if the good refers to a normative ethical
principle, the person willing this principle may also ‘swerve from his
goal and swerve towards the impressive’. Therefore, if these grounds are
enough for rejecting love as the object of a single-minded will, then
they are also enough for rejecting ethical principles as the object of a
single-minded will.
But if the good is a state of awareness rather than an object of aware-
ness, what exactly is this state and how does it fit with Kierkegaard’s
other ideas? One way of answering these questions is to turn to the
philosophy of Dōgen. Dōgen was a major Buddhist thinker in the
Japanese Kamakura period (1185–1336), and is often considered to be
one of the greatest Japanese philosophers. Like Kierkegaard, Dōgen was
profoundly concerned with human suffering and strove to find ways to
deal with it. He was orphaned as a young child and first became aware
of the fleetingness of human existence when he watched the smoke rise
from the incense during his mother’s funeral. For Dōgen, however, our
suffering stems not so much from the nature of existence as from a false
perception of existence. That is, it stems from delusion. This delusional
awareness then leads us to form attachments to non-existent or miscon-
strued objects, including the idea of an unchanging self, and ties us into
a cycle of suffering when the world does not fit with our misperceptions
and attachments. The way out of this cycle is to see through one’s delu-
sions and thus break these attachments.
This much of Dōgen’s thought is supported by the core of the Buddha’s
philosophy. For example, in the discourse known as the ‘Dhammacakk-
appavattana’ or ‘The Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Truth’, the
Buddha argues that selfish desire is the cause of all suffering. Selfish
desire is based on the delusion of a persisting self, which in turn leads
to attachments to things which one misperceives as one’s own or as
having the potential for being one’s own. The way out of this problem
is to give up selfish desire.
Dōgen’s originality here comes from his interpretation of the
Mahāyāna idea that samsāra (the everyday world) is nirvāna (the world
of enlightenment). This idea was expressed in the Japanese Tendai
(Chinese: Tien-t’ai) school of Buddhism by the doctrine of hongaku or
original enlightenment. According to this doctrine, all beings are
enlightened from the start. There is thus no need to seek enlighten-
ment. Dōgen, who had studied with the Tendai school, saw that this
posed an apparent problem for the Buddhist practice of meditation.
Meditation is often seen as a practice which leads to enlightenment. Yet
if one is already enlightened, what is the purpose of meditation?
Dōgen’s solution to this problem, which came to him while studying
in a Zen monastery in China, was to argue that meditation does not
lead to enlightenment, rather it is enlightenment. That is, in the very

moment one meditates one is enlightened. Consequently, one does not
have to search for enlightenment as though it were something that one
lacks, something that one is working towards through the practice of
meditation. Instead, it is part of everyone’s original state, that is, it is a
disposition of awareness that naturally appears in the various moments
throughout our everyday lives. Therefore meditation does not discover
or even create enlightenment, rather it enables us to express it when we
will and, from there, to allow enlightened awareness to diffuse through-
out our other moments of awareness.
It is interesting to note that Dōgen’s emphasis on meditation has led
some commentators to conclude that he is not a philosopher. Nearman,
for example, claims that Dōgen is not a ‘Buddhist philosopher’ but a
Meditation Master who is attempting to help his disciples find that spir-
itual certainty which is the hallmark of a genuine kenshoˉ, ‘the seeing of
one’s Original Nature’. Why this does not allow Dōgen to be called a
philosopher, we are told, is because ‘this is not the same as having a
philosophical understanding or intuition, since the experience takes
place beyond those functions of the so-called “rational mind”, which
are the foundation and authority of a philosopher’.2
But this is one-sided view of Dōgen’s project. If Dōgen simply medi-
tated and never reflected over the nature of meditation or never
attempted to explain or argue for an interpretation of the insights
gained in meditation, then perhaps it might be true to say that he is not
a philosopher. Unfortunately for Nearman, however, Dōgen is deeply
engaged in just this sort of reflection and argumentation. The pages of
Dōgen’s lifework, the Shoˉboˉgenzoˉ or Treasury of the Eye of the True Teaching,
are chock-a-block with philosophical arguments (‘functions of the so-
called rational mind’) aimed at supporting a particular view of reality.
Further, these arguments are given in the attempt ‘to help his disciples’
find enlightenment. In other words, contrary to what Nearman thinks,
being a philosopher is quite compatible with being a Meditation
Master.
For Dōgen, enlightenment appears in the instant of zazen (literally:
‘seated meditation’) because it is at this point that ultimate reality
presents itself. In the fascicle or section of the Shoˉboˉgenzoˉ called ‘Zazen
gi’ or ‘Rules for Zazen’, Dōgen says that in zazen one should ‘think be-
yond thinking and not thinking’ ( Japanese: hishryoˉ).3 To try to think or
try not to think (as someone might try to do in order to calm his or her
thoughts) is to divide the mind against itself. It is to interfere with a
process that takes place of its own accord and so obscure our perception
of reality or, in other words, it is to create illusions. However, in think-

ing beyond thinking and non-thinking one is immersed in ‘undivided
activity’, as he puts it. The dualistic thought processes created by inter-
ference with our own thinking disappear. This is what Dōgen calls the
Buddha way, and studying this way, that is, practicing zazen, produces
a state of awareness in which distinctions between oneself and the
world collapse. In the fascicle ‘Genjoˉ koˉan’ or ‘The Realization of Things
as They Are’ Dōgen says:
To study of the Buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to
forget the self. To forget the self is to be experienced by the myriad of
things. When experienced by the myriad of things, your body and
mind as well as the bodies and minds of others drop away. (p. 70,
translation modified)
Here we see how, in the state of enlightenment, rather than the observer
experiencing the world, it is the objects of the world – the myriad of
things – that experience the observer, an observer who himself or herself
disappears as a distinct entity. This happens when body and mind, and
even the body and mind of others, are seen to ‘drop away’. Dōgen is not
saying that a person’s mind and body vanish in the state of enlighten-
ment, but only that the mind and body are now seen to be co-extensive
with the myriad of things. Because of this, says Dōgen, ‘mountains, rivers,
earth, the sun, the moon, and the stars are mind’ (p. 88).
Once this is seen, then the nature of the material world must be
understood in a new way. For now material objects are no longer seen to
be part of an external reality that exists independently of mind or
awareness. Rather, they are part of our awareness and therefore imbued
with our awareness, just as our awareness is part of them and imbued
with them. This view of the unity of mind and its objects of awareness
is already present in the metaphysics of the Tendai school, a metaphys-
ics which influenced Dōgen. We also see this in the ideas of Chih-i
(538–97), the Chinese Tien-t’ai philosopher studied by Saichō (781–822),
the Japanese founder of the Tendai school. In his Mo-ho chih-kuan or
Great Concentration and Insight Chih-i says,
Where there is no mind [consciousness], that is the end of the matter;

if mind comes into being in the slightest degree whatsoever, it imme-
diately contains the three thousand [kinds of worlds] … One may nei-
ther say that the mind is prior and all dharmas [that is, objects]
posterior nor that dharmas are prior and the one mind posterior … All
one can say is that the mind is all dharmas and that all dharmas are
the mind.4
This means that in the state of enlightenment we notice things that

we did not notice before. In his ‘Mountains and Water Sūtra’ Dōgen says
that mountains walk just like human beings walk, even though their
walking does not look the same as human walking. ‘Green mountains’,
claims Dōgen, ‘master walking and eastern mountains master travelling
on water. Accordingly, these activities are a mountain’s practice. Keeping
its own form, without changing body and mind, a mountain always
practises in every place’ (p. 98). Also, he says that water realizes just like
human beings realize: ‘the path of water is not noticed by water, but is
realized by water. It is not unnoticed by water, but is realized by water’
(p. 103).
This passage will, no doubt, strike many people as strange; for what
does it mean to say that mountains go walking, travel on water, and
practise? And how is it that water can realize its path? To interpret what
Dōgen is saying, it is helpful to put this passage in its Japanese and East
Asian context. Firstly, it is important to see that mountains and water are
ancient Japanese symbols that exist at the core of Japanese culture. And
this is understandable, for Japan is a chain of mountains surrounded
by the ocean and criss-crossed by rivers and streams. Consequently,
mountains and water hold a central place in the Japanese conception of
the world. In an early Shintō nori or prayer, for example, we are told how
to place offerings on a table ‘like a long mountain range’ so that the
kami or spirits will not ravage ‘but will move to a place of wide and
lovely mountains and rivers’ and will dwell there pacified.5 In this
sense, Dōgen’s reference to mountains and water is a reference to what
his Japanese readers would understand to be the core of the world.
Secondly, although mountains and water are places where kami might
dwell, their dwelling in these places is not like the ancient Greek notion
of the gods and goddesses dwelling on Mount Olympus or river nymphs
dwelling in their rivers. In early Shintō these kami are not, as I men-
tioned in Chapter 1, to be understood as anthropomorphic gods. Rather,
they are thought of as an awe-inspiring presence or power that somehow
fills the mountains and water. This is experienced in the awesome
quality that massive mountains and endless or merely sparkling water
can have for us. In a sense, then, mountains and water are not distin-
guishable from their awe-inspiring presence, that is, they are the kami.
This view is related to early forms of mountain worship in Japan and
found expression in Dōgen’s own time in the practice of shugendoˉ or
mountain veneration, which was based on a blend of Shintō and esoteric

forms of Buddhism.
Thirdly, mountains and water have a special significance in Chinese
Taoism, a philosophy and religion that heavily influenced Zen
Buddhism. Not only are there several sacred Taoist mountains in China,
but water, because of its ability to form to its receptacle perfectly, is
often used as the perfect symbol of the Tao or a state of awareness
achieved through a conformity to nature. In achieving this state, Lao
Tzu, the ancient Taoist philosopher, says we are ‘returning to the
source’.6 This is called ‘returning to the source’ because it is a natural or
unconditioned form of awareness which is the foundation for all other
forms of awareness. To underline the Taoist element Dōgen uses Lao
Tzu’s term saying, ‘even if there is a moment when you view mountains
as the seven treasures shining, this is not returning to the source’ (p. 99).
This is not returning to the source because in seeing mountains as the
seven treasures (typically mentioned in the sūtras as gold, silver, lazuli,
moonstone, agate, coral, and amber) one still sees them as distinct from
oneself. As a result one has not returned to that state of awareness where
mountains walk with us and travel on water.
Finally, in The Lotus Sūtra, which is probably the most influential
Buddhist text in East Asia, and a text with which Dogen was well
acquainted, the places among mountains and water are seen to be
appropriate dwellings for those who would seek the truth. In the sūtra
the Buddha says,
If there are persons who are respectful, reverent,

with minds set on nothing else,
who separate themselves from common folly
to live among mountains and waters,
then to persons such as this
it is permissible to preach [this sūtra].7
Thus it is understandable that Dōgen chooses mountains and water as

the foremost exemplars of objects in the material world that are full of
awareness. When one forsakes the common folly to dwell among the
kami of mountains and water, objects that are the core of the world,
then mountains and water cannot help but manifest themselves as the
Tao. It is not that they are ontologically unique elements. Rather, by
relating his assertions to objects with important cultural, religious, and
symbolic significance, Dōgen emphasizes the universality of his
thought.
Coming back now to the idea of mountains walking and practising

and water realizing but not noticing its path, let us ask what Dōgen
could mean by this. An answer is forthcoming when we consider that
in the state of enlightenment there is no distinction between awareness
and its object. Consequently, in understanding his discussions of moun-
tains, it should be seen that there is no distinction between ourselves
and the mountains we observe. Being full of awareness, just like us,
they also walk and practise, just like us. This becomes part of our expe-
rience in the state of enlightenment. What Dōgen is saying is that
because I can walk and because the green mountains are co-extensive
with my mind, then it can be said that the mountains can also walk,
though their walking is naturally different from the way in which my
body walks.
To see this, imagine that you are walking down a country road and,
looking to one side, you can see mountains in the distance. Because of
their distance from you, the mountains seem to move with you as you
walk. Also, they seem to move with you in a way that the pebbles at the
side of the road do not. Looking down at the pebbles, they are clearly
left farther and farther behind with each step you take. Similarly, if you
walk along beside a lake and turn to view mountains rising on the other
side of the lake – and if you look simply to what you are experiencing –
then indeed it will seem that mountains are travelling on water. That is,
the mountains, which are farther away from you than the water, seem
to move along with you as you walk. Both you and the mountains seem
to leave the water behind.
Now one way of describing this experience is to say that the moun-
tains only appear to be moving, for they are actually still. This is the
perspective that sees ultimate reality as being composed of persisting
selves and material objects that exist independently of each other. In
this view the mountain’s apparent movement is only an optical illusion
that is experienced by an independently existing self.
But this view is not one that comes from immediate experience. One
night I was strolling along with some people and we were looking at the
stars. A five-year-old child who was with us pointed to the moon rising
above the trees and asked me, ‘Why is the moon following us as we
walk?’ The child raised this question because the moon indeed appeared
to be following us. That is, as we walked, the moon seemed to skim
along over the tops of the trees, leaving them behind and travelling
along with us. When I attempted to explain the conventional view –
that the moon only appeared to move – it was plain that this was baf-
fling for the child; for in the child’s experience the moon was clearly
following us. In other words, the child had not yet been fully
indoctrinated into the dualistic view and still had genjoˉ koˉan or the
realization of things as they are.
The dualistic view is one which the Indian school of Yogacārā
Buddhism calls the imagined nature. Yogacārā Buddhism was repre-
sented in Japan by the early Hossō school and clearly had an influence
on Dōgen. According to this form of Buddhism the imagined nature
does not really exist and is just a misperception of reality or the depend-
ent nature. When the dependent nature is seen for what it is we per-
ceive what Yogacārins call the ultimate nature. In the ultimate nature it
is the independently existing self that is the illusion, not the apparent
movement of the mountains.8 When one frees oneself from the imag-
ined nature – when one’s body and mind drops away – then one can see
that ‘green mountains master walking and eastern mountains master
travelling on water’. In Dōgen’s words, we realize things as they are.
But what does it mean to say mountains ‘master’ these activities? The
answer is that it is only in the state of enlightenment, something we
achieve in single-minded practice, that we experience mountains in
this way (unless, perhaps, one is a five-year-old who is in not yet in need
of such practice). This is also why Dōgen says these activities ‘are a
mountain’s practice’. For in their being co-extensive with one’s mind,
one’s practising Zen meditation is the same as the mountain’s practis-
ing Zen meditation (although Dōgen’s view might seem to be that only
in the practice of zazen does one have enlightenment, his overall posi-
tion implies that enlightenment, and thus practice, can persist between
instants of zazen).
It is possible to understand Dōgen’s discussion of water in a similar
way. He says that, ‘the path of water is not noticed by water, but is real-
ized by water. It is not unnoticed by water, but is realized by water.’
Again, this must be understood in terms of the experience of enlighten-
ment and its relation to unenlightened experience. In the state of
enlightenment the water observed is no longer distinct from the
observer. The observer’s realization of the path of the water is also, at
the same time, the water’s realization of its own path.
Because, however, there also exists the unenlightened or deluded
state, then, in this state, water can be said to not notice its own path.
The observer fails to see the essential relation between his or her own
awareness and the object of awareness. In the unenlightened state water
is experienced as an independently existing material object which has
no essential relation to awareness. However, in the enlightened state,
the path of water is not unnoticed by water. In this instant, water is
actually seen to realize or experience its own path. Since, however, the
enlightened state is the experience of things as they are, then even
though one can say that in the state of delusion water does not notice
its own path, in ultimate reality, to use the Yogacārā term, it does realize
its own path. This is why Dōgen says that although the path of water is
not noticed by water, it is nevertheless realized by water.
When things are realized as they are, water is no longer mistakenly
thought to be an object that exists beyond awareness. Nor is it thought
to be an object that is somehow distinct from awareness but neverthe-
less dependent on awareness. In this instant water just is awareness. In
referring to the various forms that water can take – as when water seeps
into the earth, boils with heat, and disperses with the wind – Dōgen
says ‘water is not just earth, water, fire, wind, space, or consciousness.
Water is not blue, yellow, red, white or black. Water is not forms, sounds
smells, tastes, touchables, or mind-objects. But water as earth, water,
fire, and space realizes itself’ (p. 102). Water is thus not to be equated
with material forms, colours or objects, nor is it to be equated with an
object that exists in consciousness or the mind and thus is dependent
on consciousness or the mind (in Chih-i’s words, it is not posterior to
mind). Rather, water is something that realizes or experiences itself in
its diverse forms. In this way, says Dōgen, ‘all things abide in their own
phenomenal expression’ (p. 102).
With this the parallels between Kierkegaard’s idea of willing one
thing and Dōgen’s idea of practice can now be explained; for both are
states that appear when the individual overcomes a division in aware-
ness. For Kierkegaard this division is called double-mindedness, for
Dōgen it is the process of trying to think or trying not to think. For
Kierkegaard one achieves this by willing one thing (which is the good),
while for Dōgen one achieves this by practising the Buddha way (which
is to think beyond thinking and not thinking). Further, in the states
that are achieved through such willing and practice the individual’s
perception of the world gradually becomes radically altered.
Here is a remarkable connection between Kierkegaard and Dōgen. For
Kierkegaard, as we have seen, the material world seems to come alive. In
the experience of silence, which is an integral aspect of willing one
thing, the trees look down on the person, the clouds hang as they want,
enjoying their movements, the sea deeply ponders its being, and the
stars agree between themselves how they shall lie. In the ensuing state
of confession ‘the environment … knows that it is its wish to be under-
stood’. For Dōgen, the material world likewise comes alive: mountains
walk and travel on water, while water experiences its own path.
The difference between Kierkegaard and Dōgen is that while Dōgen

has a philosophical basis for the explanation of this coming to life of
the material world, Kierkegaard does not. Because of this it is difficult to
understand why, according to Kierkgaard’s view, trees, clouds, oceans
and stars should look down, enjoy, ponder or agree, or why the environ-
ment should, in the process of willing one thing, know that stillness is
its wish to be understood. Indeed, the idea of a material world literally
wishing to be understood seems altogether out of place in the tradi-
tional view of the Christian context of confession to God.
Christianity, as it is normally understood, does not contain the idea
that all things realize themselves or abide in their phenomenal expression.
Neither the Christian God nor the Christian heaven, for example, abide
in their phenomenal expression; for they are supposed to be transcend-
ent and so exist beyond the phenomenal realm. This is why neither
God nor heaven can be seen and why one can travel forever in any
direction and yet never encounter them.
But this distinction between the transcendental and the phenomenal –
that which presents itself to experience – has no place in Buddhist
thought. In Buddhist thought there is no such thing as transcendence.
There are only our senses and their objects. There is nirvāna, but it is
only samsāra correctly perceived. Or, in Dōgen’s words, the realization
of things as they are is enlightenment.
Furthermore, a fundamental doctrine in Christianity – especially
Christianity as formulated by Paul – is that Jesus was the only ‘son of
God’, that is, he was a unique semi-divine person or, in Kierkegaard’s
words, a God-man, and therefore that he has some special status that all
other beings lack. In this view, although other beings can seek to emu-
late Jesus in certain ways, they can never hope to achieve the same sta-
tus he has; that is, they can never become semi-divine beings who are
also sons (or daughters) of God. This doctrine radically segregates
Christianity from Buddhism, which is why it makes little sense to say
that Christian doctrine could accept that all dharmas are mind or the
Buddha-nature. For the point of this assertion is that there is a funda-
mental equality among all beings, that all beings can attain Buddhahood,
and that beyond Buddhahood (or the realization of things as they are),
there is nothing else. No being, neither Jesus nor the Buddha, has any
special status that puts him or her in principle above the possible
achievement of other beings. In Buddhist thought the Buddha was sim-
ply a person who achieved enlightenment and taught others how they
could do the same. In Christianity Jesus is seen as being far more than
this. And this remains true in Kierkegaard’s version of Christianity,
which is why Kierkegaard never suggests that we should aim at becom-

ing a Christ. Archie Graham makes this point in Chapter 7 when he
says that for Kierkegaard the aim is ‘to become an existential contempo-
rary of Christ’, while for Zen master Hakuin the goal is ‘to become no
less than a Buddha himself’. In Kierkegaard’s view, the most a Christian
can hope for then is to become existentially contemporary with
Christ.
Returning to Kierkegaard and his assertions about the living material
world, we should perhaps consider that rather than wanting himself to
be understood literally he is merely using poetic licence. That is, he is
simply using the poetic device of personification and does not intend to
imply that the world actually wishes itself to be understood. Kierkegaard
himself refers, for example, to the wanderer’s desire to be understood by
the stars as a ‘poet’s longing’ (although he also says that the confessor
is not like the poet). However, I think that the fact that his description
is both extensive and is presented within the context of an altered state
of awareness – the way in which the world presents itself in the moment
of stillness – suggests that there is more to it than just poetic licence.
This view is also supported by the obvious connections between
Kierkegaard’s description and Dōgen’s account of enlightenment.
A further difficulty in ‘An Occasional Address’ is that Kierkegaard
gives no account of the one thing that is supposed to be willed, namely,
the good. This is a problem because the idea of ‘the good’, at least as an
idea of an objective value, is at odds with Kierkegaard’s overall phil-
osophy: no arguments are ever given that suggest that there is one value
or set of values that can be labelled ‘the good’. Such an idea plainly goes
against Kierkegaard’s ideas of freedom, choice, subjective truth, and the
teleological suspension of ethics. As I have argued elsewhere, for
Kierkegaard there are no objective values that can guide us in our
actions, there is only our passionate inwardness and the unsupported
decision to act, there is only what he calls, in The Concept of Anxiety, the
qualitative leap.9 Kierkegaard uses the metaphor of a leap to show that
there are no objective standards or ethical considerations which can
compel us to act. This is especially evident in Fear and Trembling where
Abraham has no reason for his faith. Nobody, says Kierkegaard, can
understand him.
But why then does he refer to the one thing we are supposed to will
as ‘the good’? Obviously, it would seem, because he wants his discus-
sion to fit with Christianity, and the idea of an objective concept of ‘the
good’ seems to fit with Christianity’s notions of God’s eternal will, the
ten commandments, or some such thing. As Alastair Hannay and
Gordon D. Marino suggest, when dealing with ethical and religious

issues, Kierkegaard makes every effort to be consistent with the Bible.10
Yet Kierkegaard is most likely aware that such a view does not, as I have
just argued, sit well with his own view of existence. It is this awareness,
I suggest, that probably lies behind his silence over what he means by
the good. Consequently, the problem here, along with the problem of
an out-of-place discussion of a living material world, would seem to
come from Kierkegaard’s attempt to make his ideas consistent with
Christianity.
This is where the comparison with Dōgen becomes useful. For Dōgen,
who has similar ideas to Kierkegaard, has no imperative to render his
ideas consistent with Christianity. Of course, Dōgen is working within
the Buddhist tradition, but then Buddhism is consistent with Dōgen’s
insights. Buddhism is an empirical discipline that does not require its
practitioner to accept any claims about the existence of things that lie
beyond the realms of the senses. This empirical bent of Buddhism is
made explicit in an early Buddhist dialogue entitled ‘Sabba’ or ‘The All’
that appears in the Samyutta Nikāya or The Connected Discourses. In this
discussion the Buddha tells his monks that everything in the universe
is constituted by awareness and its objects – the five senses and their
phenomenal objects and the mind and its mental objects. ‘This is called
the all’, says the Buddha. Explaining further he states, ‘If anyone,
bhikkhus [bhikkhu: a Buddhist monk], should speak thus: “Having
rejected this all, I shall make known another all” – that would be a mere
empty boast on his part. If he were questioned he would not be able to
reply and, further, he would meet with vexation. For what reason?
Because, bhikkhus, that would not be within his domain’11 (which is
exactly why Kant meets vexation and is unable to tell us anything about
his noumenal world that purportedly exists beyond all experience).
This empirical basis of Buddhism remains true for Dōgen’s form of Zen
Buddhism. As a result, Dōgen is continually asking his reader to investi-
gate a matter for himself or herself and to examine his or her own experi-
ence. Only in so doing will we see what he means. In his discussion of
mountains and water he tells us ‘therefore investigate mountains thor-
oughly. When you investigate mountains thoroughly, this is the work of
mountains’ and ‘when you investigate the flowing of a handful of water
and the not flowing of it, full mastery of all things is immediately present’
(p. 107). In other words, mountains walking and water realizing its own
path are events we experience when we practise one thing, that is, when
we let things present themselves as they are. This is something we can
only see through the investigation of our own experience.
Is this a way of making sense of Kierkegaard’s trees that look down on

the wanderer or the environment that wants to be understood by the
person in confession? In the moment of stillness things begin to present
themselves as they are to the wanderer. In other words, trees, clouds,
the sea, and the stars are no longer distinct from his awareness of them
or, in Dōgen’s words, ‘mountains, rivers, earth, the sun, the moon, and
the stars are mind’. For the person in confession this awareness takes a
firm hold and he or she actually experiences the environment as want-
ing to be understood by him or her. As Dōgen would put it, it is the
myriad of things that experience us.
It might well be objected at this point that an essential difference
between Kierkegaard and Dōgen is that, for Kierkegaard, confession is
something that is done before God, while for Dōgen zazen has nothing
to do with God. As a result the two states of awareness are fundamen-
tally different.
The difficulty in sustaining this objection is that it is far from clear
how essential the concept of God is to Kierkegaard’s overall philosophi-
cal position. It is plain that Kierkegaard himself believes in God. This
belief is expressed at various points in his philosophical works and espe-
cially in his religious works. However, the ontological status of
Kierkegaard’s God is unclear: is God an objectively existing being, or is
he only something that we create within our own subjectivity through
passionate inwardness? Evidence for both views can be found in
Kierkegaard’s writings (see Giles, 2001), although as Eiko Hanaoka
argues in Chapter 9, the idea of an objectively existing God seems to go
against Kierkegaard’s own view that truth is subjectivity.
Yet even though Kierkegaard himself believes in God (whatever his
ontological status), when he is putting forward his philosophical views
he focuses on the individual’s passion or faith, and the meanings that
these hold for the individual, not on the thing in which the individual
has faith (see Chapter 1 where I argue for this view). This has the inter-
esting result that the thing in which one has faith, say, God, becomes
superfluous for the topic under discussion. That is, Kierkegaard’s argu-
ments or insights typically do not depend on the existence of a god.
The case of confession as discussed in ‘An Occasional Address’ is a
good example of this. Although Kierkegaard tells us that the confession
is made to ‘an omniscient one’, he also tells us that since the omniscient
one already knows the confessor’s double-mindedness, the confession is
really something that the confessor makes to him or herself. But if this
is the nature of confession, that one is confessing to oneself, then God
is superfluous to the act of confession. That is, God plays no essential
role in the act that Kierkegaard is describing. Or, to put it another way,
God’s non-existence would in no way undermine the process of confes-
sion as Kierkegaard describes it (just as God’s non-existence would in no
way undermine Kierkegaard’s account of Abraham’s faith). This enables
Kierkegaard to sidestep any theological elements that a theist might feel
essential to the act of confession and to give an account in purely exis-
tential or humanistic terms.
Another objection could be that, with Dōgen, this view depends on
the Buddhist idea that the self is an illusion. For with Dōgen it is only
once we ‘forget the self’ that there is no longer any ontological distinc-
tion to be drawn between the self and the myriad of things that sur-
round us. In Kierkegaard, however, there is no similar idea and,
consequently, Dōgen’s explanation behind the notion of water realizing
itself cannot help to explain Kierkegaard’s notion of the sea knowing
well enough what it knows.
The problem with this is that although Kierkegaard does not explic-
itly hold a no-self view, numerous things that he says imply such a
view.12 For example, Kierkegaard says, ‘You must die from your selfish-
ness, or from the world; for it is only through your selfishness that the
world has power over you. When you die from your selfishness, you also
die from the world. But there is naturally nothing that a person holds
so firmly to – yes, with his entire self! – as to his selfishness’.13 Of course
Kierkegaard seems to be speaking about giving up selfishness rather
than giving up (or forgetting) the self. But then why is it that there is
nothing a person holds so firmly to as his or her own selfishness? And
why does one do it with the ‘entire self’? Kierkegaard does not tell us.
Dōgen’s answer, however, would be that the very sense of having a self
is selfishness. Therefore, to give up selfishness completely must involve
giving up the self.14
All of this suggests that there is perhaps not too much difference
between Kierkegaard’s notion of willing one thing and Dōgen’s notion
of practice. The problem is that Kierkegaard is constrained by his
Christian presuppositions and so lacks the conceptual tools to account
fully for the experience of someone who wills one thing. Because of this
he cannot give an adequate explanation of his insight.
Similarly, if we turn to Kierkegaard’s notion of the one thing that is
supposed to be willed, we also find a parallel with Dōgen’s notion of the
object one is to pursue in practice. In much the same way that
Kierkegaard tells us nothing about the content of the one thing, calling
it only ‘the good’, Dōgen also tells us nothing about the content of prac-
tice, calling it only thinking beyond thinking and not thinking. Of
course, he gives us clear instructions on how we are to sit, breathe and

so on in zazen. But as to what exactly we are to think about (beyond
thinking and not thinking) he says nothing. Clearly, Dōgen does not
want the practitioner to think of any particular thing, but rather to let
his or her awareness arrange itself in such a way that things present
themselves as they are.
Might this not also be a way of understanding Kierkegaard’s notion of
the good? In giving us no content for his idea of the good, Kierkegaard
has plainly left open the question of what is to count as good. Could it
be that this is because what is the good for Kierkegaard is, as for Dōgen,
a way of doing something rather than any specific thing to be done?
This makes sense because such a view would enable Kierkegaard to
remain consistent with his overall philosophy. This is not to say that
Kierkegaard had precisely this idea of the good in mind, but such an
interpretation does allow one to make sense of his position. It does this
by giving a viable explanation for something he does not explain and
by not forcing us to understand his use of the word in terms of an objec-
tive ethical law, which conflicts with what he says elsewhere.
But what could that way of doing something be? Again, Dōgen’s
account provides some insight. In Dōgen’s state of thinking beyond
thinking and not thinking things present themselves as they are. As a
result, the individual is liberated from the delusions of a divided
thinking that impairs the awareness of ultimate reality. Therefore, to
think beyond thinking and not thinking is, in Dōgen’s sense, a way of
achieving freedom. And to have freedom or to act freely is not to do any
particular thing. It is rather to do something in a particular way.
Therefore, to will the good is to will to have freedom.
This interpretation is supported by what Kierkegaard says elsewhere.
In The Concept of Anxiety Kierkegaard directly addresses the question
‘What is the good?’ And the answer he gives is ‘the good cannot be
defined at all. The good is freedom. The difference between good and
evil is only for freedom and in freedom.’15 Consequently, to will the
good is to will freedom. The reason why the good, which is freedom,
cannot be defined is because freedom is a way of doing something, not
any particular thing that must be done. As a result, one cannot define
the content of the good.
It might be objected here that since The Concept of Anxiety is written
under a pseudonym and ‘An Occasional Address’ is written under
Kierkegaard’s own name, notions in the former work should not be used
to explain notions in the latter. This is because, the complaint might go,
only the so-called ‘signed’ works express Kierkegaard’s own ideas while
the pseudonymous works are used by Kierkegaard to express ideas that

are not his own. However, as I have argued elsewhere, I do not think
that there is any major philosophical differences between the pseud–
onymous works and those written under Kierkegaard’s own name.16
This is especially true of The Concept of Anxiety since Kierkegaard’s notes
make it plain that it was only after the book was finished that he decided
to publish it under a pseudonym.
Understanding the good to mean freedom would explain why in ‘An
Occasional Address’ Kierkegaard never defines the one thing we are
supposed to will. For what we are to will, if we would will one thing, is
simply our own freedom. This would also explain his attack on double-
mindedness. For double-mindedness is a state in which we deceive
ourselves and so fail to act in a way in which we are fully aware of our
freedom (though in another sense we are still fully free, we are just trying
to avoid the awareness that we are).
The problem with this interpretation of Kierkegaard is that it dis-
penses with the Christian and theological elements that seem to be a
major part of his work. If, however, this interpretation is correct, then
such elements are foreign to the insights that Kierkegaard is giving in
‘An Occasional Address’. One must be careful of course not to make ‘An
Occasional Address’ into more of a Buddhist work than it is, but per-
haps, as Ian Mills suggests in the next chapter, Kierkegaard is more of a
Buddhist than he knows.17
Notes
1. Søren Kierkegaard, ‘En Leiligheds-Tale’, in Opbyggelige Taler i Forskjellig Aand
[Upbuilding Discourses in Diverse Spirits] in Søren Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 11,
ed. A. B. Drachmann, J. L. Heiberg and H. O. Lange (Copenhagen: Gyldendal,
1963) p. 39. Further references to this edition are given in the text. All transla-
tions from Kierkegaard’s works given in this chapter are my own.
2. Hubert Nearman, ‘Translator’s General Introduction’, in Great Master Doˉgen,
The Shoˉboˉgenzoˉ or The Treasure House of the Eye of the True Teaching, 1 (Mount
Shasta, California: Shasta Abbey, 1996) p. xvi.
3. Dōgen, Moon in a Dewdrop: the Writings of Zen Master Doˉgen, trans. Kazuaki
Tanahashi (San Francisco, California: North Point Press, 1995) pp. 29–30.
Further references to this edition are given in the text as page numbers. See
also Dōgen, Zen Master Doˉgen: an Introduction with Selected Writings, trans.
Yū hū Yokoi (New York: Weatherhill, 1981) pp. 45–7.
4. Chih-i , ‘Zhiyi, Calming and Contemplation’, in Sources of Japanese Tradition,
1, second edition, compiled by Wm Theodore de Bary, Donald Keene, George
Tanabe, and Paul Varley (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001) p. 139,
translation modified.
5. ‘Shintō Prayers (Norito)’ in Sources of Japanese Tradition, 1, pp. 37–8.
6. Lao Tzu, The Tao Te Ching of Lao Tzu, in The Texts of Taoism, 1, trans. James
Legge (New York: Dover, 1962), p. 42.
7. The Lotus Sutra, trans. Burton Watson (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1993) p. 78.
8. See James Giles, ‘From Inwardness to Emptiness: Kierkegaard and Yogacārā
Buddhism’, British Journal for the History of Philosophy, 9 (2001) pp. 311–40.
9. See James Giles, ‘Kierkegaard’s Leap: Anxiety and Freedom’, in Kierkegaard
and Freedom, ed. James Giles (Basingstoke: Palgrave / New York: St Martin’s
Press, 2000) pp. 69–92.
10. Alastair Hannay and Gordon D. Marino, ‘Introduction’, in The Cambridge
Companion to Kierkegaard, ed. Alastair Hannay and Gordon D. Marino
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).
11. The Buddha, The Connected Discourses of the Buddha: a Translation of the
Samyutta Nikaya, trans. Bhikkhu Bodhi (Boston: Wisdom Publications,
2000) p. 1140.
12. See Giles, ‘From Inwardness to Emptiness: Kierkegaard and Yogacā rā
Buddhism’.
13. Kierkegaard, Til Selvprøvelse, Samtiden Anbefalet [For Self-Examination:
Recommended for the Present Age] Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 17, p. 115.
14. See James Giles, No Self to be Found: the Search for Personal Identity (Lanham,
Maryland: University Press of America, 1997).
15. Kierkegaard, Begrebet Angest [The Concept of Anxiety] in Kierkegaards Samlede
Værker, 6, p. 111.
16. See James Giles, ‘Introduction’, in Kierkegaard and Freedom, pp. 1–27.
17. I should like to express my gratitude to Kinya Masugata and the Kierkegaard
Society of Japan for kindly inviting and funding me to present an earlier
version of this chapter at their First International Conference, Melbourne,
Australia. Thanks are also due to James Sellmann for his helpful comments.
6
Aeterno Modo: the Expression
of an Integral Consciousness
in the Work of Kierkegaard
and Dōgen
Ian Mills
The affinity between Kierkegaard’s thought and Japanese thought has

often been commented on; but there has been less emphasis on how
this affinity manifests itself historically. It is obviously not simply a
matter of Japanese thought having discovered Kierkegaard since the
Danish philosopher’s works appeared. The previous chapters in this
book, along with the following two chapters on Hakuin and the samu-
rai, show clearly that comparisons can be made with Japanese writers
and traditions from well before Kierkegaard. In the preceding chapter
James Giles drew comparisons between Kierkegaard’s idea of the purity
of heart and Dōgen’s idea of the realization of things as they are. In this
chapter I will also draw comparisons between Kierkegaard and Dōgen,
although in a different way. My concern here is with Kierkegaard’s
attempt to resolve the perceived duality of the personal life and the
ethical life and the relation that this bears to Dōgen’s depiction of
non-duality.
What I should like to suggest, as a brief preface and background to my
own comparison of Dōgen’s and Kierkegaard’s writing, is that perhaps
there was an initial inheritance of thought, including Japanese thought,
that made its way, through at least a partly identifiable path or lineage,
into Kierkegaard’s thought. In other words, I am suggesting that, histor-
ically, the affinity may well be lineal, cyclic, and interactive rather than
idiosyncratic or coincidental.
In the thirteenth century of the Christian era, there was an
unprecedented flourishing of writings within the major spiritual
106
Integral Consciousness in Kierkegaard and Dō gen 107
traditions – Buddhist, Islamic, Jewish, Christian – resulting in what are

arguably the greatest poetic masterpieces of each of those traditions –
Shōbōgenzō, Masnawi, the Zohar, The Divine Comedy. There was also at
that time an intense and focused transformation of Islamic, Jewish, and
Christian thought in Europe, and a quite remarkable concordance, not
experienced before or since, between the thought of those three spir-
itual traditions, all openly acting as teachers to each other. This phe-
nomenon corresponded with the infusion of Eastern thought during
the invasion of Mongol armies from the eleventh to the thirteenth cen-
turies. Dōgen’s own stay in China was indicative of the exchange and
dissemination on a multinational scale of a new way of thinking, an
emphasis on personal transformative experience. Mark L. Blum speaks
of ‘a multi-national Buddhist world-view’,1 a way of thinking that pre-
vailed during the Kamakura era in Japan and was spread to Europe by
the Mongols. What can be documented is the widespread adoption in
Europe at this time of a Buddhist-type dialectic, for example, by Ibn
al-‘Arabı̄ (dubbed by all three European traditions, ‘Dr Maximus’, the
greatest scholar), the transference to an a-theism whereby ‘God’ becomes
identified as, for example, ‘reality’, ‘nature’, or ‘existence’, the import-
ation of Buddhist stories (for example, by Rumi and other sufis), shifts
of meaning given to notions of ‘nothingness’ and ‘emptiness’ (for ex-
ample, in the sermons of Eckhart), and more intense focusing on con-
cepts such as ‘being’ and ‘existence’ (for example, the ayin of the Zohar)
and the ‘infinite’ and the ‘eternal’ (for example, the ein sof of the Zohar,
‘timeless-place’ in Rumi’s poetry).
What is being referred to here is not the ‘taking-up’ of any particular
thinker or ideology, but a more symbiotic transformation into a more inte-
gral, comprehensive and sophisticated mode of viewing and thinking
about and experiencing reality. The nature of this transformation of
Western thought towards an ‘integral consciousness’, and its congruence
with Eastern thought, can be illustrated by an examination of the notion
of ‘aeterno modo’, the practice of ‘viewing things from the perspective of
eternity’, as a way of knowing. In Europe, Ibn al-‘Arabı̄ described this inte-
gral consciousness kind of knowing as ‘scientia intuitiva’, ‘intuitive under-
standing’, and stated that it was beyond even rational knowledge, in fact,
‘beyond the boundaries of both thought and sense’.2 At the same time, in
Japan, Dōgen, in his essay, ‘Actualizing the Fundamental Point’ or ‘The
Realization of Things as they are’, explained the integral consciousness
kind of understanding, using similar phrases: ‘The boundary of realization
is not distinct … Although actualized immediately, the inconceivable may
not be apparent. Its appearance is beyond your knowledge.’3
In Europe, the Christian church countered the advocacy of this inte-

gral consciousness way of perceiving reality, not only with excommuni-
cations and imprisonings, but also with an insistence on a rational
mode of perception-analysis, as exemplified in the writings of Thomas
Aquinas, based, as they were, on the thinking of Aristotle. This system
of dualistic, rational thought came to fruition in the philosophy of
Descartes and continued on to Hegel. But there was one notable excep-
tion in European philosophy.
In the seventeenth century, Spinoza, the contemporary of Descartes,
produced a comprehensive and compelling body of work sympathetic
to thirteenth-century mystical traditions. ‘God’ became ‘nature’; ‘reality’
was seen as the perfection of the infinite ‘one substance’. He deliber-
ately grounded his thought in thirteenth-century precedents, particu-
larly the Zohar and the work of Ibn al-‘Arabı̄. He copied whole passages
of the latter’s writings, word for word, including the discussion of
aeterno modo, which, as touched on above, has distinct similarities to
Dōgen’s explication of non-duality. So when Kierkegaard begins his
book, Either/Or, with a statement that he is identifying his perspective
and practice with that of Spinoza’s aeterno modo, he is, unwittingly,
making Spinoza pivotal as a link between his own writing and that of
Dōgen; he is choosing a path which comes from the integral conscious-
ness of thirteenth-century thought.
What I find most powerful in my reading of Kierkegaard’s Either/Or is
the presence of a third party, in which both the apparent alternatives
are immersed. Flowing always through and between the Either, as the
subjective-aesthetic, and the Or, as the ethical-universal, is the eternal.
The reader is, perhaps, made most aware of the primacy of this third
party in two specific places: in a short section, ‘Either/Or, an ecstatic
lecture’, at the end of a ‘Diapsalmata’ at the beginning of the first part of
the book, and in the last section of the second part of the book, ‘The
Edifying in the Thought that Against God we are Always in the Wrong’.
The either/or options are enfolded, as it were, between the beginning
and end covers of the eternal.
In the first piece, ‘Either/Or, an ecstatic lecture’, Kierkegaard succinctly
summarizes his aeterno modo approach, how he sees and exists with all
things, from the perspective of eternity, a process which is simultane-
ously both his method and his message: ‘It isn’t just in single moments
that I view everything aeterno modo, as Spinoza says; I am constantly
aeterno modo. Many people think that’s what they are too when, having
done the one or the other, they combine or mediate these options. But
this is a misunderstanding, for the true eternity lies not behind either/
or but ahead of it.’4
The first assertion I focus on as being important for me in that quota-
tion is Kierkegaard’s insistence, in the last two sentences, that he does not
have in mind either a combination or mediation of the Either, as the
subjective-aesthetic, and the Or, as the ethical-universal, but rather a
viewing of them in the context of an already established consciousness of
the eternal. It is as aspects of an already existing integral consciousness
of reality as the eternal, that the either/or are considered; a lived non-
dualistic consciousness of reality as eternal precedes, lies ‘ahead of’, is the
ground for, the integration of the apparent either/or contradiction.
Here Kierkegaard is proposing a non-dualistic viewing of reality,
which challenges the inescapable dualism of Hegel’s thesis-antithesis-
synthesis model as virtually a ‘combination’ of ‘either-or’. It is signifi-
cant that Kierkegaard refers back, as an alternative, to Spinoza’s aeterno
modo theory and practice as his model because, in so doing, he is setting
up an ineluctable resonance with the non-duality mode of Dōgen.
In his essay, ‘Actualizing the Fundamental Point’, Dōgen’s first three
sentences discuss the notion of non-duality with three stages similar to
those suggested by Kierkegaard. First, he refers to our possible percep-
tion of things, including the individual self, as separate and different:
‘As all things are buddha-dharma, there is delusion and realization,
practice, birth and death, and there are buddhas and sentient beings’
(p. 69). This is the equivalent of the emphasis on subjectivity in
Kierkegaard’s Either discourse. But Buddhist teaching affirms that there
is, in reality, no permanent, unchanging self. So Dōgen adds his second
sentence, ‘As the myriad things are without an abiding self, there is no
delusion, no realization, no buddha, no sentient being, no birth and
death’ (p. 69). Ironically, it is only by realizing the difference between
delusion and realization, that one becomes aware that there is ‘no delu-
sion, no awakening’; and it is, ironically, only by detachment from self
that one finds ‘true self’ and realizes what is common to oneself and
others – Kierkegaard’s Or. In the process, Dōgen has reminded us that
the irony, so often commented on as if a stylistic device of Kierkegaard’s,
is actually inherent to the process of the aeterno modo dialectic, is part
of the process of practising it.
Having moved from an affirmation of separateness (Either) to a nega-
tion of separateness (Or), one has arrived at an awareness of the time-
less interdependence of all things; so Dōgen can move into a negation
of the second sentence’s negation to conclude with a final positive
affirmation: ‘The buddha way is, basically, clear of the many and the
one; thus there are birth and death, delusion and realization, sentient
beings and buddhas’ (p. 69). There is discrimination; there is denial of
discrimination; there is beyond both discrimination and denial of it.
Unlike Hegel’s thesis-antithesis-synthesis, there is not a development
from a lower to a higher level in Dōgen’s elucidation of the Buddhist
non-duality perspective but, as in Kierkegaard’s Either/Or, each step is
given its own intrinsic value and each step is seen to be, aeterno modo,
inclusive of the others.
But there is, in Kierkegaard’s reference to how he sees himself
implementing Spinoza’s aeterno modo, not only an assertion of the non-
duality aspect of the aeterno modo, but also an emphasis on his practice
of it; he is also constantly being eternal: ‘It isn’t just in single moments
that I view everything aeterno modo, as Spinoza says; I am constantly
aeterno modo’ (p. 54). Not only do those words of Kierkegaard echo
closely words of Dōgen on the notion of the eternal as the timeless:
‘Each moment is all being, is the entire world. Reflect now whether any
being of any world is left out of the present moment’ (p. 77), they assert
that he practises his way of viewing, that he actually lives aeterno modo.
Similarly, having begun his essay, ‘Actualizing the Fundamental Point’,
with an elucidation of non-duality, Dōgen concludes it with an illustra-
tion about the practising of it: ‘Zen master Baoche of Mt Mayu was fan-
ning himself. A monk approached and said, “Master, the nature of the
wind is permanent and there is no place it does not reach. Why then do
you fan yourself?” “Although you understand that the nature of the
wind is permanent” Baoche replied, “you do not understand the mean-
ing of its reaching everywhere” ’ (p. 72).
And Kierkegaard, a few paragraphs after mentioning, ‘I am constantly
aeterno modo’, has his own metaphor to illustrate how he practises it:
My sorrow is my knight’s castle, which lies like an eagle’s eyrie high

upon the mountain peaks among the clouds. No one can take it by
storm. From it I fly down into reality and seize my prey; but I do not
remain down there, I bring my prey home; and this prey is a picture
I weave into the tapestries in my palace. Then I live as one dead. In
the baptism of forgetfulness I plunge everything experienced into
the eternity of remembrance; everything finite and contingent is for-
gotten and erased. Then I sit thoughtful like an old man, grey-headed,
and in a low voice, almost a whisper, explain the pictures; and by my
side a child sits and listens, even though he remembers everything
before I tell it. (p. 56)
Just as Kierkegaard here emphasizes the aspect of eternity in his prac-

tice, so does Dōgen:
When you practice intimately and return to where you are, it will be
clear that nothing at all has unchanging self … The whole moon and
the entire sky are reflected in dewdrops on the grass, or even in one
drop of water … Each reflection, however long or short its duration,
manifests the vastness of the dewdrop, and realizes the limitlessness
of the moonlight in the sky. (pp. 70–1)
The poetic use of metaphor by both writers illustrates a similarity in the

feeling content as well as in the thought content of the non-duality move-
ment of their aeterno modo dialectic; their metaphors convey a similarity
of experience on both an aesthetic and intellectual level. But, as well as
illustrating any principal idea, in this case non-duality, with a number of
poetic images, what both also do is use ancillary ideas as illustrations, as a
means of elaborating, extending, or shedding light on the central idea.
Such an additional idea is that which Kierkegaard uses to round off Either/
Or, ‘The Edifying in the Thought that Against God we are Always in the
Wrong’. Such is the aeterno modo dialectic: if I think and live only as if I
am separate and different from other beings, I am in the wrong; if I think
and live without discrimination between my self and other beings, I am
also in the wrong; in both cases I’m acting against the eternal perspective,
which is to go beyond both the many and the one.
I am here reminded of the all-pervasive, though often delicious, irony
in the novels of Murakami where there is, on the one hand, a trenchant
satirizing of the absurdity of society, against which the central char-
acter is always in the wrong, yet, at the same time, there is an abiding
sense within the anti-hero’s mind that he is also continually, absurdly,
acting in the wrong against himself, always about to cause his own de-
struction. In this fictional world, survival is a matter of the skill with
which one can hold the paradox, even while, and by means of, living in
an essentially unidentifiable domain beyond, yet always somehow in
touch with, both society and self.
Yet I think it is precisely in that willingness or unwillingness to accept
the unidentifiable nature of the ultimate domain into which the aeterno
modo non-duality dialectic leads one, to either simply dwell with it, or
insist on naming it, that identifies the eventual difference between
Dōgen’s essay and Kierkegaard’s Either/Or.
For Dōgen, the end result of the aeterno modo process, that which fol-
lows the third step, what both Ibn El Arabi and Spinoza call ‘the third
kind of knowledge’, is that one is left with ‘no trace’ of realization. ‘No
trace of realization remains, and this no-trace continues eternally’ (p. 70).
But for Kierkegaard, instead of ‘no trace’, what remains is the indelible
presence of God: ‘if you were not only to forgo your wish but in a sense
be unfaithful to your duty, if you lost not merely your joy but honour
itself, still you are glad: “Against God” you say, “I am always in the
wrong”’ (pp. 607–8). And, in this respect also, in the outcome of the
aeterno modo dialectic, Kierkegaard is continuing faithfully the tradition
of Spinoza: ‘From that kind of knowledge follows the greatest possible
contentment of mind, that is, pleasure arises, and that accompanied by
the idea of oneself, and consequently accompanied by the idea of God
as the cause.’5
Indeed, to whatever degree there has been the adoption of an aeterno
modo perspective or a transformation towards a more integral conscious-
ness from the thirteenth century to the present day, Western mystical
thought, even when putting aside its notion of God, has felt obliged, for
the most part, to replace it with the presence of some entity which,
however vague, is given a capitalized proper name (‘Reality’, ‘Nature’,
‘Gaia’), as if it is in some sense sacred, and spoken of as if it is continu-
ally exerting some kind of overall influence. The dominance of a
rational consciousness in Western thought seems to be ill at ease with
or unwilling to accept, as do Murakami’s anti-heroes, Chuang Tzu’s
invitation to walk with him in the ‘Palace of No-Place’, or Dōgen’s
remaining with ‘no-trace’. And Kierkegaard, in his writings, is con-
strained by that rationalizing aspect of Western thought, however much
he rejects the dualistic dialectic of Hegel, as inherited from the logo-
centric lineage of Descartes, and however much he strains towards a
non-duality approach, as found in Dōgen.
And that is a significant difference between Dōgen and Kierkegaard.
Indeed, in Either/Or it becomes for Kierkegaard a crucial obstacle, because
having resolved the either/or duality, as does Dōgen, through recourse
to the timeless eternal, he finds himself face to face with an even more
complex dualism. Whereas Dōgen remains with ‘no-trace’ – ‘this no-
trace continues endlessly’ – Kierkegaard feels compelled, in the context
of the dominance of a rational consciousness in his culture, to identify
the eternal, and name it as a still definite presence – ‘God’. Moreover, he
now sees himself as rationalized into having a relationship with this
rationalized entity, as he has a relationship with his self and with so-
ciety. So, ironically, in the end, he has ‘dis-solved’ the duality and finds
himself entangled in an even more intractable net of duality, now
involving his God, as well as, and in interaction with, his subjectivity
and the ethical. In the light of this dilemma, the title of the concluding
section of Either/Or seems even more intensely ironical, ‘The Edifying in
the Thought that Against God we are Always in the Wrong’. How does
one extract oneself from this seemingly impossible position? That is the
problem Kierkegaard confronts in Fear and Trembling, which is a princi-
pal reason I regard Fear and Trembling as a natural, even aesthetically
satisfying, sequence to Either/Or.
In Fear and Trembling God, as a principal element, becomes a potential
source of duality. Here Kierkegaard confronts the intractable dilemma
that raised its head at the end of Either/Or. We encounter not only the
previous duality between the aesthetic-subjective and the universal-
ethical, but there is a greater possibility of multiple dualities between
God and each of the subjective and the ethical. So where does Kierkegaard
begin his task of dissolving this most intractable cause of dualities? The
answer is: by reference to the notion of ‘faith’. Right from the begin-
ning, Abraham is depicted as, above all, a man of faith, ‘This man was
no thinker, he felt no need to go further than faith.’6
In making that contrast with thought, as a means of defining faith as
an unpredicated awareness, Kierkegaard is very much in tune with
Dōgen: ‘When you realize buddha-dharma, you do not think’ (p. 161).
And, if faith is seen as an a-rational awareness, which is how I am pro-
posing Kierkegaard envisages it, then Dōgen confirms Kierkegaard’s
contention, ‘you don’t need to go further than faith’, by asserting, ‘real-
ization is helped only by the power of realization itself. Realization does
not depend on thoughts, but comes forth far beyond them’ (p. 162). It
is quite significant that Kierkegaard immediately introduces faith as
being distinct from, and in contrast to, thought. In using that contrast
as an initial means of saying what he means by faith, he is paralleling
not only Dōgen but also Spinoza’s contrast (p. 68) with ratio (as thought)
as a means of defining the eternal awareness in the aeterno modo re-
ferred to in Either/Or.
The principal difficulty that Kierkegaard faced in describing things
‘from the perspective of eternity’ in Either/Or was that he was writing
within a culture and was addressing an audience which was conditioned
by its rational mode of consciousness to expect that if there was an
eternal perspective it had to do with a gaze directed at that object which
was already named ‘God’. It is the difference between faith as a state of
awareness and rationality as an activity focused on an object of thought.
When Kierkegaard says in Either/Or, ‘I am constantly aeterno modo’, he is
obviously describing his being in a ‘state’ of awareness (‘I am’), and is
wanting to make the point, Dōgen-like, that the achieving of non-duality,
the dissolving of the duality between the personal and the ethical, is
achieved through the ‘undivided activity’ of awareness. But his audi-
ence would, for the most part, never accept the idea of an awareness left
empty of an object of awareness, as in Dōgen’s ‘realization’. Eternal
awareness would be preconceived by Kierkegaard’s potential readers as
having for its object, ‘God’; hence, ‘Against God’, as object, he would
always be considered to be ‘in the wrong’.
In Europe, from the thirteenth century until the time of Kierkegaard,
there was active resistance against the notion of an integral conscious-
ness with its emphasis on a state of awareness, in favour of the rational
consciousness with its focus on the object to be contemplated. From
Aquinas’ rational proofs for the existence of God until Descartes’ ‘I
think, therefore I am’, precedence was soon given to the rational ‘I
think’ over the faith of Kierkegaard’s integral ‘I am’ – ‘constantly aeterno
modo’. Although Spinoza, Descartes’ contemporary, revived the alterna-
tive of an integral consciousness perspective, Western thought persisted,
for the most part, in following in the lineage of the rational conscious-
ness epitomised by Descartes’ cogito ergo sum. Such was the mind-set
Kierkegaard was addressing.
In the thirteenth century, those favouring an integral consciousness
distinguished it from the rational consciousness by identifying it as
‘faith’, defined in terms of a state of awareness. So the Zohar, the princi-
pal thirteenth-century Kabbalah text, returned to by Spinoza, defines
faith in the following terms: ‘The essence of faith is an awareness within
the vastness of infinity’,7 where infinity is seen as me-ayin, ‘being with
nothing’. Here, faith is contrasted to, and seen as opposing, the rational-
izing attempt to define God as object, ‘The crude complacency of imag-
ining divinity as embodied in words and letters alone puts humanity to
shame. Every definition of God leads to heresy, even attributing divinity
itself and the name, “God”, these too are definitions’ (p. 32).
Those statements remind one of Dōgen’s insistence that Buddha-
dharma is ‘unthinkable, unnameable’. In fact, most of the Zohar’s sen-
tences describing the integral consciousness in terms of faith as a state of
awareness remind one of Dōgen’s descriptions of realization. For example,
‘As the human spirit verges on complete clarity of faith, the final subtle
shell of corporeality falls away. This return to all being requires exquisite
insight. Each day one must trace it back to its authentic purity. The
infinite transcends every particular content of faith’ (p. 35) is reminiscent
of Dōgen’s words: ‘When actualized by myriad things, your body and
mind as well as the body and minds of others drop away. No trace of
realization remains and this no-trace continues endlessly’ (p. 70).
When we come to Fear and Trembling, we find Kierkegaard confront-

ing the same conflict between personal freedom and the demands of
the ethical as he had in Either/Or. But here awareness within the eter-
nal, depicted as faith, is not regarded simply as a context, but becomes
a ubiquitous deus ex machina, so to speak. Kierkegaard well knew, in
adopting Spinoza’s aeterno modo, that it was defined by that philoso-
pher as sciential intuitiva, ‘intuitive understanding’, in contrast to ratio,
the process of discursive thought. ‘This man was no thinker, he felt no
need to go further than faith’, is in accord not only with what he had
already emphasized in Either/Or, but was also well established as the
mystical mode by, among others, Dōgen: ‘Realization does not depend
on thought. When you say that the entire universe is the dharma body
of the self, words cannot express it’ (pp. 162–3). This is obviously the
reason, at a later stage, for the emphasis on Abraham’s silence. But here,
right at the beginning, the quality that is most emphatically and con-
sistently used to describe Abraham, faith, is distinguished in terms of
its difference from thought, in the same way as Spinoza and Ibn al-‘Arabı̄
had defined aeterno modo as intuitive awareness, as distinct from ratio as
objectifying thought. It is the difference between the integral consciousness
of the mystic and the rational consciousness of the dogmatist.
So Kierkegaard is interpreting the faith of Abraham as his aeterno
modo awareness, his practice of viewing things from the perspective of
eternity. There is little mention of the notion of faith in Either/Or, but
in Fear and Trembling there is a predominant emphasis on faith as a
state of awareness subsuming thought (the ethical) and the egotistical
(the subjective), as a way of perfecting both the ethical and the sub-
jective. In fact, it is faith itself that displaces God as the centre of atten-
tion; here faith as Abraham’s practice, pushes aside God as the object
of thought.
We first need to ask why Kierkegaard would choose the Abraham
story as a way of elaborating on the same problem of duality, the personal/
ethical dilemma, encountered in Either/Or. In what way can it solve the
intractable pattern of duality raised by the presence of the traditional
notion of God, as happens at the conclusion of Either/Or, and so be a
satisfying resolution to that work – especially as God seems such an
inescapable element in the story? The point is, I think, that God thought
of anthropomorphically, as depicted in the biblical story, is so outra-
geously unacceptable, in its demanding that Abraham kill his son, and
so contradictory in relation to the qualities traditionally assigned to it
as the exemplar of love and virtuous perfection, that the story can be
accepted only as an allegory in which God is a metaphor for that which
is encountered by the principal character, Abraham, with whom the

reader, and perhaps the writer, may identify.
For Spinoza, for example, ‘God’ was a metaphor for ‘nature’ or ‘real-
ity’, the essence of which was ‘existence’, which he defined as ‘eternity’
(p. 4). What makes most sense to me, in my reading of Fear and Trembling,
is that Kierkegaard is presenting Abraham’s encounter with God as if
‘God’ is the same as ‘existence-viewed-from-the-perspective-of-
eternity’. In this sense, there is not much difference from the manner
in which the Tao Te Ching, for example, speaks of ‘Way’ from the per-
spective of eternity: ‘There was something formless yet complete, that
existed before heaven and earth; without sound, without substance,
dependent on nothing, unchanging, all pervading, unfailing. One may
think of it as the mother of all things under heaven. Its true name is not
known; “Way” is the by-name we give it.’8
The Buddhist translation of ‘way’ was ‘dharma’, meaning the ‘law’ of
the universe or ‘phenomena’ or ‘ultimate reality’ and, for Dōgen, all
phenomena are Buddha dharma. In terms of Eastern mysticism, it is
‘God’ as the ‘Way’ that Abraham encounters and, as with Dōgen, ‘to
study the buddha way is to study the self’. In Kierkegaard’s Fear and
Trembling, God becomes what Heidegger was later to name as one’s
‘ownmost possibility of existence’.9 The work is, above all, a study of
‘realization’. The ‘fear and trembling’ of the title is the ‘trial’ that
Abraham is here said to be faced with, the challenge to fear nothing,
except the failure to experience his own ‘true self’. As with Dōgen’s essay,
‘Actualizing the Fundamental Point’, Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling is
a depiction of the ‘actionless action’ of realization or enlightenment.
What is this voice that calls Abraham to the mountain in Chapter 22
of Genesis? I think Kierkegaard is already saying of this voice what
Heidegger was to say later in Being and Time: ‘The call comes from that
entity which I myself am, from me and yet from beyond me. It reaches
him who wants to be brought back. In understanding the call, Dasein is
in thrall to its ownmost possibility of existence’ (p. 320). The voice that
Abraham hears is the voice of existence from within, beyond his self,
the voice of his ‘true self’ summoning him to forget his imagined self.
As with Abraham, Heidegger’s voice exists in the context of anxiety:
‘The call whose mood has been attuned by anxiety is what makes it pos-
sible, first and foremost, for Dasein to project itself upon its ownmost
potentiality-for-Being, which alone is the issue’ (p. 322). And, as is the
case with Abraham, it exists in the context of silence; it is inexpressible:
‘The call discourses in the uncanny mode of keeping silent. The silence
of the calling is the “whither” to which we are called back. It is called
back into the stillness of itself’ (p. 322). As with Kierkegaard, the call sum-
mons one beyond the ethical: ‘In passing over the they, the call pushes it
into insignificance. But the Self which the appeal has robbed of this
lodgement and hiding place, gets brought to itself by the call’ (p. 317).
‘To study the self is to forget the self.’ The self that Abraham is being
called on to forget is mirrored as Isaac, as his reflection of himself, his
ego image of the continuance of his self into future generations. The
‘Attunement’, described from the perspective of Isaac, as Abraham’s
image of himself, unfolds as a rite of passage of the self into a more
complete way of being in the world, a transition effected with a separa-
tion from both the law of the father (the ethical) and pleasurable self-
involvement at the breast of the mother (the egotistical) into the more
mature existence of a relationship with the eternal.
Initially we see Abraham’s anguish exacerbated by the thought that
his own living ‘constantly aeterno modo’ necessarily involves bringing
similar anguish to those he most loves (Isaac/Kierkegaard’s rejected
fiancée, Regine? See Mime Morita’s discussion of this at the end of
Chapter 11). But what emerges most strongly in these few pages is the
naturalness of this transition. Compared as it is with the process of
weaning from the breast of the mother, withdrawal from attachment to
the law of the father (the ethical/Kierkegaard’s father?), the sustenance of
the more solid food of awareness is seen as part of a natural process of
maturing – although not without anguish. It is seen here, in these early
pages, in terms of a necessary, yet finely balanced, psychological event in
the process of human development. It is the Oedipus complex in reverse.
The putting aside of Isaac, as his self-image, is metaphored as the nec-
essary separation of father and son, as part of the maturation process,
here effected by the father rather than by the son. The weaning is initi-
ated by a withdrawal of access to Either self-interest Or the ethical as a
source of security. To move forward is to move into the faith of aeterno
modo, which is to act from being with awareness within infinite possi-
bility, rather than with the imagined esteem involved in acting accord-
ing to the objective ratio, the logic of the dutiful ethical. ‘Everything is
possible spiritually speaking, but in the finite world there is much that
is not possible. This impossibility the knight nevertheless makes possi-
ble by his expressing it spiritually, but he expresses it spiritually by
renouncing it’ (1985, p. 73). Kierkegaard sees the for-getting of the
begotten self, in the same terms as does Dōgen, a moving from the fi-
nite of the ratio into the sciential intuitiva of the spiritual infinite.
The opening is an ‘Attunement’ also in the sense that it is a coming
into harmony with the infinite or, in the words of Dōgen, ‘when you
see forms or hear sounds, fully engaging body-and-mind you intuit

dharma intimately’ (2000, p. 35). For Dōgen, Zen practice is a matter of
forgetting the self in an act of union with things, to experience the
dharma through personal encounter, as Abraham does in his intimate
encounter with God as metaphor for existence, reality, nature. As for me,
when I stand in the forest listening

the past and the future is forgotten
then the world flows with how I am
and there is nothing I need to say –
I am simultaneously emptied out
and filled with all possibilities –
pitched into trees I’m on the threshold
between what is playing inside me
and what is flowing into me from
outside me – there is a mingling –
a defying of articulation –
perhaps an unknowing awareness of all there is –
in forest I hear the music of an invisible flute –
each time a melody I’ve never heard before
‘To forget the self is to be enlightened by all things of the universe’

(p. 70), says Dōgen. Similarly, in ‘The Speech in Praise of Abraham’,
Kierkegaard emphasizes the great pleasure and enhancement of self that
the forgetting of self brings to one’s life, as a result of a union with all
of nature as a process of personal relating: ‘If there were no eternal con-
sciousness in a man … what then would life be but despair … how empty
and devoid of comfort would life be’ (1985, p. 49). The eternal con-
sciousness to which Kierkegaard refers is the faith-awareness that sees
things from an eternal perspective; that state of which Kierkegaard says,
‘I am constantly aeterno modo’, which Spinoza also defines as ‘under-
standing’, as ‘the knowledge that the mind has of its union with the
whole of nature’ (p. 226), which I take to be equivalent to Dōgen’s
‘enlightened by all things of the universe’. Spinoza adds, in relation to
this kind of aeterno modo understanding, ‘therefore he who knows
things by this kind of knowledge passes to the greatest state of human
perfection, and consequently he is affected with the greatest pleasure,
and that accompanied by the idea of himself’ (p. 210).
In following in the line of Spinoza’s aeterno modo, Kierkegaard is
aligned with both Spinoza and Dōgen in maintaining that, paradoxic-
ally, in forgetting the self one realizes one’s ‘true self’, the ‘original self’,
in a union with ‘the whole of nature’, ‘all things of the universe’. In the
context of the prevalence of an integral conscious in thirteenth-century
Europe, the notion of ‘the individual’ was closely related to its Latin
derivation, individuum, meaning ‘undivided from the whole’. Within
that prevailing integral consciousness, one was seen to be one’s ‘true
self’, achieve one’s individuation, in so far as one realized one’s unique
role in relation to the whole. That was the undivided activity of faith.
In the words of Dōgen, ‘When you find your place where you are, prac-
tice occurs, actualizing the fundamental point’ (p. 72). It is this event of
self-realization on the part of Abraham, his finding his place in his en-
counter with eternal existence, that is the dominant psychic action of
Fear and Trembling. As Kierkegaard says there: ‘so what I win is myself in
my eternal consciousness’ (1985, p. 77).
Unfortunately, after the thirteenth century, the rational conscious-
ness, in the same way it reversed the original notion of faith (from being
beyond thought to following thought), gradually re-placed the notion
of the individual as ‘undivided from the whole’ to give it exactly the
opposite meaning. One was soon seen to be individuated to the extent
that one was noticeably separate from the whole. By the twentieth cen-
tury, Martin Buber could complain, ‘Individuality neither shares in nor
obtains any reality. Where there is no sharing there is no reality. The I
is real in virtue of its sharing in reality; the fuller it shares, the more real
it becomes.’10 Dōgen makes the same point in reflecting on just how one
is enlightened by ‘myriad things’, not vice versa. To separate one’s self
as observer from the observed, in order to examine it as an object and
illuminate it, is the delusion of a rational consciousness; in Kierkegaard’s
terms, it is preferring thought to faith. ‘To carry the self forward and
illuminate myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth
and illuminate the self is awakening’ (Dōgen, 2000, p. 35). In this regard
Kierkegaard reflects Dōgen’s position, ‘This man was no thinker, he felt
no need to go further than faith.’
But even if there is no need to go further than faith, there is in Fear and
Trembling that which is seen to arise with faith, the emotion of love,
which is given an emphasis almost equal to that of faith; ‘so what I win
is myself in my eternal consciousness, in a blessed compliance with my
love for my eternal being’ (1985, p. 77). The point Kierkegaard appears to
be making there is that, in effect, the emotion of love for my eternal self
emerges with that activity which is faith-awareness. What a union with
the infinity of the myriad of things achieves is an enhancement of one’s
quality and intensity of relating, which is one way of defining love. The
result of emancipation from my self to win myself is spontaneously a
qualitative leap; and the quality it has is the quality of love: ‘Every move-
ment of infinity occurs with passion and no reflection can bring about
a movement. That’s the perpetual leap in life. What we lack today is not
reflection but passion … the poet ends thus: ein seliger Sprung in die
Ewigkeit [a blessed leap into eternity]’ (1985, p. 71). Kierkegaard’s words
are an echo of the final stage of Dōgen’s dialectic of non-duality, which
is also a statement on emancipation: ‘The buddha way, in essence, is
leaping clear of abundance and lack; thus there are birth and death,
delusion and realization, sentient beings and buddhas. Yet in attach-
ment blossoms fail, and in aversion weeds spread’ (2000, p. 35).
Where for Kierkegaard the predominant feeling in the state of faith-
awareness is love, for Dōgen, that realm of non-duality brings emanci-
pation. Dōgen’s statements on emancipation reflect accurately the
drama of Abraham’s story of emancipation in the death and birth of his
self, as paralleled in the potential death and re-birth of Isaac:
‘Emancipation means that in birth you are emancipated from birth, in
death you are emancipated from death. Thus there is detachment from
birth-and-death and penetrating birth-and-death’ (p. 84). And, as
Dōgen’s words predict, Abraham’s trial concerns not only his emancipa-
tion from his egoic self, but also his participating in and allowing the
falling away of others, as in his silence in the face of Sarah and Isaac:
‘When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the
body and minds of others drop away’ (p. 70).
Paradoxically, this self-emancipation, in affecting others, may be
simultaneously the activity of love, ‘all beings are the time-being
actualized by your complete effort, flowing due to your complete effort’
(p. 80); that is love seen as an enhancement of the quality and intensity
of relating: ‘Every movement of infinity occurs with passion. That’s the
perpetual leap in life.’ Or, in the words of Dōgen, ‘As overwhelming is
caused by you, there is no overwhelming that is separate from you.
Thus you go out and meet someone. Someone meets someone. You meet
yourself. Going out meets going out’ (p. 82). Such is the paradox of
Abraham’s faith-awareness, the realization that in abandoning his self
he will actualize himself – in concert with all other beings.
And yet, it has to be said, there is in Kierkegaard an emphasis also on
a more pessimistic dimension of the aeterno modo paradox, which we do
not find in Dōgen. Abraham’s faith-awareness, the mystical action of
forgetting the self to achieve self-fulfilment in union with all, is repeat-
edly regarded by the narrator, Johannes de silentio, as being an impossi-
bility for himself to achieve: ‘I am convinced that God is love; this
thought has for me a pristine lyrical validity: but I do not have faith: this
courage I lack … I am all the time aware of that monstrous paradox that
is the content of Abraham’s life. My thought, for all its passion, is unable
to enter into it. I strain every muscle to catch sight of it, but the same
instant I become paralysed’ (1985, pp. 62–3).
Although the anguish experienced in the act of faith-awareness, as
expressed by Kierkegaard, is mentioned also by Dōgen, ‘Spring lies in
plum twigs accompanied by snow and cold’ (p. 120), the inability ‘to
enter into it’, either due to a lack of courage or a becoming paralysed is,
for Kierkegaard’s alter ego, his narrator, an essential aspect of the experi-
ence of being confronted with the possibility of acting from the per-
spective of eternity. Johannes de silentio raises the possibility that to act
neither rationally nor with self-interest is, in practice, impossible. Then,
this impossibility, which becomes an emphatic part of the reality that
he is being asked to embrace, is, in fact, that which makes the paradox
seem so monstrous. It raises the question: Does not the notion of being
with all of reality include within it my impossibility of being with all of
reality, as one aspect of reality? Are we not presented with the ideal that
there is a utopian way of being in the world only as a dream possibility
to sustain us in our endurance of what is, in fact, inevitably a painfully
frustrating existence? And is it not the case that to assert that an unat-
tainable ideal is attainable is even more debilitating? It is in the context
of the reality of such pessimism, that Kierkegaard approaches the ‘prob-
lemata’ in the second half of Fear and Trembling.
The problemata are posed in the form of three interrelated questions:
‘I – Is there a teleological suspension of the ethical? II – Is there an absolute
duty to God? III – Was it ethically defensible of Abraham to conceal his pur-
pose?’ These three, taken interactively together, constitute one overall
‘problematum’. That is, my own subjective perfection depends on the
perfection of my relationship with the eternal-infinite, an undivided
activity which is outside the realm of ethics and explanatory speech.
This problematum, and its solution, had already been elucidated by
Dōgen: ‘The true human body covers the whole universe and extends
throughout all time. At this moment it is you, it is I, who is the true
human body, the entire world of the ten directions. Although the life of
those who have abandoned home and entered the homeless realm may
appear bleak and lonely, do not get caught up in discussions of good or
bad. Do not stay in the realm of wrong or right, true or false’ (p. 93).
Johannes de silentio recognizes the aeterno modo faith in Abraham,
the truth that, primarily, I am who I am in relation to all beings, outside
the realm of the ethical (‘the realm of wrong or right, true or false’); yet he
gets ‘caught up’ in it, sees it as: ‘so paradoxical that it simply cannot be
thought. He acts on the strength of the absurd … In his action he over-

stepped the ethical altogether and had a higher telos outside it, in rela-
tion to which he suspended it, for God’s sake, and what is exactly the
same, for his own; the temptation is the ethical itself’ (1985, pp. 85, 88).
Both Dōgen and Kierkegaard identify the same existential implica-
tions in viewing things from the perspective of eternity; that one’s own
being, living or subjectivity, is perceived as inseparable from all other
beings, yet is beyond right and wrong (the ethical), is inexpressible to
others, and ‘may appear bleak and lonely’. But there is a difference of
emphasis in the narration of Johannes de silentio, a highlighting of the
‘distress and anguish’, a predominating tone of pessimism, especially
when read up against the almost ecstatic tone of celebration that emerges
between the lines of Dōgen: ‘all beings are the time-being actualized by
your complete effort, flowing due to your complete effort’ (p. 80).
Kierkegaard’s writing is as permeated by anguish and doubt as Dōgen’s
is by calm and contentment. Yet there is always in Kierkegaard’s work a
striving towards the expression of that integral consciousness that
Dōgen unfolds with seeming ease. There is a very real sense in which we
can say that the transformation of our mode of perception in the West
today flows due to Kierkegaard’s complete effort. In the face of an oppo-
sitional rational consciousness, he reached back via the pivotal work of
Spinoza to re-invent the integral consciousness of Dōgen’s thirteenth-
century world-view. As the ‘father of existentialism’, Kierkegaard played
a significant role in the evolution to a new mode of thinking that
allowed the rational-linear paradigm to be transformed into a relativity-
quantum consciousness. It would seem more than coincidence that, in
the context of the ‘new science’, the late twentieth century saw in ‘the
West’ a rediscovery of both a Buddhist and Spinozan aetiology, together
with a renewed eco-awareness. What all those share is an emphasis on
an integral consciousness.
One of the remarkable things about the work of Dōgen is that it had
already laid down the conceptual foundations of relativity, quantum
and chaos theory seven centuries before their scientific proof. So when
David Bohm says that quantum theory tells me that, ‘both observer and
observed are merged and interpenetrating aspects of one whole reality,
which is indivisible and unanalyzable’,11 I know that Dōgen has already
told me that, ‘When you ride in a boat, your body and mind and the
environs together are the undivided activity of the boat’ (p. 85). And
when Dōgen writes, ‘each grass and each form itself is the entire earth’
(p. 77), or ‘study this place as everywhere and study everywhere as now’
(p. 118), I hear his words echoed in those of contemporary relativity
theory, ‘Given a total field at a point we must treat it as a whole. And we

must know the whole of space before we can trace for all time any one
of its parts.’12 Kierkegaard’s affinity with Dōgen is reflected in what we
have inherited from him, our own present mode of perception and its
congruence with Dōgen’s approach – as an example of our contempo-
rary affinity with Japanese thought. Perhaps that is why I enjoy so much
the novels of Murakami.
Notes
1. Mark L. Blum, ‘The Sangoku-Mappo Construct’, in Discourse and Ideology in
Medieval Japanese Buddhism, ed. Richard K. Payne and Taigen Dan Leighton
(London: Routledge, 2006) p. 32. On the ubiquitous presence of an ‘integral
consciousness’ cross-culturally I am indebted to Jean Gebser, The Ever Present
Origin, trans. Noel Barstad and Algis Mickunas (Athens, OH: Ohio University
Press, 1985).
2. Shah, Idries, The Way of the Sufi (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1970) p. 78.
3. Dōgen, Moon in a Dewdrop: Writings of Zen Master Dōgen, ed. Kazuaki Tanahashi
(New York: North Point Press, 1985) p. 77. Further references to this work will
be given in the text. In referring to Dōgen’s essay, ‘Actualizing the Fundamental
Point’, I have sometimes preferred to use the translation as revised by Robert
Aitken and Kazuaki Tanahashi in Enlightenment Unfolds: the Essential Teachings
of Zen Master Dōgen (Boston: Shambhala, 2000) pp. 35–9.
4. Kierkegaard, Either/Or, trans. Alastair Hannay (London: Penguin, 2004)
p. 54. Further references to this work will be given in the text.
5. Spinoza, Ethics and Treatise on the Correction of the Intellect, trans. Andrew
Boyle (London: J.M. Dent, 1993) p. 212. Further references to this work will
be given in the text.
6. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, trans. Alastair Hannay (London: Penguin,
1985) p. 44. Further references to this work will be given in the text.
7. Daniel Matt, The Essential Kabbalah: the Heart of Jewish Mysticism (San
Francisco, California: Harper, 1996) p. 32. Further references to this work
will be given in the text.
8. Lao Tzu, The Way and its Power: the Tao Te Ching and its Place in Chinese
Thought, trans. Arthur Waley (London: Unwin, 1987) p. 174.
9. Heidegger, Martin, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward
Robinson (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000) p. 320. Further references to this work
will be given in the text.
10. Buber, Martin, I and Thou, trans. Ronald Gregor Smith (New York: Macmillan,
1987) p. 11.
11. Bohm, David, Wholeness and the Implicate Order (London: Routledge, 2000)
p. 9.
12. Graves, John, The Conceptual Foundations of Contemporary Relativity Theory
(Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1971) p. 216.
7
Truth, Paradox, and Silence:
Hakuin and Kierkegaard
Archie Graham
It is all too easy to dramatize the shortcomings of Kierkegaard in

comparison with the Zen master as William Barrett does in ‘Zen for the
West’,1 where he tells us that Kierkegaard never attained enlightenment
in the Zen sense. Barrett does not offer much in the way of evidence for
his case, and even if he did, it is unlikely to generate anything more than
a rather tenuous conclusion, given the highly subjective nature of the
issue. It is like saying Kierkegaard knew very well how to describe a
banana and explain its origins, but he never tasted it. This line of enquiry
distracts us from what would seem to be a far more promising pursuit,
exploring the remarkable parallels between the language of articulated
insights of Kierkegaard and those of one Zen master in particular, Ekaku
Hakuin (1685–1768). In this way we can discover not only how radical
Kierkegaard was and still is in his divergence from his own religious and
cultural tradition, but how both he and Hakuin, in remarkably coinci-
dental ways, point us in the direction of an alternative, rigorous kind of
questioning and thinking, an aporetic or paradoxical discourse that
deliberately tests the limits of what can be said. In both cases, the aim is
not to abandon thinking in the over-simplified and unqualified sense
that all too many followers of existentialism, on the one hand, and prac-
titioners of Zen on the other, romantically imagine. The clearly demon-
strated purpose of the existential philosopher and the Zen master is to
use this highly specialized discursive form of thinking to dismantle
thinking and bring us to an exalted kind of experience that comes before
thinking, one that thinking already presupposes.
Kierkegaard and Hakuin were unmitigated dissidents, both deeply
troubled by a collective sickness in their respective cultures. In fact,
their distaste for the world was so intense that it drove them to extremes
in their efforts at spiritual attainment. They became sick themselves,
124
Truth, Paradox, and Silence: Hakuin and Kierkegaard 125
Kierkegaard afflicted with despair, Hakuin infected by what he called

‘Zen sickness’, which was more or less the same thing. The reactions to
their times were so uncompromising in each case that they could not be
sustained without serious cost. Kierkegaard’s attacks on members of the
Church and press were unyielding and belligerent to the point where he
was vigorously ridiculed and gradually expelled from ordinary social
relations. Hakuin made a mockery of the principle of moderation in the
middle way by meditating for days on end without food or sleep, and
then wondering why he became ill!
All this, however, was part of the struggle towards what was to become
a more distinctive approach to gaining spiritual salvation than any-
thing else that had existed in the orthodox practices of their respective
religions. Kierkegaard developed a polemical existentialism which
amounted to a radical attack on the Christianity of his day, the meta-
physics of Hegel which ruled the European continent, and the Platonic
tradition in general. Hakuin developed a critical Buddhism which sav-
aged not only the more popular sects like Pure Land and perhaps even
some varieties of Sōtō Zen, but some eminent Zen masters as well. Both
insisted on the need for a thoroughly rigorous discipline in the pursuit
of truth or enlightenment.
The attack on priests and laity
Kierkegaard and Hakuin led blistering attacks on the collective religious

practice of their respective times, more or less for the same reasons: the
sharp decline in spiritual commitment and the deep collective confu-
sion in their societies. These involved critiques of formal practitioners,
priests and monks, the laity, and even religious leaders, all of whom are
held responsible for the resulting state of affairs, which was the destruc-
tion of genuine religious practice.
It is in the Attack upon Christendom where Kierkegaard expresses his
thoroughgoing contempt for priests whom he regards as ‘Churchly civil
servants’ making a living out of the crucifixion of Christ.2 Their self-
interest is the motivation for purveying Christianity as a doctrine which
transforms the deity into a joke and the Christian spirit into meaning-
less prattle. The rituals and ceremonies of the Church – weddings and
funerals, for example – are transformed by what Kierkegaard deprecat-
ingly refers to as the ‘patter of the lame-brained’: tittle-tattle that tries
to soften Christianity by sweetening and sentimentalizing the suffer-
ing that Christ endured and the suffering that any Christian undertak-
ing the task of making a bond with God must bear. The priest gives the
laity an insipid Christianity which inverts the real thing by pandering

to the likes and dislikes of humankind, rather than attempting to chal-
lenge these by demanding what is necessary: the renunciation and
denial of all worldly pursuits. The priests turn Christianity into the
opposite of what it is by making it comforting and easy to understand.
Kierkegaard’s celebrated razor-sharp sarcasm is unsheathed in his refer-
ence to priests as ‘the respected profession’ which actively ‘prevents
men from entering the kingdom of heaven’ (p. 222).
The effect of this on the laity is profound. Nothing but ‘the stupidest
divine worship’ (p. 110) prevails, the kind that ultimately distracts
humanity from its eternal task. Christianity does not in truth exist any-
where in the land, but instead a Christian state, Christendom, takes its
place. This is nothing less than a diabolical orthodoxy which amounts
to little more than a party game for the dispirited, a charade of senti-
mentalized religiosity, a sickness of mind and spirit, with Christians
endlessly chattering about their faith while focusing all their energies
on securing themselves against all sorts of trials and tribulations by
endlessly accumulating ‘worldly goods, comforts, and profits’ (p. 28).
This is the collective malaise of the age, a culturally-induced despair
which is all too often disguised by comforting platitudes that make us
feel as if nothing at all is wrong. But in reality we are in a ‘critical
condition’.3 What is lost here is decisive: the paradoxical character of
the act of faith, the necessity and toughness of the dissenting spirit in
an individual commitment which must be pitted against the crowd
in order to enter into union with God, and the need for engagement
with the lived experience of our own subjectivity. The true Christian,
in Kierkegaard’s eyes, ‘can only be a Christian in contrast and
contrastedly’ (p. 127).
It is a serious mistake to imagine that just because he is a Zen priest
Hakuin might be more pious or less caustic in his critique than
Kierkegaard. Indeed, he is far rougher on the younger generation of Zen
monks of his day who he describes, in a language that one would not
normally associate with a Zen priest, as morons and idiots, a ‘pack of
misfits’ and ‘ungovernable rascals’,4 ‘miserable wretches’ and ‘skin-headed
mules’ (Hakuin, 1994, pp. 24–5). Hakuin often exhibits the kind of
barbed irony and bold irreverence that anticipates Kierkegaard’s, for
example, when blaming these monks for the decay of the dharma
and for giving other Buddhist priests a bad reputation among the
laity: they are as welcome in villages ‘as a mangy dog with running
sores’ (1994, p. 11). Their fault is not only their hopeless lack of dis-
cipline and commitment but imagining that starving themselves to
death on the sides of mountains while engaged in nothing else but

‘dead sitting and silent illumination’ leads to enlightenment, when in
fact what this brings about is nothing but the ‘dark cesspool of stupidity
and ignorance’.5 The monks that Hakuin is thinking of here are ones
who possess no understanding of the dharma in the real sense, but who
instead invoke a feeble rhetoric and purvey platitudes that ‘wouldn’t
even work as medicine to treat a cavity’ (1971, p. 64). In the end they
have no wisdom to offer the world, no understanding worthy of the
name, because they have neglected to integrate the mindfulness
achieved in meditation into the activities of ordinary daily life.
Hakuin’s tempestuous critique of monks includes some Zen masters.
When temples prosper they often live in luxury and overabundance,
while adorning themselves ‘lavishly in inappropriate silken gowns’
(1971, p. 82) all of which affects the teaching. These Zen masters are
out-foxed by their own eloquence and cleverness, they transform aes-
thetic qualities into moral ones, and they mistakenly imagine that
they have attained the dharma because others pay attention to them.
Yüan-hsien Yung-chiao (1628–44), for example, author of Ch’an-yü-
nei-chi, is hammered by Hakuin as someone whose ‘attainment was of
a highly dubious nature’, one who was trying ‘to palm off discrimina-
tory delusions’, and who ‘doesn’t deserve to be called a teacher of men’
(1994, p. 22).
All of this amounts to a spiritual toxin which pollutes Buddhist phi-
losophy and practice to the extent that the progress of the laity is not
only made more difficult but seriously obstructed. But while he has
high praise for some lay people who have been able to make advances
in spite of all this, Hakuin unleashes more fiery criticism on the rest. On
the one hand he argues that there are a few special individuals who are
far more advanced and awakened than the monks and Zen masters he
condemns, among whom he identifies a rarefied group of politicians
and Sung poets. ‘All these men were possessed of insight far surpassing
ordinary monks’, and ‘in the end awakened to the essentials of the Zen
teaching’ (1971, p. 57). On the other hand, the generality of human
beings, either by succumbing to their own lack of resources or by suffer-
ing the bedevilment of misguided monks, drift into complacency,
spending their lives ignorantly flitting about like domesticated animals,
while at the same time stuffing their minds with prejudice that they
mistake for learning and puffing themselves up with pride. The over-
arching problem is ‘that everyone is constantly in search of conveni-
ence and comfort, fame and profit’, and this issues in nothing less than
a ‘degenerate age’ (1971, p. 81).
Fake versus real: Christian existential

polemics and critical Buddhism
The parallels between Kierkegaard and Hakuin in respect to the way in

which they think their religions are faked and made bankrupt are
astonishing, and once again illuminating. Both criticize the mytho-
logical and fictional interpretations which water down the difficulty of
the practice and the reality – sometimes brutal reality – of the suffering
to be endured in order to realize the ultimate.
Kierkegaard rejects the fantastic tales of Christ as performer of mira-
cles, as if these were settled proof of his Godliness. This is a picture
which covers up the offence that Christianity causes, the offence which
arises from being faced with a man who claims to be God, something
that is a contradiction in terms. We cannot comprehend how any finite
temporal being can at the same time be an infinite eternal god. This
offence, in Kierkegaard’s view is just too easy to dismiss by calling Christ
a quack, or too easy to fantasize about by taking the events associated
with him to be miracles. Either way, he tells us in Training in Christianity,
where he treats the question of the offence at length, ‘Christ never
looked like this’,6 and we are negating the offence by suggesting that he
did. The alternative is not to try to resolve the offence, which can only
result in failure anyway, but to engage it, take seriously the shock of not
being able to understand the possibility.
Kierkegaard dismisses the metaphysical resolution of the offending
contradiction that Christ embodies, the Hegelian mediation of the man-
God, finite-infinite, temporal-eternal, and existent-nonexistent in an
‘absolute idea’. This reduces Christianity to an abstraction and a doc-
trine to be understood, whereas it is the historical reality of an individ-
ual we must confront. It is a matter not of metaphysical comprehension
but existential experience. However, it is a key point in Kierkegaard’s
account that it is by means of reason alone that we come to this offence.
When reason in its questioning demands an answer only to discover
that there is none, the existential offence arises. ‘At the absolute the
understanding stands still’ in the face of ‘the contradiction which
arrests it’ (p. 106).
Real Christianity is in fact defined in Training in Christianity as the
embodiment of a contradiction understood not as the metaphysical
‘unity of God and man sub specie aeterni’, (p. 107) but as the historical
union of God and the individual human being in the concrete reality of
temporal presence. This means that direct communication with this
reality is impossible, when by this we mean that we can explain it in a
way that is readily available to the understanding. The contradiction,

rather, is an irresolvable riddle which is not therefore to be dismissed,
but embraced, precisely because it serves as a mirror to the individual
himself: ‘The contradiction puts before him a choice, and while he is
choosing, he himself is revealed’ (p. 111). The communication involved
here is indirect because the lesson it contains does not lie in the object
of reflection, but in the subject doing the reflecting, the subject who is
so distracted by the philosophical speculations and the miracles of a
runaway imagination that he has forgotten what existence means and
does not know himself. The contradiction which is alive in the figure of
Christ, ‘being God, to be also an individual man’, intensifies the dispar-
ity between being a man we can know, and a god we cannot know, and
it announces with its presence, the different which is simply not cogni-
zable, an ‘absolute unrecognizableness’ (p. 112). If, at the point of aware-
ness of the possibility of the offence, we refuse to become offended,
however, and refuse to take the road of direct communication with its
consoling solutions to problems, we encounter ‘the repellent force by
which faith comes into existence’ (p. 107). Faith is indirect communica-
tion because it is not composed of external concepts or words which
resolve all our questions, but because it acknowledges what is funda-
mentally incomprehensible at the core of our own inwardness.
The challenge is not to comprehend Christ in terms of an objective
account of his life and teachings, but to become his disciple in the sense
of his existential contemporary. In the Philosophical Fragments,
Kierkegaard presents his case for the disciple understood as one who is
not a follower, but precisely the opposite, one who in ‘a moment of
decisive significance’,7 the moment when reason cannot resolve the
contradiction, realizes that the contradiction that Christ embodies is an
absurdity that knowledge cannot take for an object. It is only in such a
moment, when the individual sets aside reason, that he opens himself
up to receiving the condition which allows him to come into the pres-
ence of God and serves as the condition for his eternal happiness. In
this moment, the individual becomes a disciple because he makes an
existential decision to let this condition happen, to receive, in other
words, the ‘happy passion’ of faith from God (p. 73).
Being a disciple or contemporary of Christ is not an accident of his-
tory, but the privilege of the faith-full. In contrast to those who were
only the immediate contemporaries of Christ at the beginning of the
millennium, the real contemporary is the one who is recipient of faith
from God. The contradiction which Christ embodies is thus internal-
ized: the eternal condition is temporalized in one who in this way is
now existentially contemporary with Christ because ‘he is eo ipso

himself the Truth’ (p. 73). The idea of contemporariness is explored
further by Eshin Nishimura in Chapter 4.
Like Kierkegaard’s polemic against fake Christianity, Hakuin’s dis-
pute with the romanticized forms of Zen that evolved from Kenko
(1283–1350), Bankei (1622–53), and perhaps even Dōgen, can hardly
be classified as just a case of ‘good-natured ribbing’ of other sects.8
They are rather an attack on Buddhism in practice and thus a truly –
critical form of Buddhist philosophy. In the first chapter of his autobi-
ography, Wild Ivy,9 Hakuin debunks some of the myths about Zen
masters and the practice of Zen, for example, the notion that Zen is
nothing but quiet contemplation and peaceful coexistence with nature
in seclusion from the world. Zen, above all, is active engagement with
everyday life. The practice of sitting endlessly in silent meditation, to
take another example, in itself does not lead to enlightenment, but to
thoughtless stupidity.
Hakuin entertains no illusions about what it means to be a monk, and
contemptuously dismisses the conventional wisdom that once you don
monk’s robes you are automatically liberated from the problems of the
laity. He even demystifies the attainment of kenshoˉ (enlightenment;
awakening), since it is possible for the wisest among those who have
realized it to lose their way. Hakuin further suggests that the surplice
worn by the master signifying the achievement of enlightenment guar-
antees nothing of the kind. There simply is no resting place after true
realization, only the continuous hard work of maintaining ‘the Mind of
Enlightenment by helping others’ (p. 40).
Perhaps Hakuin’s reaction to the mythological Zen he was so intent
on destroying is one of the reasons behind his tendency to extremism,
an extremism that we catch a hint of in Wild Ivy with his selection of
the heroes of true Zen, a selection which is intended to counter the
sentimentalized versions of Zen practice. He recounts the story of Gudō
Kokushi (1579–1661) for example, who, on a mountainside with mos-
quitoes swarming around him ‘in great black clouds’, stubbornly sat in
zazen until he achieved the great satori experience, afterwards just wip-
ing away those that were feeding on his skin until they lay at his feet
‘like a thick carpet of crimson red-cherries’ (p. 76). With equal admira-
tion, he tells the tale of Shūhō Myōchō (1282–1337) who meditated
continuously in a graveyard for seven nights in a row with wolves ‘pad-
ding around him on all sides’ and ‘sniffing at his throat’ (p. 78). He also
speaks of the dedication of priests like Chōmon Zen’a (1661–1741) who
would burn his flesh with moxa (a Chinese herb) to keep himself awake
for meditation. Acts like these can hardly be said to represent the
moderation of the middle way. They could be taken as evidence of a
lapse in judgement by the master himself who in his mature years rec-
ommends them as models, if we were to consider them in isolation.
But just as Kierkegaard points to Christ as a living embodiment of real
Christianity and the existential distress it involves, so Hakuin identifies
the heroes of true Zen and the suffering it includes. He does this to
illustrate how difficult the way to realization really is. What Kierkegaard
calls the indirect communication with truth, is for Hakuin, the direct
communication with the dharma. The indirect for one and the direct
for the other refer to the same thing, however: the true way which is the
concrete experience of truth or the dharma unmediated by words and
explanations. For Kierkegaard the aim of this communication is to
become an existential contemporary of Christ by realizing the eternal
truth in one’s own individuality, and for Hakuin the task is to become
no less than a Buddha himself, an awakened one. This is not a matter of
mimicking the lifestyle of Siddartha, or of worshipping and bowing
down to his image, but a matter of struggling to experience what he
experienced. Like Kierkegaard, Hakuin rails against laziness and stupid-
ity in the pursuit of realization. While ‘there is no way for those of
ordinary or inferior capacity to know the Dharma’ (1994, p. 50) those
with unwavering fortitude and the highest intelligence in the face of all
challenges can become enlightened, and in doing so, they themselves
become Buddhas (1994, p. 42).
The affirmation of authenticity
The views of Kierkegaard and Hakuin coincide in the affirmation of the

need for a more authentic spiritual experience, one that is acknowl-
edged as a more elusive route to the truth partly because it runs counter
to the orthodox systems of thought or practice, and partly because of
the problematic nature of truth itself. For Kierkegaard this is a matter of
becoming a true Christian in the sense of making a bond with God at
the level of individual inwardness. For Hakuin it is a question of becom-
ing a ‘true hero’ of Zen in the sense of one who has plumbed the mys-
teries of seeing into one’s own nature. This is called the difficult way
because it means, in Kierkegaard’s terms, breaking away from the crowd,
or in Hakuin’s words, becoming one among ten thousand, and in both
cases exceeding ordinary understanding.
Kierkegaard is well known for his vigorous – some would say extreme –
promotion of individual dissension from the group as a necessary step
in coming to God. Although his thinking is individualistic, it is not

antisocial. It is oriented to what he calls the ‘invisible Church’ which,
while it ‘cannot be observed objectively at all’ because it ‘exists only in
the subjectivity of individuals’,10 is the foundation of a solitude that
serves a ‘reconciling fellowship with all men’ (Kierkegaard, 1968, p. 110).
The fellowship consists in the shared pursuit of the highest task for
human beings, the task of pursuing eternal, as opposed to temporal,
happiness. This holds out the promise of the highest reward, namely,
eternal fellowship with God, but only when we recognize that
Christianity is the difficult way, particularly since it is opposed to the
conventions of wisdom in the precincts of scholarship.
Kierkegaard takes issue, in particular, with the unquestioned priority
of reason in this context. To be a Christian means not that one must
altogether reject reason, but that one must make use of reason to regulate
reason, apply rationality to the determination of the limits of rationality.
The attainment of the spirit of Christianity is not a merely intellectual
endeavour, or a matter of understanding doctrine and developing
analytical knowledge. In fact, Christianity is an offence against all that,
an offence against reason because in spiritual terms reason is not valued
as an end in itself. But while reason can only take us so far, it can indeed
take us where we need to go, namely, to the boundaries of reason itself.
In a sense, Christianity puts reason to spiritual use here, pressing it into
the service of a Christianity that was ‘never intended to be understood’,
so that it declares ‘itself to be the paradox’ (1968, p. 190). And what is
this paradox? The paradox is the end point that reason comes to, the
paradox that is at the same time the tripartite ‘definition of truth’
which, as we will see below, corresponds almost exactly to Hakuin’s
three essentials for reaching enlightenment. This paradox is that ‘an
objective uncertainty held fast in an appropriation-process of the most
passionate inwardness is the truth, the highest available for an existing
individual’ (1968, p. 182). A paradox like this, a paradox about matters
of ultimate value, does not complete the quest but, on the contrary,
changes its direction and points it beyond the parameters of reason. It
is the moment of holding fast to the uncertainty that is necessary, as
Kierkegaard goes on to say about his definition of truth, in order to
‘remain out upon the deep, over seventy thousand fathoms of water’,
while still keeping faith.
It is hardly overstating the case to say that Hakuin moves along more
or less the same route to exactly the same conclusion. The hero of Zen,
as we saw, is not one who merely abandons reason and intense study to
retreat to a hillside and immerse herself in the ‘quietistic approach’ that
amounts to dead sitting (shiza) (1971, p. 33). On the contrary, such an

individual is engaged in an introspective process of intense study and a
questioning that is not meant to be answered in the way that questions
are normally answered. Indeed, the intended result of this studying is
to reach ‘the place that requires no more study’, the point at which the
practitioner has ‘exhausted reason, reached the end of words and in-
genuity, stretched his hand to the precipice’ (1971, p. 63). This is a
process which involves the application of what Hakuin calls Kao-feng
Yüan-miao’s (1238–95) ‘three essentials’, which correspond remarkably
to Kierkegaard’s tripartite definition of truth (although the concept of
faith is not the same): ‘A great root of faith. A great ball of doubt. A great
tenacity of purpose’ (1994, p. 62). It is by affirming this doubt with
courage and faith that we may arrive at the experience Hakuin describes
in terms of a metaphor that is again astonishingly in tune with
Kierkegaard’s out-upon-the-deep metaphor, the experience of being
‘alone in a field extending tens of thousands of miles’ (1971, p. 59).
But how do we come to this point where reason is exhausted? By
means of the difficult way that requires courage and endurance. Hakuin
himself struggled against fear, illness, doubt, self-loathing, and disillu-
sionment at various times in his pursuit of enlightenment. He endured
depression and travelled to temple after temple, looking for true Zen
teachers, never shirking the dangers or avoiding the problems that he
knew had to be overcome to achieve realization. Even after he crossed
the threshold at the age of twenty-four, he ran headlong into the resist-
ance of this mystery, when he encountered Shōju Rōjin (1642–1721)
who asked him about the koan of the dog having the Buddha nature or
not. Hakuin’s inflated confidence in his enlightened state was quickly
deflated when his answer, ‘no way to lay a hand or foot on that’, was
mockingly dismissed by the master with a sharp tug of Hakuin’s nose:
‘got a pretty good hand on it there!’ he yelled, transfixing Hakuin with
shock (2001, p. 30). It was Shōju who helped Hakuin eventually to
deepen his understanding by taking him through a whole range of
‘impenetrable’ koans that illustrate the contradictory character of Zen.
This is why the difficult way also requires intelligence. The way not
to get there, according to Hakuin, is to rely on ‘intellectual teaching’
that makes the ‘Wondrous Law of the One Mind’ (which refers to the
title of The Lotus Sūtra) simple to understand by saying things like ‘it is
in the West or in the East’, or it can be defined as this, that or the next
thing. You cannot even rely on ‘the sutras for an answer, or seek it in
the words you hear a teacher speak’ (1994, p. 61). This is the easy way
while in fact Zen is the difficult way, ‘difficult to believe in, difficult to
enter, and difficult to understand’ (1971, p. 177). It is difficult because

the way to get there is by means of a paradox, and for all of us who are
weaned on the notion that a paradox is a signal of the failure of reason,
this is a difficult thing to grasp.
Zen not only employs paradoxes but has developed a profound sys-
tem of paradoxes, the koans, the purpose of which is to engage students
in the most rigorous instruction regarding the truth of truths. Hakuin
claims, for example, that his celebrated koan, ‘What is the sound of the
one hand clapping?’ is ‘infinitely more effective’ in generating doubt
(1971, p. 164). In other words, rather than allowing thought to be shut
down by the emergence of a paradox like the sound of the one hand
clapping, Hakuin teaches us to continue to contemplate it until the
doubt becomes so great that we are made aware of the limits of ordinary
consciousness, thinking and emotions, aware that by these means we
cannot advance beyond this point. It is the greatness of this doubt, the
intensity of such an all pervasive doubt driven by a paradox, which
discloses the limits of reason and serves as the key to unlock the door to
the dharma.
For Kierkegaard, true Christianity delivers the paradox of paradoxes,
the ultimate paradox, the paradox that ‘the maximum of understand-
ing’ which is possible ‘is to understand that [truth, God] cannot be
understood’, because this ‘is not a matter of knowledge’ and ‘increased
knowledge is of no avail’ (1968, p. 192). Indeed, Christianity in the exis-
tential sense that Kierkegaard is referring to is not open to rational
understanding, but instead issues in the paradox which generates the
profound passion that turns us inward. This is why Christianity is so
philosophically difficult, because while ‘understanding speaks only of
livelihood and wife and fields and oxen and the like’, faith is about the
‘collision of the finite and the infinite’ which is the realm of improba-
bility (1968, p. 208). The paradox has the effect of driving the individ-
ual away from reason into a passionate intensity, of pushing her to the
edge of an abyss which reason cannot deal with. ‘Reason cannot negate
itself absolutely, but uses itself’ to conceive ‘only such an unlikeness of
itself as it can conceive by means of itself’ (1962, p. 55). Thus, while
reason cannot carry us to the truth of God’s being, which for Kierkegaard
is the eternal truth, it may nevertheless bring us to the point that makes
the decisive difference.
What reason discovers is that God is not just inexplicable but is thor-
oughly circuitous in his withdrawal, present everywhere, but as a ‘divine
elusiveness’ about which there is ‘absolutely nothing obvious’, except
an omnipresent invisibility (1968, p. 219). When we speak of God in
Kierkegaard’s authentic Christian sense we are speaking not of a

metaphysical agent or a theological figurehead but of an existential
experience of the eternal truth. More precisely, we are engaged in devel-
oping not a metaphysical ‘doctrine’ about an ontological entity, but ‘an
existential communication expressing an existential contradiction’
(1968, p. 339). God is the unknown, and this is what reason repeatedly
collides with. The term ‘God’ is only a name that we give to it, a name
for something effectively unnameable. The paradox which gives reason
so much trouble is the paradox of the unknown, the unknown ‘which
does indeed exist, but is unknown, and in so far does not exist’ (1962,
p. 55). It exists in that it is known as unknown, but does not exist as
something knowable.
Reason cannot fail to generate this paradox, because it is always
engaged in the pursuit of the unknown, yet finds it impossible to
advance beyond this limit. Reason recognizes this ultimate paradox as
the boundary of God’s absolute difference, identifying it as that which
cannot be identified. It is a mistake to think, however, that this formu-
lation of the unknown God amounts to a description or explanation; in
fact such a formulation is nothing else than ‘an unlikeness within itself
as [reason] can conceive by means of itself’ (1962, p. 55). The failure of
reason to articulate the being of God, however, is in fact a success when
reason recognizes this as the clear disclosure of its own limits. It is pre-
cisely this fact which issues in what amounts to both a torment and an
incitement to passion and gives rise to the decisive act that changes
everything.
As in Kierkegaard’s case, so with Hakuin, that when he speaks of the
highest truth in terms of the ‘eternal, unchanging’ truth (1971, p. 90)
the wondrous law of the one mind, he is not formulating metaphysical
theory to explain an ontological substance, something that in his terms
would be described as a merely intellectual teaching. Even when he tells
us that this ultimate principle is the same in Confucianism, Taoism,
and Shintō, that the wondrous law of the one mind, the ultimate good,
the undeveloped mean and takamanohara (the kami’s plane of the high
sky) are all different names for the same thing, Hakuin is not dealing in
metaphysical explanations. He has no patience with those who try to
explain things in words that distract our attention from the immediate
reality in front of our noses.
Just as Kierkegaard resorts to paradox to articulate God’s elusiveness,
Hakuin turns to almost exactly the same language to refer to the ulti-
mate principle which cannot be transmitted: ‘If you say it is in existence
it will not be there; if you say it is in non-existence it will not be there
either’ (1971, p. 89). The wondrous law in fact cannot be rendered in

words, yet at the same time the only means we have for opening the
door to it is through words, the words of a paradox. The key here is not
to try to respond to the paradox by resolving it in an intellectual fash-
ion that explains it away, but simply to recognize that the paradox is
irresolvable and the wondrous law is inconceivable.
While Kierkegaard exhorts us to remember Socrates’ dictum, know
thyself, Hakuin reminds us that we must take seriously the ‘Maha
Vairocana Sutra: “Know your own mind as it really is”’ (1971, p. 101). He
challenges us to see the truth for ourselves, to hear it, in a non-
metaphysical and existential sense, in a way that does not require us to
go anywhere beyond ourselves. In fact it is closer than we might think,
closer than the closest of the close: ‘Is there anything nearer than to see
your own mind with your own mind, to see your own eyeballs with
your own eyeballs?’ (1971, p. 97). As this question demonstrates, how-
ever, this cannot be understood in any straightforward sense since we
are speaking once again in terms of a paradox, in the sense that it is
physically impossible to see our own eyes with our own eyeballs. The
truth of the one mind lies in seeing into your own mind or what Hakuin
calls true introspection; pure, in the sense that it is a pre-conceptual,
non-linguistic, concrete experience. In the end, however, one who
reaches this realization ‘does not say that the Wondrous Law is inside or
that it is outside’ (1971, p. 105). Hakuin simply refuses to confirm
whether it is one or the other, both, or neither. It is important to
recognize that this is his point. There is no answer that language can
give here.
Considering the koan of the sound of the one hand, we need to recog-
nize that understanding it is a matter not of ordinary hearing but of an
extraordinary kind of hearing, although this is not to be understood in
some mystical or metaphysical sense. The sound of the one hand is si-
lent, but how can we hear silence? We do not hear it exactly, and yet we
do, because we distinguish it from sound. There is the rub. We can only
hear the silence when we listen to the sound, the silence that accom-
panies every sound. It is just that we never pay attention to the silence
itself, because we are so focused on sound. To hear the silence in
Hakuin’s sense is to pay attention to what it is we are not hearing when
we are listening to those sounds. But the hearing of the silence in this
case is in fact the not-hearing that is wedded to the listening. We cannot
get away from such paradoxes at this point.
As Hakuin demonstrates, however, by making use of paradoxes to
induce existential doubt about all such explanations, we can strip away
the rational structure of thought and experience in a pre-rational way

what can be articulated only as the paradox of the eternal truth in the
here and now. It is in this way that we can understand, by investigating
for ourselves, how ‘coughing, swallowing, waving the arms, activity and
quietude, words and actions, all plants, trees, tiles, stones, the sentient
and the non-sentient, all manifest’ the wondrous law (1971, p. 92).
It is the great doubt, when pursued with tenacity, that can lead to the
awakening: ‘At the bottom of great doubt lies great enlightenment, a
full measure of doubt will become a full measure of enlightenment’
(1994, pp. 63–4). This comes from letting go of the compulsion to
understand, the imperative of answering the question of the koan, a let-
ting go that is not nothing, but an advance of the understanding in the
form of not-understanding. ‘Release your hold’, says Hakuin, ‘from the
edge of the precipice to which you hang, and perish into life anew’
(1994, p. 50). We are, he says, thus brought to ‘this place, where words
and speech are cut off, this free and untrammelled place’, which ‘is pro-
visionally called the Wondrous Law (Myoˉhoˉ)’ (1971, p. 89). Here we
arrive at the great death of the self and the awakening of the mind to
itself beyond self.
While Kierkegaard mocks the putatively ‘awakened’ man of
Christendom, he nevertheless affirms the same connection between
existential doubt and becoming aware of reality, more precisely, that
holding fast with the passionate ‘inwardness of self activity’ to objective
uncertainty can enable us to ‘see God’ (1968, p. 218) and wake up to the
truth. The rational desire to prove God’s existence only leads us up a
blind alley. Stubbornly insisting on a rational explanation is the exact
opposite of what is required because it entraps us in the net of reason
and distracts us from the real, which is to be found in the lived relation-
ship with God. ‘When I let the proof go’, Kierkegaard says, echoing
Hakuin’s remark about the precipice, ‘the existence is there’ and this
‘letting go is surely also something’ (1962, p. 53). It is what Kierkegaard
calls a qualitative leap, the most difficult of all leaps. This leap is not an
extension of the rational process, but a decisive irruption in the face of
an impasse, the chasm of the absurd. It does not, however, bring the
spiritual quest to an end. Indeed, it amounts to the transformation of
this quest into an active engagement with individual existence. This is
at the same time the most intimate connection with divinity, the
absurdity of which is brought home by the fact that the closer the indi-
vidual gets to God the more infinitely far away he is.
With both the Zen master and the Christian existentialist the
acquisition of such wisdom is not a matter of gaining knowledge or
understanding theory. Hakuin speaks of the enlightenment experience as

dying into life, the dissolution of the self and the falling away of the
dualism of mind and body. This is reminiscent of Dōgen’s idea of forget-
ting the self and the dropping away of mind and body (see Chapters 5 and
6). It may come as a surprise to those who mistakenly regard Kierkegaard as
too much the subjectivist that he talks of arriving at truth and commu-
nion with God in much the same terms, as something to be attained
through the annihilation of the self. In language that is typical of Zen, he
tells us that ‘knowing oneself in one’s own nothingness is the condition for
knowing God’.11
This experience for Hakuin and Kierkegaard is accompanied by, and
legitimated in, a moment of ecstasy which serves as the foundation for
overcoming all suffering. For Hakuin, it is the joy of awakening ‘to the
fact that you yourself are a divine sage with true immortality, one who
was born before heaven and earth and who will not die after empty
space has vanished’ (1971, p. 42). For Kierkegaard it is the ‘joy of the
eternal,’ an ‘unutterable’ joy that has its ‘ground in the contradiction
that an existing human being is a synthesis of the infinite and the finite
situated in time’ (1968, p. 198). For both, it is the joy of discovering
eternal truth not by knowing it as this or that in some metaphysical
form, but, ironically, in the lived experience of its presence in our own
temporal existence.
The rigour of aporetic thinking
Hakuin rightly condemns the intellectualization of this experience of

the wondrous law of the one mind. But by intellectualization he means a
pernicious kind of thinking, the kind that presumes that everything can
be reduced to words, in particular, to a pat formula which, when concep-
tually understood, is truth – wording alienated from practice. Likewise,
Kierkegaard condemns the reason, by which he means the calculative
reason of traditional metaphysics that seeks to increase indefinitely the
acquisition of conceptual knowledge, as an ineffectual way to truth.
But it is a misconception to imagine that either Hakuin or Kierkegaard
advocates the unqualified dismissal of thinking. Clearly, thinking has a
place in Hakuin’s practice, not only in the form of all of his writings,
but in the system of koans, many of which are framed as questions, the
very origin of the thinking process. And again, a very sophisticated and
highly developed thinking has a place in Kierkegaard’s philosophy not
only in the form of all those polemical attacks on Hegel and Christendom,
but as we have seen, as a necessary stepping stone on the route to faith.
Thinking has a place in both Kierkegaard and Hakuin, but understood

in a very special sense: as the purposeful articulation of the limits of
thinking itself. This kind of thinking is not mere intellectualization,
but a radically critical kind of doubting that goes beyond the methodo-
logical doubt of Descartes. It is a thinking that knows no bounds to its
questioning, a questioning which questions the questioning itself and
finds ultimate expression in the paradox.
Without minimizing the differences between Kierkegaard and
Hakuin, I think each of their respective approaches to the pursuit of
understanding not only illuminates the other, but together they suggest
this profound alternative mode of enquiry. In particular, they exem-
plify a rigorous anti-epistemological, pre-ontological thinking articu-
lated in an aporetic language, a kind of deconstructive questioning, one
which demonstrates the limitations of the intellectual process in the
quest for ultimate meaning. The end result is not the radical scepticism
that flows from the contemporary deconstruction of knowledge, but a
conviction grounded in experience of the enigma of the human
condition.
Thinking has a positive value in this kind of inquiry, not as a vehicle
of knowledge, if we mean by that objective certainty, but as a discourse
whose importance is its capacity to help us arrive at the limitations of
such a project. Thinking, in other words, is valued mainly because it
has the power to dismantle itself. Thinking in the way that Kierkegaard
and Hakuin use it, does not build up knowledge, but takes it down.
Their aim is not to develop an epistemological system that explains
truth or an ontological framework that reflects being, but to disassem-
ble such efforts in order to arrive at existential experience. The term
‘existential’ is not really sufficient here, because we are trying to refer to
what is pre-conceptual, pre-ontological, and pre-linguistic. And this is
precisely why Kierkegaard in defining truth makes use of the paradox
that refuses resolution by vigorously maintaining the tension between
objectivity and subjectivity. It is also why Hakuin refuses to affirm
whether the ultimate principle is inside or outside.
This is more than an attempt to refer to experience unmediated by
reason or language – immediate concrete experience. It is also a deliber-
ately and poetically circuitous form of communication that is intended
to demonstrate how all acts of referring to or otherwise representing such
experience are deeply problematic, while taking this, not as the end to
the questioning, but as its rebirth. Even saying this, however, is a func-
tion of reason, and reason can only give us more rational ways of con-
ceiving what we are suggesting is inconceivable. If reason speaks, it must
in the end ‘speak’ in silence. I am not referring to a purely metaphysical

silence that comes after, behind, or beyond words, but a silence that is the
mute endurance of existence itself, a silence that we can prepare our-
selves to hear only by means of words used in the unavoidably elusive
way that Kierkegaard and Hakuin exemplify so well and with remarkable
commonality across the boundaries of their diverse cultures.
Notes
1. William Barrett, ‘Zen for the West’, in William Barrett (ed.), Zen Buddhism:
Selected Writings of D.T. Suzuki (Garden City, New Jersey: Doubleday Anchor
Books, 1956).
2. Kierkegaard, Attack Upon Chistendom, trans. Walter Lowrie (Princeton,
New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1972) p. 27. Further references to
this edition are given in the text.
3. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling and Sickness unto Death, trans. Walter Lowrie
(Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1974) p. 158.
4. Hakuin, Essential Teachings of Zen Master Hakuin, trans. Norman Waddell
(Boston: Shambhala, 1994) p. 10. Further references to this edition are given
in the text.
5. Hakuin, Zen Master Hakuin: Selected Writings, trans. Philip Yampolsky (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1971) p. 62. Further references to this edi-
tion are given in the text.
6. Kierkegaard, Training in Christianity, trans. Walter Lowrie (New York: Vintage
Classics, 2004) p. 84. Further references to this edition are given in the text.
7. Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments, trans. David Swenson (Princeton, New
Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1962) p. 245. Further references to this
edition are given in the text.
8. Paul Stevens, Three Zen Masters: Ikkyū, Ryoˉkan, and Hakuin (Tokyo: Kodansha,
1993) p. 95.
9. Hakuin, Wild Ivy, trans. Norman Waddell (Boston: Shambhala, 2001)
p. 37–8. Further references to this edition are given in the text.
10. Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, trans. David Swenson and
Walter Lowrie (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968)
p. 53. Further references to this edition are given in the text.
11. Kierkegaard, Upbuilding Discourses, trans. Howard and Edna Hong (Princeton,
New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1990) p. 325.
8
Living with Death: Kierkegaard
and the Samurai
Adam Buben
‘In the eleventh hour one understands life in a wholly different way.’1
Many of Kierkegaard’s works, both pseudonymous and signed, briefly
address the issues of death and thinking about death. But as is shown in
the introduction, Kierkegaard’s interests here are not with death itself, but
rather with the meaning or symbolism that death can have for us when
we are living. This is also evident in his concept of ‘the fellowship of the
dead’, something Kinya Masugata discusses in the final chapter. Thus,
Kierkegaard addresses the issues of death within the context of a broader
topic in order to change the way we live. Although these discussions of
death are often brief, in Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions (1845),
Kierkegaard dedicates an entire discourse, ‘At a Graveside’, to describing
the use of the thought of death for guidance on the road to living earnestly.2
Around the same time that Kierkegaard is offering this description and
confronting his own impending death, on the other side of the world, the
long era of feudalism in isolated Japan is drawing to a close.3 Interestingly,
some of the more thoughtful members of the ancient warrior class that
epitomize this feudalism, known in the Western world as samurai (liter-
ally, ‘retainer’), advocate a life with death in mind that is uncannily similar
to the one Kierkegaard prescribes. But is this similarity so striking that it
would allow one to draw philosophically significant conclusions from it?
Despite the history of Japanese scholarly interest in Kierkegaard’s
works, which Kinya Masugata describes in Chapter 2,4 very little has
been said about a connection between Kierkegaard and the samurai,5
and even less has been said concerning death. Thus, it has been left to
the present to explain this potentially fruitful connection. For the sake
of such an explanation, it will be helpful to notice Kierkegaard’s
distinction between two ways of thinking about death. He advocates
the earnest thought of death and discourages viewing death from any
141
of the various ‘moods’ he describes (1993, pp. 73–5). With an eye

towards discovering what, if anything, Kierkegaard and the samurai
could learn from each other, the purpose of this chapter is to determine
whether or not Kierkegaard and the samurai actually recommend
approaching life through death in the same way and for the same rea-
sons, and, if not, to determine whether or not Kierkegaard could accuse
the samurai of being in one of the moods he proscribes (these are dis-
cussed below). In order to realize this goal it will be necessary to describe
the proper way to take death into account, and the value of doing so,
according to both Kierkegaard and the samurai.
Kierkegaard: the thought of death
In ‘At a Graveside’ Kierkegaard makes use of the imagined occasion of a

funeral to remind each individual reader of death. One might think it is
unnecessary to remind people of such a thing, but Kierkegaard clearly
disagrees. He states that humans ‘want to shove away the thought of
death and shove death out of life as much as possible. Men desire to live
as if there were no death.’6 According to Kierkegaard, by failing to think
about death one is likely to live a life of frivolity. It is not just any thought
of death, however, that can help one to avoid this kind of life. Death
must be thought of earnestly. Kierkegaard claims, ‘the thought of death
gives the earnest person the right momentum in life and the right goal
toward which he directs his momentum’ (1993, p. 83). Before one can
understand the effect that the earnest thought of death can have on
one’s life, one must first understand what is involved in thinking earn-
estly about death. Kierkegaard offers four aspects of this earnest think-
ing, which one might consider under the generic subheadings: Making
death one’s own, Awareness of the certainty, Remembrance of the uncer-
tainty, and Management of fear. Corresponding to each of these aspects
is a possible way in which one might fall short of the life achieved
through earnestly thinking about death by giving in to a ‘mood’.
Making death one’s own. When considering death, Kierkegaard believes

that each individual should consider his or her own death. It is not
enough simply to believe that death is ‘the human condition’ (p. 73).
While this way of thinking about death is not incorrect, there is a defi-
ciency in thinking of death only in this way. Kierkegaard claims that in
order to have a complete view of death, it is important to realize that
each person dies as an individual, not as a group, and surely not as
humankind (p. 86). Failure to realize this fact results in the mood of
Living with Death: Kierkegaard and the Samurai 143
objectivity towards death. Kierkegaard uses Epicurus as an example of

someone in this mood. Although perhaps not a fair criticism, he claims
that Epicurus is willing to think of death in general terms, but it seems
that he would rather not ‘think about and take into account his own
death’ (p. 73). To take into account only an abstract idea of death, with-
out sincerely applying it to oneself, does not only display an incomplete
view of death, it displays a lack of earnestness according to Kierkegaard.
It is only a trivial contemplation of death unless ‘you are thinking it as
your lot’ (p. 75). Because every individual must meet his or her death
alone, Kierkegaard emphasizes appropriation as the first aspect of earn-
estly thinking about death. But what is it about death that one must
appropriate according to Kierkegaard?
Awareness of the certainty. It is the certainty of death that must be
appropriated by each individual so that each individual thinks, ‘it is
certain that I will die’. After birth, of all of the possible events in life
there is only one that must take place. When Kierkegaard states ‘death
is the only certainty’ he points out something that most people claim
to be aware of, or at least acknowledge from time to time in casual con-
versation. Given his extended consideration of the mood of objectivity,
Kierkegaard clearly believes that people are routinely out of touch with
the reality that their own death is certain, but he even doubts that they
maintain a genuine awareness of death’s certainty in general. How, he
wonders, can people be so dismayed when faced with an instance of the
death of another? After all, it should come as no surprise when the only
event regarded as certain comes to pass. Even if one fails to adhere to
the first aspect of earnestly thinking about death, it might still be pos-
sible to avoid the mood of excessive sorrow at the death of a loved one
by realizing and maintaining awareness that death is certain for every
individual. If one is truly aware of the certainty of death, then while
one might feel some sorrow, for example, when coming to terms with
the impossibility of fulfilling the desire for the company of the deceased,
one will already be prepared for this impossibility. Prepared in this way,
such a loss cannot become ‘soul-destroying’ (p. 75). However, beyond
simply using the awareness of the certainty of death to prevent the
mood of excessive sorrow, it is important to understand that Kierkegaard
demands that this awareness be applied to one’s own death in order to
avoid falling into the mood of objectivity towards death.
Remembrance of the uncertainty. To the awareness of the certainty of
one’s own death, Kierkegaard adds the remembrance of death’s uncer-
tainty. If what is certain is that one will die, what is uncertain is when
one will die. Death will come at its leisure and no one can know for sure
when this will be. Kierkegaard states that death ‘can at any moment be
at hand ... it is very advisable for you to bear this in mind’ (pp. 100–1).
Unless each individual remembers the possibility of their own death at
any moment, it is possible to fall into the mood of postponement. This
is the mood of one who, feeling secure in the idea that there is a long
life ahead, puts off thinking of his or her own death (1948, p. 42; 1993,
pp. 79–80, 91) It may well be the case that one has many years left, but
there is only a very imprecise indication of longevity in this life. Neither
youth, nor health, nor wealth, nor any other conditions of life are fac-
tors that accurately determine when one will die (1948, p. 41; 1993,
pp. 79, 91). Sometimes people are struck down in youth by disease or a
car accident. If one is deceived by any of life’s conditions into putting
off the thought of death, the notion of death’s uncertainty can be used
as a reminder that death is always a relevant issue, regardless of condi-
tions. Kierkegaard believes that the best way to remember the uncer-
tainty of death is to treat each day as though it were the last. He states,
‘If death says, “Perhaps this very day”, then earnestness says, “Let it
perhaps be today or not”, but I say, “This very day” ’ (1993, p. 85).
Management of fear. Even with the awareness of the certainty and the
remembrance of the uncertainty of death, Kierkegaard still seems to be-
lieve that one can fail to think earnestly about death. This failure is the
result of having an inappropriate fear of death (p. 81). There are two
ways, or moods, in which fear of death can be understood as inappro-
priate. One can either have an excessive fear of death, or one can have
an insufficient fear of death. While a more comprehensive description
of these two moods can be found later in this chapter, it is important to
recognize here that their danger lies in the fact that they might prevent
the individual from realizing the benefits for life of being aware of the
certainty and remembering the uncertainty of his or her own death
(1967, p. 334; 1993, p. 98). It is only by managing fear, that is, walking
the narrow path between these two moods, that it is possible to put the
first three aspects of the earnest thought of death to work in one’s life.
What remains to be determined is how exactly Kierkegaard envisages

the life of one who holds together these four aspects and earnestly
thinks about death. In his journals Kierkegaard states, ‘as the captive
animal paces around its cage every day for the sake of movement or
measures the length of its chain, so I measure the length of my chain
every day by turning to the thought of death – for the sake of move-
ment and in order to endure living’ (1967, p. 336). What he refers to as
the endurance of life in this passage Kierkegaard calls in ‘At a Graveside’,
‘the retroactive power in life’ (p. 99), and he claims that attaining this
power is the subject of this discourse. It is by earnestly thinking about
death that one can in some sense assume the point of view of oneself as
dead while remaining alive. George Connell points out that it is per-
haps incorrect to speak of death as having a point of view, rather than
as being the absence of a point of view. However, the expression ‘point
of view of oneself as dead’ in the present context takes into account this
very absence. That is, this expression refers to the viewing of one’s life
while considering one’s impending lack of life. Connell refers to this
view of life as ‘anticipatory non-recollection’.7 From the point of view of
oneself as dead one not only has the power to reflect on life and to
change the way in which one lives, but this viewpoint also allows a dif-
ferent understanding of how life ought to be lived.
The understanding provided by assuming the point of view of oneself
as dead is that, because life is limited and no amount of time is guaran-
teed, it is important to make good use of whatever time remains
(Kierkegaard, 1993, pp. 84–5). Making good use of an indeterminate
amount of time means realizing that there is no place in life for concern
about accidental (or incidental) matters. An incidental (accidental) mat-
ter is any matter that, because it focuses primarily on what is at stake,
requires some certain amount of time to address or complete. Kierkegaard
states, ‘with regard to the accidental, the length of time is the decisive
factor’. It seems absurd to get involved too seriously with incidental
matters that one might not be around to see to their conclusion. As
opposed to a life concerned with such incidental matters, Kierkegaard
recommends a life that focuses primarily on how one is going about
whatever one might be doing, regardless of the time that may or may
not be left. He claims, ‘earnestness, therefore, becomes the living of
each day as if it were the last and also the first in a long life, and the
choosing of work that does not depend on whether one is granted a
lifetime to complete it well or only a brief time to have begun it well’
(p. 96). It is only through thinking earnestly about death that one is
able to gain the retroactive power that is necessary to eliminate incidental
concerns and alter one’s life.
The samurai: death in mind
The development of the samurai notion of a life focused by death can

be seen in the course of their writings over centuries of warfare.
However, it is only after almost 100 years of isolation and peace that
this notion receives its most thorough and explicit treatments. Perhaps
the most significant of these can be found in Tsunetomo Yamamoto’s

(1659–1719) Hagakure or In the Shadow of Leaves. A loyal samurai from a clan
in southern Japan Yamamoto dictated this extensive work while living as a
Buddhist monk after his retirement. In the second chapter of Hagakure,
Yamamoto expands on his famous claim that ‘the Way of the Samurai is
found in death’,8 when he states that ‘the Way of the Samurai is, morning
after morning, the practice of death, considering whether it will be here or
be there, imagining the most sightly way of dying, and putting one’s mind
firmly in death’ (p. 73). Yamamoto and other samurai agree that unless
death is kept in mind, one will not be able to live properly. In his
Budōshoshinshū or The Primary Essential-Mind of the Warrior, Yuzan
Daidoji (1639–1730), a lifelong ronin (samurai without a master) with a
general interest in the state of the samurai class, claims, ‘a mind that is neg-
ligent and forgetful of death will beget a lack of prudence’.9 It is important
to notice, however, that one must realize certain characteristics of death,
and relate to death in certain ways, in order for life to be properly influ-
enced by keeping death in mind. The samurai consider four aspects of
keeping death in mind in this properly life-altering sense that are roughly
equivalent to the four aspects described in the section on Kierkegaard
above. Here we will explain each of these aspects according to the samurai,
and then depict the life that results from keeping death in mind in
this way.
Making death one’s own. Despite the fact that both Yamamoto and
Daidoji seem to spend much of their time emphasizing the considera-
tion of death in general, they both clearly see the importance of each
individual’s realization of his or her own death. In the context of dis-
cussing other aspects of keeping death in mind in the right way, the
individualistic language these samurai authors use demonstrates the
importance they see in this realization. For example, Yamamoto claims
that ‘every day without fail one should consider himself as dead’ (p. 164),
and Daidoji states that one who ‘has not kept death constantly in
mind ... but, hearing of the death of another, finds it merely vexing, and
thinks that he himself should be able to exist in the world forever. His
own death will be tainted with deep greed and craving for life’ (p. 50).
Awareness of the certainty. Yamamoto states, ‘meditation on inevita-
ble death should be performed daily’ (p. 164). This meditation is neces-
sary in order to prevent people from behaving as though death is not
coming for them. If one never, or only occasionally, considers the inev-
itability of death, it is easy to become so involved in daily affairs that
one forgets, or fails to realize, that life will ultimately end in death. It
does not matter ‘whether people be of high or low birth, rich or poor,
old or young, enlightened or confused, they are all alike in that they
will one day die’ (p. 75). With a daily reminder of this fact of existence,
the samurai believe that the individual is taking an important step
toward viewing his or her daily affairs in the proper light. However, the
awareness that life will end, brought about by regular meditation on
inevitable death, must be maintained in conjunction with the follow-
ing aspect of keeping death in mind in order to achieve this new way of
looking at things.
Remembrance of the uncertainty. In addition to meditating on the
inevitability of one’s own death, the samurai strive to remember that
one could die at any time (Daidoji, p. 19; Yamamoto, p. 33).10 It is in an
attempt to remind his clan’s young retainers of this latter fact that
Yamamoto quotes a saying that goes, ‘“step from under the eaves and
you’re a dead man. Leave the gate and the enemy is waiting”’ (p. 164).
Because one might die at any time, the samurai believe it is foolish to
behave as though one has many years ahead. Yamamoto states, ‘while
knowing that we will die someday, we think that all the others will die
before us and that we will be the last to go. Death seems a long way off.
Is this not shallow thinking?’ (p. 75). One may in fact continue to live
for quite a while, but there is no way of knowing whether or not this
will be the case. Without this knowledge, the samurai recommend
viewing each day as the last opportunity to address one’s responsibili-
ties (Daidoji, p. 19). The proper way to go about addressing these respon-
sibilities, assuming that today is one’s last, remains to be explained.
Management of fear. Even if the individual remains always cognizant
of the inevitability and the ever-present possibility of his or her own
death, the samurai still believe that life might not be affected in the
proper way by focusing on just these aspects of keeping death in mind.
One must also resolve oneself towards death (Daidoji, pp. 48–50;
Yamamoto, pp. 33–4, 70, 164).11 That is, one must prepare oneself to die
and even pursue a daily course of action that might lead to one’s own
death. In one of his more extreme accounts of the samurai resolution
towards death Yamamoto states that the samurai ‘plunges recklessly
towards an irrational death’ (p. 30). His more mainstream account is that
the samurai, if faced with a situation in which death seems possible or
even likely, will not avoid this situation, but will knowingly persevere
(pp. 17, 45). While the first account makes it sound as though the samurai
should throw away his life on a whim, the second suggests that one’s life
should be easily relinquished, but only when the situation calls for it.
Whichever account one considers, the samurai believe that this resolution
towards death is important in order to avoid the fear of death. It is this

fear that can prevent one from living the life that is appropriate for a
samurai. Once the fear of dying has been overcome, a great deal can be
learned about life from the other aspects of keeping death in mind.
But what exactly are the life-lessons that result from meditating on
death as the samurai do? The samurai believe that with the recognition
that death will take place and that it will occur at an unknown time
comes the recognition that time is limited, longevity is not guaranteed,
and life should not to be wasted on self-indulgent trivialities (Daidoji,
pp. 19–21; Yamamoto, pp. 33–44). Yamamoto states, ‘it will not do to
think in such a way and be negligent. Insofar as death is always at one’s
door, one should make sufficient effort and act quickly’ (p. 75). Rather
than wasting an inevitably limited time trying to satisfy trivial per-
sonal desires, whatever time is left should be spent addressing one’s
responsibilities.12 While the samurai recommend keeping death in
mind as an aid in remembering the importance of presently attending
to responsibilities, they also keep death in mind, as previously stated, to
help them understand the proper way in which to go about addressing
these responsibilities.
Because the time of death is always unknown, it is also impossible to
know whether or not one will be able to successfully or completely
address a given responsibility. Yamamoto claims that ‘the Way of the
samurai should be in being aware that you do not know what is going
to happen next ... Victory and defeat are matters of the temporary force
of circumstances. The way of avoiding shame is different. It is simply in
death’ (1979, p. 30). While one cannot control what one accomplishes,
one can control how one goes about trying to accomplish things
(Daidoji, p. 50). Because an individual should only be held accountable
for what is controllable, the samurai conclude that it is less important to
complete a project than it is to strive diligently to complete it. Yamamoto
states, ‘to say that dying without reaching one’s aim is to die a dog’s
death is the frivolous way of sophisticates. When pressed with the
choice of life or death, it is not necessary to gain one’s aim’ (1979, p. 17).
By keeping death in mind every day, it is possible to live a life focused
on one’s responsibilities, but with the understanding that the proper
way to address life’s responsibilities involves simply putting forth one’s
best effort and being free from excessive concern as to whether certain
ends are realized. Yamamoto asserts, ‘if by setting one’s heart right
every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were
already dead, he gains freedom in the Way. His whole life will be without
blame, and he will succeed in his calling’ (p. 18).
Having completed the exposition of the respective approaches to life
through death of both Kierkegaard and the samurai, some concerns
about the coherence of these approaches probably remain. For example,
why should time become precious with the realization that life could
end at any time? More generally, why should Kierkegaard or the samurai
believe that the subjective acceptance of, and relation to, certain facts
about death should promote some ways to approach life and not others?
Concerns of this nature must be addressed if we are to reach a more
complete understanding of their respective approaches to life through
death and their motivations for advocating these approaches. Despite
any unresolved issues, the presentation of their accounts of life
approached through death given here should provide the basic under-
standing that will be necessary to proceed into the comparative portion
of this chapter.
Earnestness or mood: a Kierkegaardian view

of the samurai
Evidently there is a great deal of agreement, but perhaps there is also

some disagreement, between Kierkegaard and the samurai on the sub-
ject of approaching life through death. Both note the certainty and the
uncertainty of death. Both emphasize not only the importance of
acknowledging these characteristics of death but also some of the same
potential problems of failing to make this acknowledgment. Kierkegaard
and the samurai even seem to envisage the same kind of life for the in-
dividual who approaches life in the way that they advocate, that is, a life
concerned more with the how of whatever one might be doing than
with the attempted result or accomplishment. Given all these similari-
ties, it would be difficult for Kierkegaard to accuse the samurai of ad-
hering to one of his proscribed moods. Even in the case of the samurai’s
lack of an explicit consideration of the appropriation of death, parallel to
Kierkegaard’s, the individualistic language of the samurai makes it clear
that they avoid the mood of objectivity towards death.
It is not until one compares Kierkegaard and the samurai on the
aspect of the management of fear that a potentially telling difference
stands out. In this part of the chapter I aim both to determine whether
this difference is substantial enough to justify the claim that Kierkegaard
could accuse the samurai of being in a wrong mood, and to explore
what this determination can teach about Kierkegaard and the samurai.
In order to reach the desired conclusions, it will be helpful to separate

this section into three distinct subsections: Difference, Foundational
assumptions, and Resolution.
Difference
The only significant difference between Kierkegaard and the samurai on
the subject of approaching life through death concerns the recommenda-
tions for managing the fear of death. With only one important difference
in the basic structure of using death to alter life, the kind of life brought
about by this structure is, according to Kierkegaard, almost interchangeable
with the kind of life brought about by this structure as presented by
Yamamoto, Daidoji, and other samurai authors. Despite this seeming inter-
changeability, however, this one important difference concerning the man-
agement of fear leads to behaviours in the life of a samurai that Kierkegaard
would probably not condone. It is these behaviours that make it seem likely
that Kierkegaard would accuse the samurai of being in a wrong mood to-
ward death. In order to see how this difference can lead to these behaviours,
one must first understand exactly what the difference consists of.
Kierkegaard considers two moods with respect to the fear of death that
must be avoided by properly managing this fear. He spends a great deal
of time in ‘At a Graveside’ considering the mood of the insufficient fear
of death. This mood is exemplified by the use of metaphorical descrip-
tions of death to mitigate death’s frightening nature by personifying it,
or by depicting it as a kind of sleep or transition (pp. 80–1, 98–9).
Kierkegaard believes that these mitigating metaphors, in removing fear
from the thought of death, can lead to a situation in which life is more
feared than death. The danger in this is that a person might eventually
come to desire the ‘peace’ of death more than the troubles of life (pp. 81–2);
and this warped desire might lead eventually to suicide. If death is to be
thought of earnestly, it should be feared instead of longed for.
The mood of the insufficient fear of death is also exemplified by one
who ‘wants to conspire with death’ (p. 88) in order to attack an unsatis-
factory or unsatisfying life. In this case, the idea of death as a great equal-
izer might provide consolation for a demonstrable inferiority in some
facet of life (pp. 86–7). A sufficient fear of death will counterbalance the
desire to turn on life when it seems unfair. According to Kierkegaard, the
use of the thought of death for attacking life, like the use of mitigating
metaphors, is a perversion of the first three aspects of earnestly thinking
about death. The thought of death is recommended for enhancing one’s
life, not negating it. Kierkegaard claims that ‘earnestness does not scowl
but is reconciled with life and knows how to fear death’ (p. 88).
Kierkegaard also acknowledges the mood of excessive fear of death.
This mood describes a situation in which, paralyzed by the first three
aspects of thinking earnestly about death, one is unable to continue
participating in life’s activities (pp. 83–4). Although in the mood of
excessive fear of death (like Daidoji’s monk in the following paragraph)
these aspects are not intentionally misrepresented or misused,
Kierkegaard seems to see the same basic problem with this mood that
he has with being insufficiently afraid of death. That is, that in this
mood, the individual retreats from life and, therefore, is unable to reap
the benefits for life of being aware of the certainty and remembering
the uncertainty of one’s own death. Without maintaining an appropri-
ate fear of death, that is, a fear that is neither excessive nor insufficient,
life cannot be affected in the way that Kierkegaard envisages.
The samurai, on the other hand, seem interested in managing fear by
eliminating it altogether. In their presentation of the resolution towards
death they do not explicitly consider the issue of having too little fear
of death. The samurai believe that failing to resolve oneself towards
death can have unfortunate effects on the life of an individual who
adheres to the other aspects of keeping death in mind. As an example
of these effects, Daidoji tells the story of the monk who lived in con-
stant fear of his own death. This fear is the result of the monk’s medita-
tion on and recollection of the inevitability and ever-present possibility
of his own death; and because of this fear the monk is unable to address
life’s responsibilities (p. 21). The samurai agree with Kierkegaard that if
one is unable to engage in life, one cannot reap the benefits for life of
keeping death in mind. What the monk lacks is resolution towards
death. The samurai believe that it is only by becoming resolved towards
one’s own death that fear of death can be overcome, and the proper
effect on life of keeping death in mind can be achieved (Daidoji,
pp. 49–50; Yamamoto, 1979, p. 38). While the samurai resolution to-
wards death certainly eliminates what Kierkegaard would recognize as
an excessive fear of death, it actually seems to encourage what he would
consider to be an insufficient fear of death.
Because the samurai differ from Kierkegaard in that they do not
acknowledge the possibility of such a thing as having too little fear of
death, it seems that Kierkegaard might here part company with their
approach to life through death. Unlike other apparent differences in
the samurai notion of the value for life of keeping death in mind, this
lack of acknowledgement could suggest a fundamental disparity
between the samurai and Kierkegaard, particularly concerning the

value attributed to life itself (although as I will argue later, this does not
actually turn out to be the case). Kierkegaard, in his journals, considers
life as meaningful suffering, the endurance of which is necessary in
order to demonstrate to God one’s longing for eternal life (1967, p. 443).
The samurai, on the other hand – who perhaps not incidentally are
without an explicit notion of eternal life – do not believe in the neces-
sity of enduring life. Rather, they tend to think that life should be cast
off easily (Yamamoto, 1979, pp. 17, 30, 109). While this relative ease,
which one might mistakenly see as an eagerness for death, may not
appear overly problematic for a Kierkegaardian approach, consider how
it manifests itself in the samurai practice of seppuku.
Seppuku is a ritualized form of suicide that samurai perform for vari-
ous reasons that may, at first glance, seem trivial to Western observers.
However, this sort of behaviour is not without precedent in Western
history. As Kierkegaard points out in his journals, the Stoics also
reserved the right to take their own lives for apparently trivial reasons
(1967, p. 333). However, Kierkegaard goes on to condemn this Stoic
practice. Even though he acknowledges the similarity between Stoicism
and his understanding of Christianity in that they both make ‘life
intensive with the thought of death’ (p. 332), Kierkegaard claims that
Stoic reliance on suicide is really just a sign of cowardice in the face of
life. This fear of life is precisely the danger he sees in having an insuf-
ficient fear of death. Fleeing life, whether by suicide or other less per-
manent measures, especially when it is about to become most difficult
or undesirable can only be avoided by having some fear of death, albeit
fear of an appropriate nature. Because the samurai, like the Stoics, are
so willing to turn on life and embrace death, it seems that Kierkegaard
might accuse them of being in the mood of the insufficient fear of
death.
After considering this singular troubling discrepancy between
Kierkegaard and the samurai, it may seem that despite the great simi-
larities between these thinkers on the subject of approaching life
through death, the respective lives that they recommend are ultimately
too different to allow any meaningful conclusions to be drawn from
their comparison. Perhaps, however, there are other factors that should
be taken into consideration when assessing the significance of this dif-
ference and determining whether or not Kierkegaard would accuse the
samurai of viewing death while in a wrong mood. Furthermore, even if
Kierkegaard would accuse the samurai of being in a wrong mood, this
does not rule out the possibility of learning something from both their
great similarity and their divergence. With these thoughts in mind, it

is time to turn our attention to the assumptions that make up the
foundations of their enquiries into death in an effort to understand
why the difference concerning the management of fear might not be as
problematic as it at first appears to be.
Foundational assumptions
Although neither Kierkegaard nor the samurai clearly identify certain
key assumptions as factors in their notions of approaching life through
death, in both cases there are assumptions on which these notions
stand. What is more, the difference between these respective founda-
tional assumptions is directly responsible for the difference between
the ways in which each recommends managing the fear of death.
Despite particular differences in assumptions, however, the form that
they take is remarkably similar, and it is this similarity that will ulti-
mately mitigate the sting of the difference between Kierkegaard and the
samurai on the subject of the value of life and the practice of suicide. In
order to see this similarity and, later, to explain how it mitigates this
sting, it will first be necessary to point out and critically examine their
assumptions, describing along the way how the difference in these
assumptions leads to the relevant difference between their approaches
to life through death.
Connell claims that the primary assumption at the root of Kierkegaard’s
recommendation of the thought of death is, not surprisingly, the exist-
ence of the Christian God.13 This claim is probably accurate given
Kierkegaard’s theological interests and some of the statements he makes
in ‘At a Graveside’. For example, Kierkegaard says, ‘the person who is
without God in the world soon becomes bored with himself – and
expresses this haughtily by being bored with all life, but the person who
is in fellowship with God indeed lives with the one whose presence
gives infinite significance to even the most insignificant’ (p. 78). Since
Kierkegaard begins ‘At a Graveside’ in the context of belief in the
Christian God, he is in some sense committed to certain concepts about
finding significance in life and certain prohibitions on taking one’s
own life or throwing it away recklessly. From the outset, he has a
Christian agenda – to explain how one can live as God would want.
While much of his presentation of the value of thinking earnestly about
death might seem to be independent of theological considerations, in
reality, what Kierkegaard is recommending can only be compelling to
one who already wants to live a Godly life. Therefore, what might be
seen as a shortcoming14 of Kierkegaard’s description of thinking earn-

estly about death is not that, phenomenologically speaking, it misses
some important fact of death. Rather, it is simply that the way of life he
derives from the earnest thought of death does not follow for one who
does not first make Kierkegaard’s assumption. Without this assumption
it is easy to see how issues or questions might arise, such as, ‘why should
the prospect of the “all is over” galvanize the self into action?’15
Like Kierkegaard, the samurai also begin with the assumption that
there is a right way to live before making the recommendation to keep
death in mind in order to learn how this life is possible. However, the
samurai do not rely on any belief in the existence of a supernatural being
to provide them with an idea of the proper pursuits in life. Their assump-
tion is that one ought to serve one’s daimyō (feudal lord) to the best of
one’s ability, but it must be stated that the samurai notion of serving
one’s daimyō is very broad and it even includes suicide as an act of service
(Yamamoto, 1979, pp. 18, 21, 169).
While there are very obvious differences in founding one’s approach to
life through death on the idea of serving a daimyō rather than on the idea
of serving the Christian God, for the purposes of this comparison, it
seems both possible and reasonable to understand the relationship be-
tween a samurai and his daimyō in the same way that Kierkegaard under-
stands his relationship with God. Just as ‘At a Graveside’ is meant to
explain how one can live as God would want one to, In the Shadow of
Leaves, for instance, is meant to explain how one can live in the way that
will be most pleasing to one’s daimyō (Yamamoto, 2002, p. 10; 1979, pp.
168–9). Furthermore, just as the earnest thought of death can only bring about a
Godly life for one who already wants to live a Godly life, keeping death in mind
in the right way can only bring about a life of dedicated service to one’s
daimyō for one who first values such a life. Finally, as in Kierkegaard’s situ-
ation, given that the sort of life the samurai arrive at by keeping death in
mind in the right way is dependent upon the samurai assumption, it fol-
lows that this sort of life need not be accepted by one who does not, or
cannot, make this assumption. Without the samurai assumption, keeping
death in mind as the samurai recommend might not be very meaningful.
Even though neither Kierkegaard nor the samurai make a point of
explicitly acknowledging their assumptions as key factors in deriving
specific ways of life from their particular approaches to life through
death, once these assumptions are identified it becomes clear what their
motivations are in looking to death for guidance in life. Kierkegaard is
motivated by a desire to eliminate all concerns that are not relevant to
being a Christian from individuals who would be Christians. The samurai,
on the other hand, are motivated by a desire to eliminate all concerns that
are not relevant to being a samurai from individual samurai (Yamamoto,
2002, pp. xiv–xv). With comparable assumptions about how to live and
similar motivations for turning to death, and given some remarkably
similar aspects of their respective approaches to life through death, it is
no surprise that Kierkegaard and the samurai have so much in common
when considering the lives that result from each of their approaches.
Given the potentially excessive enthusiasm for death on the part of the
samurai, exemplified by the practice of seppuku, however, it is clear that
these lives are also clearly distinguishable. What remains to be demon-
strated is how awareness of both the difference in the assumptions which
lead to these lives, that is, Christian doctrine as opposed to the will of
one’s daimyō, and the overall similarity in the form of these assumptions
can lessen the differences between Kierkegaard and the samurai on the
value of life and suicide.
Resolution
After this enquiry into the similarities and differences between the re-
spective approaches to life through death of Kierkegaard and the sam-
urai, it is now time to ask whether Kierkegaard would accuse the samurai
of being in a wrong mood. In the process of coming to an answer, it will
be important to emphasize what these thinkers might learn from each
other’s approaches. Of course, the most instructive area to consider in
this vein is not the points at which they meet, but the points at which
they diverge. Having demonstrated why Kierkegaard might be critical of
the samurai approach to life through death, it seems only fair to con-
sider why the samurai might criticize Kierkegaard’s notion of life with
the earnest thought of death. Despite its focus on difference, this consid-
eration will actually lead the discussion in the direction of what will
ultimately be an overall agreement between Kierkegaard and the sam-
urai on the subject of living with death.
It may be that the samurai intentionally avoid discussion of having
too little fear of death because they believe that the potential dangers,
if they should even be called dangers, of having an insufficient fear of
death are outweighed by the potential dangers of allowing for any fear
of death at all. That is, perhaps the samurai believe that it is better to
hate life and to die than to risk being paralyzed in life by the fear of
death. If this interpretation of the samurai is correct, then they would
likely criticize Kierkegaard for his excessively lenient account of managing
the fear of death. Because he allows for some sort of fear of death he
provides an avenue of escape for cowardice in the face of death, along
which one can avoid true resolution towards death and even some of
one’s responsibilities (Yamamoto, 1979, p. 17). For example, Kierkegaard’s
understanding of the appropriate fear of death seems to exclude the
possibility of suicide, which in a samurai might make it difficult to per-
form seppuku although this might in fact be the samurai’s responsibility.
While Kierkegaard might teach the samurai that the only point of
thinking about death at all is to enhance a life that must exist in order
to be enhanced, the samurai might teach Kierkegaard that in order for
life to be truly enhanced by keeping death in mind, one must do more
than just think about death, one must genuinely be willing to die.
Despite the lessons that can be learned from studying the difference
between Kierkegaard and the samurai, by returning to the examination
of responsibilities we can see that Kierkegaard and the samurai are really
not so different after all.
Both Kierkegaard and the samurai are responsible for their actions
before their respective lords. For the follower of God, these responsibil-
ities do not include suicide, but for the retainer of a particular daimyō,
they may well include seppuku. What is interesting to notice is that this
difference springs from very similar foundational assumptions. Both
responses are rooted in the notion of obedience to one’s lord. Even
though Kierkegaard might claim that a daimyō is not worthy of the same
sort of discipleship as is God, it is doubtful that he would accuse the
samurai of being in a wrong mood, when their motivations are the
same as a Christian’s – adhering to the will of their lord. It is this adher-
ence to the will of a lord that distinguishes the samurai from the Stoic
and shows that Kierkegaard’s criticism of the latter is not necessarily
applicable to the former despite their similarity in practice.
In an effort to provide further support for the claim that Kierkegaard
and the samurai are remarkably in line concerning the approach to life
through death despite the difference exemplified by the samurai practice
of seppuku, there are other particular similarities that should be pointed
out. First, it is not necessarily the case that the samurai have no apprecia-
tion of the dangers of having an insufficient fear of death. It is simply
that they do not explicitly discuss this issue. Nor do they consistently
recommend suicide without reason or motive. This suggests that the
samurai perhaps have an unspoken notion of avoiding the insufficient
fear of death, and if this is the case, the difference between the samurai
and Kierkegaard exemplified by samurai willingness to commit suicide
might actually be seen as a difference in degree and not in kind.
The second similarity that should be pointed out is that in his consid-
eration of martyrdom, Kierkegaard speaks in language that recalls
samurai discussions of their willingness to die for their daimyō.
Kierkegaard actually claims that one should be willing to sacrifice one-
self for reasons that might not be apparent to onlookers:
Let us now think of a Christian witness. For the sake of this doctrine,
he ventures into battle with the powers that be who have his life in
their hands and who must see in him a troublemaker – this will prob-
ably cost him his life. At the same time his contemporaries, with whom
he has no immediate dispute but who are onlookers, find it ludicrous
to risk death for the sake of such fatuousness. Here there is life to lose
and truly no honor and admiration to gain! Yet to be abandoned in
this way, only in this way to be abandoned, is Christian self-denial!16
Here it could even be argued that Kierkegaard is more extreme than

the samurai. Although he is not recommending suicide, he is recom-
mending a willingness to die for no apparent gain. At least the samurai
believe honour can be gained by dying for their lord. These final simi-
larities, in addition to the closeness in their foundational assumptions,
lead to the conclusion that there is no substantial difference between
Kierkegaard and the samurai on the issue of a life approached through
death.17
Notes
1. Søren Kierkegaard, Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing, trans. Douglas Steere
(New York: Harpers, 1948) p. 41. Further references to this work will be given
in the text.
2. Søren Kierkegaard, Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions, trans. and ed.
Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton
University Press, 1993) p. 102. Further references to this work will be given in
the text.
3. Edwin O. Reischauer, Japan: the Story of a Nation (New York: McGraw-Hill,
1990) pp. 90–100; Finn Hauberg Mortensen, Kierkegaard Made in Japan
(Gylling, Denmark: Odense University Press, 1996) p. 9.
4. For a specific account of Japanese interest in Three Discourses on Imagined
Occasions, see Jun Hashimoto, ‘On Japanese Resources (Translation of the
Work and Research Literature)’, in Kierkegaard Studies Yearbook 2000, ed. Niels
Jorgen Cappelorn, Hermann Deuser and Jon Stewart (New York: Walter de
Gruyter, 2000).
5. See Mortensen, pp. 41, 72, 88, 100, 116, 163.
6. Søren Kierkegaard, Søren Kierkegaard’s Journals and Papers, vols 1 and 4, trans.
and ed. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana
University Press, 1967) p. 335. Further references to this work will be given
in the text.
7. George Connell, ‘Four Funerals: the Experience of Time by the Side of the
Grave’, in International Kierkegaard Commentary, 10, ed. Robert L. Perkins
(Macon, Georgia: Mercer University Press, 2006) p. 434.
8. Tsunetomo Yamamoto, Hagakure: the Book of the Samurai, trans. William
Scott Wilson (New York: Kodansha International, 1979) p. 17. Further refer-
ences to this work will be given in the text.
9. Yuzan Daidoji, Budoshoshinshu: the Warrior’s Primer of Daidoji Yuzan, ed. Jack
Vaughn and trans. William Scott Wilson (Burbank, California: Ohara Publications,
1984) p. 20. Further references to this work will be given in the text.
10. For similar claims see Shigetoki Hojo, ‘The Message of Master Gokurakuji’,
in Ideals of the Samurai, ed. Gregory N. Lee and trans. William Scott Wilson
(Burbank, California: Ohara Publications, 1982) pp. 37 and 43.
11. For similar claims see Mototada Torii, ‘The Last Statement of Torii Mototada’,
in Ideals of the Samurai, ed. Gregory N. Lee and trans. William Scott Wilson
(Burbank, California: Ohara Publications, 1982) pp. 121–2.
12. Tsunetomo Yamamoto, Bushido: the Way of the Samurai [Hagakure], ed. Justin
Stone and trans. Minoru Tanaka (New York: Square One Publishers, 2002)
pp. 57–8. See also, Daidoji, pp. 19–21; Yamamoto, 1979, pp. 33–4.
13. Connell, p. 436.
14. See Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh (Albany,
New York: State University of New York Press, 1996) pp. 405, 407, 412–13;
John D. Caputo, ‘Kierkegaard, Heidegger, and the Foundering of Metaphysics’,
in International Kierkegaard Commentary, 6, ed. Robert L. Perkins (Macon,
Georgia: Mercer University Press, 1993) pp. 201–3.
15. Connell, p. 436.
16. Søren Kierkegaard, Works of Love, trans. and ed. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1995) pp. 196–7.
17. I should like to thank Kelly Becker, Richard Hayes, Gordon Marino, Iain
Thomson, and William Scott Wilson, as well as the Office of Graduate
Studies at the University of New Mexico, the Hong Kierkegaard Library, the
Kierkegaard Society in Japan, and the Society for Asian and Comparative
Philosophy, for various sorts of assistance in the course of writing this
chapter. I would also like to express my deep gratitude to Andrew Burgess
for his invaluable and tireless work as my adviser.
9
Kierkegaard and Nishida: Ways to
the Non-Substantial
Eiko Hanaoka
The substantial in Western thought
European philosophy, from the ancient Greeks to Hegel, is a philosophy

that has at its centre the idea of a substantial absolute. Hegel’s
Encyclopaedia of the Philosophical Sciences (1817) is a typical example. In
this work the Christian God is conceived of as a substantial entity spon-
taneously unfolding itself through history.
In almost all components of this tradition up to and including Hegel
the idea of the Christian substantial God as well as Platonic forms are the
central philosophical themes. However, with the appearance of Nietzsche
(1844–1900) and his proclamation that God is dead, or that we killed
God, the Christian God and Platonic philosophy as the two great sub-
stantial pillars of European culture began to crumble. Because of this,
European philosophy – in which the summit was located in God, essence,
and form – descended into nihilism, just as Nietzsche had predicted.
However, even before Nietzsche, there were critics of this form of
philosophy. David Hume, for example, is a representative of an empiri-
cist non-substantial way of thinking. Hume, who wrote during the
Enlightenment, acknowledged neither the reality of the self nor God. In
a similar way George Berkeley, Hume’s contemporary, rejected the exist-
ence of Platonic or abstract ideas and also the material orld (though not
God). The other major British empiricist, John Locke from the seven-
teenth century, did not go as far as either Berkeley or Hume. This is be-
cause, although he was an empiricist in many ways, Locke nevertheless
acknowledged the notion of abstract ideas (a notion closely related to
Platonic forms), the being of a substance that existed beyond percep-
tion, and the existence of a substantial God.
159
Although each of these philosophers, in his own way, clearly rejects

aspects of substantial ways of thinking, this simple rejection is not
enough to make clear the true relation between the self and the world.
This is because making explicit this relation requires acknowledging an
openness in the dimension of the origin of both substantial and non-
substantial ways of thinking.
Another philosopher, Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), who lived before
Locke, Berkeley, and Hume, can give the superficial impression that he
is also a representative of the non-substantial way of thinking. However,
he tried to regard the mental in human beings as a sort of physical
necessity based on the idea of mechanical causality. This also depends
on substantialist notions, though here the substance is materialistic.
Contrary to both the traditional substantial way of thinking and to
the varieties of non-substantial or apparent non-substantial thinking
found in Nietzsche, the British empiricists, and Hobbes, I want to try to
understand the dimensions of nature, human beings, and the transcen-
dental from the perspective of the openness that exists at the origin of
these two types of thinking.
This perspective can be found in the works of two philosophers who
offer a turning point from the old substantial philosophy to a new existen-
tial way of thinking and different degrees of non-substantial philosophy.
These are Kierkegaard and the Japanese philosopher Nishida (1870–1945).
Kierkegaard proposes an existential way of thinking in which an in-
dividual is separated from the attachment to his or her own ego and
tries, in despair, to confront the substantial God as absolute being. Or,
again, in such separation the individual, in anxiety, confronts relative
nothingness (or the nothing, as he termed it) as the reverse side of rela-
tive being. Nishida, on the other hand, works out what he calls ‘the
place logic of absolute nothingness’. Absolute nothingness in Nishida,
as we shall see, means the absolute negation of the substantial or of the
way of thinking that is based on the subject-object scheme.
The non-substantial in Kierkegaard’s thought
When we see the non-substantial way of thinking in Kierkegaard as a

whole, two characteristics are immediately evident, namely, the idea of
pursuing the self as existence and the idea of God as a relation. These
ideas, however, only become possible if the self and God are understood
as independent from each other.
The Christian and Platonic philosophy in Europe saw not only God
or the absolute as the substantial, but also the self as substantial.
Kierkegaard and Nishida 161
Moreover, it regarded the self or soul of each individual as a central ob-

server in the cosmos, an observer that engaged in objectifying, abstract-
ing, symbolizing, idealizing, and substantiating all things.
Kierkegaard, on the other hand, tries to understand the human individual
not as the observer or a substantial self, but as the existence who lives to-
gether with all things in every happening. For Kierkegaard, the existence
that is free from a substantial self lives in a double relation. This is the rela-
tion between existence (composed of the infinite and the finite, of the
eternal and the temporal, of freedom and necessity) and its own self on the
one hand, and the relation between existence and God on the other hand.
The starting point in Kierkegaard’s thought does not consist in the
Christian God, but rather in the passionate subjectivity of the human
individual. His contribution to philosophy lies in the fact that he builds
his thought not on the basis of the paradigm of absolute being, but ra-
ther on the paradigm of relative nothingness. It should also be noted
here that, for Kierkegaard, God is not only the creator of human beings,
but also the partner in dialogue with each human being in what Buber
later calls the I-thou relationship.1
Now, as an example of a philosopher of life, Nietzsche can be proposed
as a typical representative. In his life-philosophy, life is understood as the
origin of essence (as in Hegel’s essentialism) and existence (as in
Kierkegaard’s existentialism). As mentioned above, Nietzsche predicted
that European traditional philosophy as metaphysics would fall into nihil-
ism. Nietzsche’s reasoning for this was that in essentialist European phi-
losophy the central areas of inquiry were always seen to be the Christian
God and the Platonic forms. As a result, the events of this world and the
individual perspective of each human being were largely neglected, result-
ing in the negation of both this world and the individual.
Moreover, the fact that existential thought since Kierkegaard also
could not help but fall into nihilism is, in my view, caused by the para-
digm of relative nothingness on which existential thought is built.
When essentialist ideas are based on the paradigm of absolute being –
like the ideas of the Christian God and Platonic forms – then their
removal leads to relative nothingness, which in turn leads to nihilism.
Nihilism, however, is founded on the paradigm of nihil (the Latin
word for ‘nothing’); the throne of the Christian God or of the absolute
is vacant, that is, it is claimed by nihil. In order to overcome nihilism,
the nihil must be overcome. Nietzsche advocates the idea of the ‘super-
man’, someone who can live in the world of eternal recurrence with the
will-to-power and the love of destiny. Such a person fills the vacancy
left by the absolute with his own revaluation of all values. This approach,
however, must ultimately fail. This is because it lacks the paradigm of

absolute nothingness and it is only in this paradigm, as I shall argue
shortly, that the nihil in nihilism can be truly overcome. Nihilism, taken
together with relative being, relative nothingness, and absolute being,
constitute the four main paradigms found in European philosophy.
For now, let us return to Kierkegaard’s critique of the substantialist
philosophy. A good example of this is given in the beginning of his
book The Sickness unto Death where he rejects Hegel’s essentialism by
offering an existential account of the self:
A human being is spirit. But what is spirit? Spirit is the self. But what is
the self? The self is a relation that relates itself to itself or is the relation’s
relating itself to itself in the relation; the self is not the relation but is
the relation’s relating itself to itself. A human being is a synthesis of the
infinite and the finite, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and
necessity, in short, a synthesis. A synthesis is a relation between two.
Considered in this way, a human being is still not a self.2
This distinction between spirit and the self is the distinction between
spirit, which is the core of Hegel’s philosophical system, and the self,
which is the core of Kierkegaard’s existentialism. Kierkegaard seeks to
illustrate that there is no substantial Hegelian spirit by defining it in
terms of an existential self. Further, Kierkegaard tries to maintain here
the difference between the infinite and the finite, the temporal and the
eternal, and freedom and necessity while nevertheless arguing that
there is a relation of synthesis between the two. For Kierkegaard, it is
crucial that this synthesis is between two opposing poles. This notion
is one that is further explored by Shudo Tsukiyama in Chapter 10.
When the human being is understood in terms of a Hegelian-like
spirit, then the human being must ultimately be understood within the
logic of the absolute spirit (which is the goal at which the individual
spirit will ultimately arrive). In this view, the spirit of the human being
can only play the role of an intermediary vessel through which the
absolute spirit or idea spontaneously unfolds. In such a philosophical
system the dignity of the personality of the individual, which can never
be exchanged for or merged with another person’s personality, cannot
be protected. As Kant argues, the person loses his or her dignity when
he or she is regarded as a tool or a means (though Kant, it should be
noted, held to a substantialist subject-object view of existence). This loss
of personal dignity is just what happens in Hegel’s philosophy.
The philosopher who overcomes the subject-object way of thinking is
Kierkegaard. He does so by understanding human existence as the self
which strives (or at least ought to strive) to become a true self for each
person. That is, he sees human existence as involving a problem at its
very core. It is a problem that involves the attempt to live harmoniously
within the synthesis without being biased to only one side of the rela-
tion. This is a life-long problem which only disappears with death.
This distinction between the self and the spirit concerns the second
characteristic of Kierkegaard’s way of thinking, namely, the idea of God
as a relation. For Kierkegaard, both the individual’s existence and the
Christian God are understood as things that are related to the relation
that constitutes the self. Moreover, God is understood as that for which
everything is possible. This is because Kierkegaard thinks that the idea
that everything is possible necessarily refers to God.3
In addition, his account of God makes it clear that, for Kierkegaard,
God is not wholly substantial, but rather relational. In The Concept of
Anxiety, for example, God is brought into the discussion within the
context of the biblical story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.
In this story, God is not described as an absolute substantial God,
but rather as a God who talks to an existing individual who lives in
freedom.
Further, in Philosophical Fragments, which was published in the same
year as The Concept of Anxiety, Kierkegaard advocates a new way of
defining the concept of truth. This involves the idea that the individual
can be presented with the truth that had previously been lost through
the individual’s own responsibility. Faith in God, however, is the condi-
tion which enables the individual to understand the truth.4
This way of understanding the truth is a rejection of the Platonic doc-
trine of recollection. The truth, in Kierkegaard is Christian truth, namely,
Jesus as the way, the truth, and the life. Of course, the starting point for
the idea of truth in Kierkegaard’s thought lies in his claim that ‘truth is
subjectivity’.5 However, after the individual acquires the faith necessary
to be able to understand the truth, the truth lies not on the side of sub-
jectivity, but on the side of God. In other words, subjectivity is no longer
the truth. This point is taken up further in the next chapter.
Thus, in Kierkegaard we find a not completely non-substantial way of
thinking. What we have is rather a half non-substantial way of think-
ing. This half non-substantial way of thinking is displayed in his view
of the self’s relation to God. But this is not the only place where it
appears in Kierkegaard’s philosophy. It is also there in his way of think-
ing about love as spontaneity and simultaneous responsibility, and in
his thinking about anxiety as ‘freedom’s actuality as the possibility
before possibility’.6 For Kierkegaard, this half non-substantial way of
thinking also plays the peculiar role of acting as a go-between between

half non-substantial and completely non-substantial ways of thinking.
The non-substantial in Nishida’s thought
Let us now see how Nishida deals with these issues. At the core of Nishida’s
thought lies the idea of ‘the place logic of absolute nothingness’. For
Nishida, ‘the place of absolute nothingness’ means ‘the ground of un-
qualified infinite openness’.7 Absolute nothingness refers to the absolute
negation of the substantial standpoint. The field or place of the absolute
nothingness in which every substantial standpoint is negated can sub-
sume all perspectives based on the four main paradigms mentioned above,
that is, the paradigms of relative being, relative nothingness, absolute
being, and nihilism. This fifth paradigm of absolute nothingness can ex-
plain the standpoints of the other four paradigms with the help of love (as
agape) and compassion. I believe that these five paradigms can combine
Western or European philosophy and Eastern or Japanese philosophy.
The concept of absolute nothingness is argued by Nishida to be the
foundation of all other paradigms which dominated and continue to
dominate the various Western approaches to metaphysics, based as they
are on the paradigms of relative being, relative nothingness, absolute
being, and nihilism.
In the first paradigm, relative being for a framework of thinking is the
conceptual core in all thinking about nature. The logic here consists in
the three principles of thinking, namely in laws of identity, contradiction,
and the excluded middle.
Moreover, the individual in this situation is not yet a true self, but
remains within himself or herself as an unopened or closed self. Such
an individual, who thinks purely on the basis of objective logic, is un-
able to open himself or herself to the place of absolute nothingness
wherein the true self abides. It is also within this paradigm that one can
conceive of new physical theories like the theory of relativity, quantum
theory and complementarity, and Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle.
In the second paradigm, relative nothingness as a way of thinking
underlies existential thinking as found in Kierkegaard. Relative noth-
ingness consists in oneness with relative being. This is because the
former is the other side of the latter. Relative nothingness is realized as
the nothingness of anxiety and despair in each individual. The indi-
vidual exists here in detachment, liberated from the closed self, but not
yet aware of the true self of the individual. This is because the thinking
here is only a half non-substantial way of thinking.
The third paradigm is that of absolute being. This paradigm, as I have

pointed out, is the one that has dominated both traditional Western
metaphysics, with its notions of absolute reality and ideal forms, and
also Christian theology, with its substantial and objective God.
However, since Nietzsche, Platonic idealism and the God of Christian
theology have lost any real power over philosophers and thinking has
turned towards nihilism, the fourth paradigm. In this way of thinking
each individual has neither aim, nor meaning, nor values for which to
live. Nevertheless, this paradigm, as is evident with Nietzsche, can play
the role of a catalyst with which the individual can break through
meaninglessness and become a true self.
In such a breaking through the individual can be reborn in the death
of the nihilistic self through absorption in religious discipline, literature,
arts or sports, all of which can help him or her to acquire a true self.
When the individual breaks through the wall of nihilism, even if for an
instant, the true self can be realized. This true self is, as the Kyoto phil-
osopher Shinichi Hisamatsu puts it, a ‘formless self’.8 As Eshin Nishimura
points out in Chapter 4, for Hisamatsu, this is the self of no-self, some-
thing that is only discovered in pure subjectivity. This subjective being is,
in Nishimura’s words, no longer an ordinary existence which is opposed
to the world but is rather the existence of non-existence. Subjectivity here
is something that becomes identified with the objective world.
This instance of discovery, which is similar to Kierkegaard’s idea of the
moment as an element of eternity, is for Nishida the eternal now in the
place of absolute nothingness. This is something, says Nishida, that is
often realized by the Zen discipline of zazen or sitting meditation. The
infinite openness, which is common to the self and the world, can be
opened and realized in Zen practice, even though the self and the world
are, in another sense, independent. Nishida originally called this experi-
ence of realization in the place of absolute nothingness ‘pure experience’.
Unfortunately, many people misunderstood this term as referring to
something like the psychological state described by William James.
Nishida’s notion, however, is fundamentally different from James’
notion. He therefore changed the term to ‘pure activity’ (like Fichte’s
Tathandlung). This then referred to what he called the ‘the place’ of
absolute nothingness. Later he tried to make this idea more concrete
by calling it the ‘dialectic universal’ which was supposed to be imme-
diate in the form of ‘acting intuition’. Finally, he referred to his ori-
ginal idea of pure experience as either the historically real world or the
world of creativity, depending on the degree of non-substantialism he
was considering.
According to Nishida, Zen practice is modified into philosophy in that

Zen and philosophy become unified. He began his practice of Zen when
he was 26 years old. This shows the early stage at which self-awareness –
the core of Zen meditation – was an element in his thinking. For Nishida,
however, self-awareness refers not only to self-awareness in Zen
Buddhism, but also to religious self-awareness generally. Nishida’s con-
cept here can thus also include religious self-awareness in Christianity.
Since, however, Nishida was a Japanese philosopher born and raised
in the Shintō culture of Japan, this also raises the question of the rela-
tion of Nishida’s philosophy to Shintō. Shintō, it should be noted, is
also grounded not in the intellect, but in awareness and feeling. In fact,
Shintō is very near to the non-substantial way of thinking in Nishida’s
philosophy. However, in Shintō the self-awareness of the true self is not
yet decisive. In this sense Nishida’s philosophy is much nearer to the
reality, where the true self and the world are, as we shall see shortly,
absolutely contradictorily self-identical. Yet, in Shintō the idea of natu-
ralness – in the sense of ‘to be natural’ – is much deeper than in Nishida.
In an important sense, however, Shintō is a national religion that is
tied to the culture of the people of Japan. In this it is quite distinct from
universal religions, such as Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism, which are
not limited, as Shintō is, by a geographical region, nationality, and
culture. Because of this limitation Shintō lacks the basis on which to
propagate its insights as universal insights. Nevertheless, in Shintō trad-
itional Japanese feelings and the morality considered proper to the
Japanese people are realized. Moreover, in Shintō the natural environ-
ment – including the Japanese living environment – is expressed in a way
appropriate to Japanese culture and tradition, where human beings and
nature are conceived to be a oneness, as they were in ancient Japan.
For example, in the Manyoˉshū or Ten Thousand Leaves, the first
collection of poems in Japan (759 CE), there is the following poem,
which displays a Shintō sentiment:
Producing blue colours

in capital Nara
trail
white clouds in the sky
I see without being insatiable.9
In this poem we get a feeling for how the ancient Japanese lived in
oneness with nature. This view of nature in ancient Japan can also be
found in Japanese Buddhist writings; for here there was also the
influence of Shintō naturalism. This can be seen in a fascicle of Dōgen’s

Shoˉboˉgenzoˉ called ‘Zazen shin’ or ‘Point of Zazen’. Here Dōgen gives the
following poem:
Water is clear to the bottom,

where fish sail as they do
the sky is vast and clear to the heaven,
where birds fly away as they do.10
Nishida, however, lacks this idea of ‘to be natural’ or ‘suchness’

(Japanese: nyoˉ) because he tries to unify the idea of scientific nature
with that of historical nature while ignoring literary nature, which is
where suchness is expressed. (For further discussions of Shintō natural-
ism and its relation to Japanese thought see Chapters 1 and 12.)
Now, for Nishida, the self and the world are independent on the one
side and, nevertheless, originally identical on the other. He expressed
this fact by saying the self and the world are ‘absolutely contradictorily
self-identical’. With Nishida, the two sides of polarity or duality in
objective logic are characterized as being absolutely contradictorily self-
identical in the place of absolute nothingness. The logic of absolute-
contradictory self-identity is, in Nishinda’s terminology, called the logic
of emptiness in the place of absolute nothingness.
The logic of such self-identity is the core of the logic in the
Mulamādhyamaka Sūtra by the Indian Mahāyāna philosopher Nagarjuna
(c.150–c.250 CE). I earlier mentioned the three logical principles of
thinking – the laws of identity, contradiction, and the excluded middle –
in the substantialist paradigm of relative being. In the logic of emptiness
Nagarjuna refers to the four principles known as ‘the prudence of the
four phrases’ (shiku funbetsu in Japanese). These are as follows:
1. A is B (affirmation).
2. A is not B (negation).
3. A is B and simultaneously A is not B (affirmation and negation).
4. Neither A is B nor A is not B (neither affirmation nor negation).
An example of (1) would be ‘I am nothingness’, while an example of

(2) would be ‘I am not nothingness’. An example of (3), which is both
the affirmation of (1) and the affirmation of the negation that is (2),
would be ‘I am nothingness and simultaneously not nothingness’.
Finally, an example of (4) would be ‘I am neither nothingness, nor not
nothingness’. This is the negation of (1) and (2).
The significance of this logic of emptiness consists in its showing that

the nature of a thing cannot be fully captured with words. Rather, it lies
between the lines. As an example of the concept of absolute-contradictory
self-identity Nishida gives a phrase by Daito-kokushi, a Zen master from
the Kamakura period who was the founder of the temple of Daitokuji in
Kyoto. Daito Kokushi’s words are: ‘Distinct for a billion kalpas of time,
yet not separate for a single instant; opposite one another all day long,
yet not opposed for a single instant.’11 This is an example of an inverse
correspondence between two poles, much like the duality found in the
concepts of the one and the many or the self and the world. Even if the
Buddha (or God) and I or the self and the world are infinitely distinct in
a objective and substantial world, the Buddha (or God) and I are, in a
non-substantial place of absolute nothingness, originally self-identical.
This is because the whole of the world is in oneness in the non-substan-
tial place of absolute nothingness. In religion, to live in the inverse
world means to live in the world of self-awareness of the self and the
world. What is characterized as the world of a inverse correspondence
in the objective logic can be called the world of the everyday mind,
when it is understood from the perspective of the place of absolute
nothingness.
Now, Nishida argues for a philosophical view that, he feels, can
subsume traditional European metaphysics, including the essential
philosophy from Plato to Hegel, existential thought represented by
Kierkegaard, the life-philosophy represented by Nietzsche, and so on.
While European traditional metaphysics is, for the most part, based on
the substantial and attachment to the self while also being founded on
the intellect, Nishida’s philosophy is founded on the thought of
emptiness and the idea of interdependent origination argued for in
Mahāyāna Buddhism. Further, he bases his philosophical position not
on the intellect, but on feeling, awareness, and the will.
Nishida asserts that philosophy begins with the sadness of human
life (here we see how the Japanese concept of aware, or the sadness of
things, finds expression in Nishida’s philosophy). This contrasts with
the Western idea, prevalent at least since Aristotle, that philosophy
begins with astonishment. The sadness of human life in Nishida’s
philosophy is the premise of his ‘pure experience’, which lies at the
core of his ideas of religious experience and philosophy. However,
Nishida’s philosophy as a philosophical system begins with the
self-awareness of the world, an awareness that unifies all things. As he
says, ‘heaven and earth grow from the same root, and the myriad of
things are one system’.12 Still, this core in Nishida’s philosophy
locates the world before his philosophical system. An essential idea in

Nishida’s philosophy is that, through ‘pure experience’ as the heart of
the religious experience, the true self can be aware of itself. In other
words, ‘it is not that there is experience because there is an individual,
but that there is an individual because there is experience’.13 This view
of the relation between the individual and experience fits with Nishida’s
expressed desire ‘to explain all things on the basis of pure experience as
the sole reality’.14
In Kierkegaard the relations of the self to itself and also to God must
always be transparent. However, in Nishida the relations between the
self and the place of absolute nothingness should be one of absolute-
contradictory self-identity in infinite openness (as the place of absolute
nothingness).
Now, when the individual at last breaks through to the place of
becoming aware of the self – to what Nishida calls ‘the self-aware
universal place’ – then this latter place immediately subsumes the
former (that is, the paradigm from which the individual broke through).
In 1929 Nishida used the term ‘the self-aware universal’ for the first
time. Later in the same year he coined the term ‘the place of expressing
the universal’.15 This latter term was introduced to refer to the further
experience of expressing the self-aware universal.
When the place of absolute nothingness is experienced and the
experience is expressed, then the place of expressing the universal is
opened. When the place of the self-aware universal is subsumed by the
place of expressing the universal through the former’s breakthrough to
the latter, the individual’s true self is able to arrive at a particular
awareness. This is the awareness that the individual self-awareness of the
true self consists in the self-awareness of the world. And, moreover, that
both kinds of awareness consist in absolute-contradictory self-identity in
the place of absolute nothingness. Finally, when the place of creativity is
realized, the individual self (who simultaneously both creates and is
created) in turn subsumes the place of absolute nothingness.
As mentioned earlier, Nishida’s idea of pure experience eventually
evolved into the idea of the historically real world. Nishida explains the
world of this historical reality by using the double relation of the indi-
vidual to himself or herself and also to God by quoting Kierkegaard’s
words in the beginning of The Sickness unto Death. He does this in his
‘Introduction to Practical Philosophy’ (1940). In this treatise the rela-
tion of the individual existence to its own existence in Kierkegaard cor-
responds to what Nishida calls ‘the building action of the self’. The
relation of the self to God in Kierkegaard corresponds to expressing the
building action of the world in Nishida. Kierkegaard’s idea of the

personal relation between the self and God through the mediation of
sin-consciousness, corresponds to Nishida’s idea of absolute-contradictory
self-identity through the mediation of absolute nothingness as the
absolute negation of the substantial point of view.
In Kierkegaard’s thought the individual encounters God, who is self-
emptying. This can be seen, for example, in the Bible in ‘Philippians’
2:7 where God is said to ‘make himself of no reputation’ (kenosis, the
Greek word used here, means self-emptying). In Kierkegaard’s view, the
individual builds both society and the world in their double relation to
his or her own existence and to God. The individual does this so far as
he or she answers to love as agape from God and thus constructs society
and the world on the basis of the love for neighbours. The self-awareness
of equality of all human beings on the basis of the love for neighbours
through faith is self-awareness for Kierkegaard.
In conclusion I should like to say that the philosophy of religion
suitable to our time begins with the origin of substantial and non-
substantial ways of thinking and with the origin of the mechanical
view of nature and teleological views of history. In order to make clear
the relation between the self and the world or the relation between the
three dimensions of nature, human beings and the transcendental, it is
not enough to think in merely substantial or non-substantial ways of
thinking. We, who live in the twenty-first century, have to think these
relations not only from the standpoint of objective logic, but also of the
logic of emptiness. Otherwise none of us will ever be able to live as the
true self common to all nature.
Notes
1. Martin Buber, I and Thou, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Touchstone, 1970.
2. Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
3. Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death, p. 40.
4. Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
5. Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, trans. Howard V. Hong and
Edna H. Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1992) p. 189.
6. Kierkegaard, The Concept of Anxiety, trans. Reidar Thomte (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1980) p. 42.
7. Kitaro Nishida, ‘Basho’ [‘Place’] in Nishida Kitaro zenshū [Complete Works of Kitaro
Nishida] 4, ed. Torataro Shimomura (Tokyo: Iwanami Press, 1965) p. 209.
8. Shinichi Hisamatsu, ‘Kaku to sozo’ [‘Self-awareness and Creativity’] in
Hisamatsu Shinichi zenshū [Complete Works of Shinichi Hisamatsu] 3 (Tokyo:
Risōsha, 1972) p. 458.
9. Manyoˉshū, 2, ed. Nobutsuna Sasaki (Tokyo: Iwanami Press, 1996) p. 139 (as
with all other quotations from Japanese works, this is my own translation).
10. Dōgen, The Shoˉboˉgenzoˉ, I, translated by Yūhū Yokoi (Tokyo: Sankibo Buddhist
Bookstore, 1986) p. 145.
11. Nishida, ‘Bashotekironri to syūkyoˉteki sekaikan’ [‘Place-Logic and the Religious
World-View’] in Nishida Kitaro zenshū, 11, p. 409.
12. Nishida, Zen no kenkyū [An Inquiry into the Good] in Nishida Kitaro zenshū, 1,
p. 156.
13. Nishida, Zen no kenkyū, p. 28.
14. Nishida, Zen no kenkyū, p. 4.
15. Nishida, ‘Sosetsu’ [‘An Outline’] in Nishida Kitaro zenshū, 5, pp. 471–81.
10
The Religious Thought of Nishida
and Kierkegaard
Shudo Tsukiyama
Introduction
Nishida and Kierkegaard can be seen as representative thinkers of the

contemporary East and West. Both possess originality, depth, and
prominence, and underpinning their thought is the idea of religious
existence. It is this basic commonality which I wish to focus on in this
chapter. Eiko Hanaoko has considered the relationship between the
philosophical thought of Nishida and Kierkegaard in the previous chap-
ter. Here – in what I hope will complement her study – I wish to con-
sider in particular their similarities in the area of religious thought. I
will examine these similarities from three points of view that are
intended to enable an investigation of the basic characteristics of their
religious thought. On a wider scale, I also hope that this will to some
extent broaden both philosophical exchange and religious dialogue be-
tween East and West. Such dialogue can only help to achieve mutual
understanding between our different cultures, and thus aid in the pro-
motion of harmony and world peace.
The three points of view presented below are, firstly, religion and
ways of enquiring into religion; secondly, the religious problem; and,
thirdly, the proper relationship of the self to God: inverse correspond-
ence and absolute paradox.
Religion and ways of enquiring into religion
The first question to answer is how Nishida and Kierkegaard grasp reli-
gion in general. Nishida refers often to religion throughout his writings,
albeit usually only in fragmentary references. He did, however, first set
out his view of religion more definitely in his book, An Inquiry into the
172
The Religious Thought of Nishida and Kierkegaard 173
Good (1911). Still, a thematic approach to his view of religion is not

found until his last major work, ‘Place-Logic and the Religious World-
View’. Here we find his well-known definition of religion: ‘Religion is a
fact in spiritual self-awareness. A philosopher should not fabricate reli-
gion from his own philosophical system. He must explain such a fact in
spiritual self-awareness.’1 Or again, ‘There is no religion without God. God
is the fundamental concept of religion ... God manifests himself as a fact in
spiritual self-awareness in each self. God cannot be known just intellec-
tually ... but it should not be said that God is therefore subjective’ (p. 372).
From this we can begin to establish some of Nishida’s views about
religion. First of all, Nishida regards religion as a fact in spiritual self-
awareness that is, awareness of oneself as a spiritual entity. When he says
that a philosopher should not fabricate religion from his philosophical
system but explain ‘such a fact’, the religious thought of Nishida as a
philosopher must also be seen as the expression of a religious fact in spir-
itual self-awareness. It must aim to account for the religious fact as such.
In Nishida’s definition, religion is a fact itself, and the role of philosophy
is explanation of this fact. Therefore we must understand that the duties
of religious thinkers and of philosophers are always different. It should
accordingly be understood that Nishida’s religious thought takes the
form of philosophical and logical expression to explain the factuality of
religion as it exists in our awareness. This corresponds to his philosoph-
ical standpoint which is ‘thoroughly to see logos in a fact’ (p. 370).
Secondly, when Nishida observes that there is no religion without
God, and that God is the most fundamental concept of religion, he
places God at the heart of all religious facts. But where and in what as-
pect does God manifest himself as spiritual self-awareness in our indi-
vidual selves? Just as colour shows itself as colour in our eyes and sound
is heard in our ears – sensed rather than intellectualized – so neither
can God be contemplated only intellectually. Such is not God. Yet it is
also said that God must not be considered something wholly subjective
either. Further, since such a God manifests himself as spiritual self-
awareness in each one of us, the real location of religion is in each
human being, and the primary religious matter concerns God and the
self in each individual. In other words, God and the self cannot be
separated. Accordingly, the matter of God is immediately a matter of
the self as well. As a result, the place in which religious questions are
raised or revelations occur lies within ourselves. This could suggest
that the religious problem is one concerning the self itself. (Below we
consider in more detail the idea that the relationship between God and
the self is the focal point of religious concern in Nishida’s religious
thought, and in what ways the religious problem is concerned with the
self itself).
Thirdly, Nishida argues that:
A person who deals with religion must at least have his or her own
religious consciousness as a fact in spiritual self-awareness. If not, he
may deal with something other than religion even though he believes
he is dealing with religion. I think that in terms of objective logic
not only can we not deal with a religious fact, but a religious fact
does not even come into being. (pp. 373–4)
Here we find both Nishida’s description of the basic attitude or

position necessary for the person who deals with religion, and his own
view of the way to question and investigate a religious problem. In other
words, Nishida thinks as follows: a religious experience in the profound-
est sense is a fact of the religious in our awareness, therefore a person
who discusses religion must to some extent understand a religious con-
sciousness in his or her own self. A person who wants to explain a reli-
gious fact must himself or herself directly touch the fact to some extent.
If the person does not, he or she will be dealing with something other
than religion. Such an attitude or position is thus immediately related
to the method of enquiry into religion itself. That is, Nishida thinks
that the standpoint of objective logic is not only unsuitable but also un-
feasible as a method for investigating a religious fact and to question
religious problems.
What, then, is the proper way of enquiring into religion? According
to Nishida, it should be done in a way that is both self-aware and
introspective. Only then can a religious fact be revealed for what it is.
This approach aims ‘to explain a fact’, and also ‘to see logos in a fact’, to
use Nishida’s terms. Such a self-aware and introspective analysis means
endless deepening of self-awareness in a reflection on religious con-
sciousnes. For Nishida, the most thorough dialectic in the logic of self-
awareness is the ‘absolute dialectic’ which consists of the immediacy of
absolute denial.
What does he mean by this? In Nishida’s philosophy this absolute
dialectic is the ‘logic of place’. Briefly, the actual historical world is really
formed as a world of the absolutely contradictory self-identity of one (the
general) and many (the individual). What establishes this identity is the
dialectical movement of what he calls absolute negation-as-affirmation,
which is enabled by the self-determination of ‘absolute nothingness’.
This concept is discussed by Eiko Hanaoka in the previous chapter. The
point of this dialectic then is that it is based on the immediacy of absolute

denial. In terms of Nishida’s philosophy, the ‘logic of place’ which is
formed by the self-determination of the ‘place of absolute nothingness’
must be the ‘absolute dialectic’. (For Nishida, the absolute dialectic would
inversely have to be the logic of place.)
In summary, one could say the way of explaining a religious fact or
the mind which cannot be objectified must be through self-awareness
and introspective analysis. The logic of self-awareness in its most thor-
ough form ought to be the ‘absolute dialectic’ which contains absolute
denial in itself. In other words, according to Nishida, the proper way to
enquire into religion or ask about religious problems must conclusively
follow the logic of self-awareness, and it must simultaneously use place-
logic as the absolute dialectic. ‘Place-Logic and the Religious World-
View’ explicitly supports this hypothesis.
Turning to Kierkegaard now, let ask how he sees religion and enquiry
into religion or religious problems. Underlying the whole of Kierkegaard’s
thought is the theme of existence, and what permeates the whole of
this existence is its religious character. According to Kierkegaard, our
existence is divided into three stages: aesthetic, ethical, and religious.
However, it could be argued that aesthetic and ethical existences are
deficient forms of religious existence. What aesthetic existence lacks is
the earnestness of existing before God. Ethical existence lacks the
decisive frame of ‘before God’ or ‘with an idea of God’ as the ultimate
ground for human existence.
What is religious existence then? Kierkegaard’s answer is that it is
‘what it means to exist and what inwardness is. It is entirely correct that
the religious is the existing inwardness, and religiousness heightens in
accord with the deepening of this qualification, and the paradoxical-
religious becomes the last. All interpretations of existence take their
rank in relation to the qualification of the individual’s dialectical
inward deepening.’²
He continues as follows:
If in himself the individual is unable to practice logic and has his

dialectic outside himself, then we have the aesthetical interpretation.
If the individual is dialectically turned inward in self-assertion in
such a way that the ultimate foundation does not in itself become
dialectical ... then we have the ethical interpretation. If the individual
is defined as dialectically turned inward in self-annihilation before
God, then we have Religiousness A. If the individual is paradoxical-
dialectical, every remnant of original immanence annihilated, and
all connection cut away, and the individual situated at the edge of
existence, then we have the paradoxical-religious. The paradoxical
inwardness is the greatest possible ... the break makes the inwardness
the greatest possible.³
There are several important points here. First, the religious is ‘existing
inwardness’, and it becomes the basic qualification of religiousness in
general because it contains both what he calls religiousness A and
religiousness B. (This qualification would correspond to Nishida’s ‘reli-
gion is a fact in spiritual self-awareness’.) But what is ‘existing inward-
ness’? Kierkegaard thinks that inwardness is to take suffering as the
essential matter of the self:
It [suffering] is the turning around of the relation, dying to immedi-

acy or existentially expressing that the individual is capable of doing
nothing himself but is nothing before God ... and self-annihilation is
the essential form for the relationship with God ... Religiously, the
task is to comprehend that a person is nothing at all before God or to
be nothing at all and thereby to be before God, as He continually
insists upon having this incapability before him. Its disappearance is
the disappearance of religiousness.4
In short, the existing inwardness is the dialectical movement of

becoming oneself through self-annihilation before God. In accordance
with the deepening self-awareness of self-annihilation, religiousness A
and B are divided on just this point. That is, if the self-annihilation is
not thorough, and the inwardness of existence is just dialectical, then
there is religiousness A. If, on the other hand, it is thorough, then the
inwardness is paradoxically dialectical and the religious truth corre-
sponding to this is also paradoxical. Here, then, there is religiousness B.
This is where original religiousness is realized.
But how did Kierkegaard think about ways of questioning religion or
religious problems and expressing them? In his view, religion could be
neither the subject of the gifted imagination of a poet, nor the object of
speculative thought. Religion cannot be comprehended or expressed ob-
jectively nor speculatively. The proper way to enquire into religion and
religious problems is to go straight to the point, through the introspective
analysis of one’s own existence. It must also be paradoxically dialectical,
to correspond to the religious matter or the ‘truth’ to be questioned.
Hence, Nishida’s and Kierkegaard’s definitions of religion (‘religion is
a fact in spiritual self-awareness’ and ‘religion is the existing inwardness’)
clearly differ in verbal expression. Nishida’s definition is given from

a comprehensive standpoint which takes into account Christianity,
Zen Buddhism, Pure Land Buddhism, and even Shintō, while
Kierkegaard’s is exclusively in the form of Christian expression. It
should be mentioned, however, that although Nishida’s view takes
Shintō into account, in ‘Place-Logic and the Religious World-View’,
Nishida does not refer to Shintō at all. There are two main reasons
for this.
Firstly, while Shintō certainly belongs to the category of Nishida’s def-
inition of religion, the gods of Shintō are the kami who were originally
venerated by people of the local community as a whole or by the family
or the whole nation, they were not normally worshipped by individuals
as such. Consequently, the concerns of Shintō are often the notions of
safety, peace, and prosperity for the whole group or society, not just in
terms of the individual. As a result, in Shintō the attitudes, rituals, and
feasts, which members of the group or society celebrate in order to ven-
erate their common deities are often seen to be more significant than
the spirituality of each individual. These, however, are not the essential
matters which Nishida deals with in his main work in religion.
Secondly, the frequently social location of religious problems in Shintō –
in groups or society rather than in individuals – means that Shintō is not
necessarily a religion which is derived from any awareness of the deep
contradiction of being of our own selves. In this sense then, Shintō is not
so much an individual or personal religion as a social or national one.
Accordingly, Shintō does not and cannot radically question the mat-
ters of life, death, sin and vice which are at the core of religiousness A.
The essential importance in Shintō of the relationship of the whole
community to their gods, rather than the relationship of each individ-
ual to an absolute God, is the main reason for its absence from ‘Place-
Logic and the Religious World-View’. In terms of Nishida’s view of
religion, although Shintō holds a great deal of spiritual purity, piety,
sublimity, and holiness (all necessary for religion) their forms are not
sufficiently self-aware to be unfolded yet into thought. Shintō still
remains ‘primitive’ as a result.
Now, although Nishida’s and Kierkegaard’s definitions of religion dif-
fer in verbal expression, their views on religion and ways of questioning
it, especially from the viewpoint of religious facts, have a number of
significant points in common. Nishida’s ‘fact in spiritual self-awareness’
and Kierkegaard’s ‘existing inwardness’ are more significant for their
similarities than for their differences, not least because the former
signifies deeper religiousness than the latter.
The second important point to be considered is that Nishida and

Kierkegaard are also very close in their views of the logical structure of
religious facts. What we see in Nishida’s ‘religious fact in spiritual self-
awareness’ is absolute dialectic as place-logic, while the existential
structure which enables the existence of Kierkegaard’s ‘existing inward-
ness’ is paradoxically dialectical. In other words, absolute dialectic and
paradoxical dialectic have more common features than differences.
This point will be discussed later.
Thirdly, there is much that is shared or in close concordance in the
ways in which both thinkers question and express religious ideas. That is,
the two ways of enquiring share a thoroughly self-aware and introspective
analysis, and such ways must also be thoroughly dialectical. Both
Nishida’s absolute dialectic and Kierkegaard’s paradoxical dialectic are, so
to speak, the qualitative dialectic which reflects absolute self-denial.
However, we also find distinct differences between Nishida and
Kierkegaard, particularly arising from the traditions that underlie their
approach to religious problems and their expression. Nishida tries logi-
cally to explain a religious fact, or thoroughly to see logos in a religious
fact. In contrast, Kierkegaard’s method is passionate, corresponding to
the infinite fervour of religious inwardness. These differences are impor-
tant in characterizing the individuality of their thought, but they
should not be regarded as crucial to distinguishing differences between
them. Indeed, despite Kierkegaard’s passionate method, Nishida appre-
ciates the seriousness and the thoroughness of Kierkegaard’s analysis of
the self, and he is often receptive to Kierkegaard in developing and
expressing his own thought.5 However, there remain significant differ-
ences between logic and passion as ways of representing thought,
although that must remain a topic for another time.
The religious problem
As we have seen, it is clear that the religious problem for both Nishida
and Kierkegaard is a problem concerning the self. Further, for both, it
concerns the being of the self. But where does the problem actually lie?
We can say that the religious problem arises just where the being of one’s
self is contradictory. That is, it rises from the fact that the self is a con-
flicted being. Both Nishida and Kierkegaard think that the self is contra-
dictory, and the religious problem comes from the contradiction of the
self’s being. This point is especially significant for understanding their
religious thought because it is also the point at which religion becomes
distinct from morality. For example, Nishida states that religion is the
matter of what and how the self is, not of what and how it should be. The
latter is a moral problem (see Nishida, p. 406). This signifies that religion
is the matter of the self’s being itself. The same is true for Kierkegaard.
However, the problem appears to them in different ways, because their
understanding of the self differs. Despite this fact, it is worth noticing that
their understanding of the logical structure of the self is very close.
What is the self-contradiction of the self’s being from which the reli-
gious problem rises? Nishida’s answer is that:
in terms of morality, the being of the self cannot be asked about,

because one’s morals are ‘from’ (or ‘based on’) the being of the self,
even though the self realizes how evil and sinful it is. It is nothing
but a negation of morality to deny this ... In what case does the reli-
gious problem manifest itself to us, then? The matter of religion is
not one of value. When we are conscious of the deep self-contradiction
that lies at the basis of our self, or when we become aware of our own
self-contradictory being, then the being of our self becomes itself
problematic ... when we thoroughly go on gazing at this fact, the
religious problem ought to be brought to us. It does not require
a pessimistic philosopher to tell us that our wants are self-
contradictory ... The culmination of morality would be denying mor-
ality itself. The moral will itself contains self-contradiction ... however,
I think that the fundamental fact of self-contradiction in being of
our selves is the self-awareness of death. (pp. 393–4)
What, then, is the self-awareness of death and how is this awareness

possible? Nishida replies that:
when our self is before the absolute, then it is aware of its own eter-
nal death. By facing absolute denial, we know our eternal death ... Thus,
it is the fundamental reason of being of the self that our self knows
its eternal death, because only a person who knows his or her eternal
death knows that he or she is truly an individual ... When the self
knows its eternal death, or its eternal annihilation, then is it really
self-aware. It must be absolutely contradictory that the self is under
such a condition ... The living must be the mortal. That is indeed contra-
dictory. There, however, is the existence of our self. This is also what I
stated about a religious fact in spiritual self-awareness. (pp. 395–6)
This is the religious problem for Nishida. The point is that the religious
problem rises from the self-contradiction of being of the self. The radical
fact of self-contradiction is the self-awareness of death. It is when one is

facing the absolute that one is aware of eternal death. An individual who
knows his or her eternal death is really self-aware. The radical raison d’être
of the self, is the absolute contradiction, namely eternal life through eter-
nal death, and absolute self-affirmation through absolute self-denial. Thus,
if such a state of affairs should be expressed logically, it must be absolute
dialectic as place-logic which contains absolute denial. This is what is meant
by Nishida’s explanation of a religious fact in spiritual self-awareness.
How is it with Kierkegaard then? It is clear that the religious problems
for Kierkegaard are also located in the contradiction of being of the self.
His analysis of the self and despair indicate that. His thought illustrates
that the human being is spirit and spirit is the self. The self is a relation
which relates to its own self. Such a relation must either have estab-
lished itself or have been established by another. If this relation is estab-
lished by another, the relation is the third term, but this third term is in
turn a relation relating itself to that which constituted the whole rela-
tion. Such an established relation is the human self. Thus, the human
self relates to its own self, and relates itself to another. In short, the
human self is a self-relation which has a relation to another in itself.
Hence there can be the two forms of despair in the strictest sense;
despair at not willing to be oneself and despair at being oneself.6
Thus, the religious problem for Kierkegaard is undoubtedly the fact
that the self is in despair, and that the despair is no less than the dis-
jointed relationship between the self as a self-relation and God as
another power which constituted it. This ‘disrelationship’ is also the
contradiction between the self and God, and this contradiction is a
further self-contradiction in the self. Therefore, the most difficult and
the greatest self-contradiction is that the self is in the proper relation to
the power (God) who created it.
The self-contradiction of despair is not simple. It is infinitely deep
and complicated. It must, therefore, be the greatest task for the indi-
vidual self to resolve. If such a task can existentially be represented, it
ought to be within the paradoxical dialectic or absolute paradox.
At this point, it is clear to see how, concerning the religious problem,
Nishida and Kierkegaard base their ideas on a common premise.
The proper relationship of the self to God: inverse

correspondence and absolute paradox
For Nishida and Kierkegaard, it is only possible that the self becomes a
real self in the proper relationship of the self to God. What, then, is the
proper relationship between the real self and God? What is the real self
here? And what and how is God as the real absolute in the relation to
the real self?
The proper relationship between the self and God implies the following
doubleness. One is the proper relation of the self to God; the other is the
relation of God to the self or the human being. In the former, the self can
only become a real self by overcoming or unravelling religious tasks
through faith, spiritual awakening, practice, prayer, and so on. The latter –
for God to realize himself, God’s love, or the Buddha’s compassion – is
more problematic. In other words, what is God’s expression of agape, or
the Buddha’s ‘great compassion’ and how is it capable of the task of rela-
tion? The positions of both the self and God raise further questions. They
are interrelated and they are inseparable. On this point Nishida argues:
It is in death that the relative faces the absolute. It is in death when

our individual self faces God as the absolute ... But it cannot be said
that the relative faces the absolute. The absolute that faces the rela-
tive is not the absolute either. The absolute itself is also the relative.
Therefore, if the relative faces the absolute, then there must be death.
That must be becoming nothingness. Only through death, can each
self come into contact with God in the inversely correspondent way
of being. (p. 396)
Accordingly, the proper relationship between the real self and God
must be inversely correspondent. So how is God, in the inverse corre-
spondent relation to the self or as the real absolute? Nishida states:
In what meaning is the absolute real? The absolute is the real absolute
by facing nothingness. It (the absolute) is the supreme being by facing
absolute nothingness ... The self is not the absolute as long as there is
something that denies or is opposed to the self outside itself. The abso-
lute must contain absolute self-denial in itself. And this must further
mean that the self becomes absolute nothingness. As far as the self does
not become absolute nothingness, something is opposed to it. That is,
it cannot be said that the self contains absolute self-denial in itself.
Therefore, that the self is self-contradictorily opposed to itself means
that nothingness stands for nothingness. In this sense, the real absolute
must be absolutely contradictorily self-identical. (pp. 397–8)
Nishida’s point is that God is the real absolute in that he contains

absolute self-denial in himself, and for that God must become absolute
nothingness. In other words, absolute death, absolute self-denial or

absolute nothingness penetrate or inhere in not only the human self
but also God himself. ‘Inverse correspondence’ and ‘absolutely-
contradictory self-identity’ are possible as a result. From this funda-
mental standpoint, Nishida makes many significant statements about
God or the real absolute, including the following:
1. ‘God is an absolute being because he is absolute nothingness. He (God)

is omniscient and omnipotent because he is absolute nothingness
and the absolute being. Therefore, I say that humankind exists
because the Buddha is. Inversely the Buddha is because humankind
exists. I think also that the world as creature is because God as creator
is, and inversely God is because the world as creature is.’ (p. 397)
2. ‘The absolute has thorough self-denial in itself ... The whole-one
has in itself individually many. God is in the world in a thoroughly
self-denying form ... It can be, therefore, that God is nowhere
within the world, and simultaneously in the world there is not any
place where God is not. Buddhism expresses such a paradox with
the logic of sive/non or “is and not” (sokuhi no ronri) in The Diamond
Sūtra (Daisetsu Suzuki): Buddha is not Buddha, therefore Buddha
is Buddha. Sentient beings are not conscious beings; therefore
sentient beings are conscious beings.’ (pp. 398–9)
3. ‘Extremely paradoxically, a truly absolute God must be demonic or
devilish on the other side. Thus, this is also what is meant by God
as omniscient and omnipotent. Jehovah is God who demanded
Abraham to sacrifice his only son Isaac for him. That is, he is the
God who required the negation of an inherent personality trait. A
just, transcendental, and elevated God is nothing but an abstract
God.’ (p. 404)
4. ‘The real absolute must deny itself thoroughly enough to descend
to the devilish. The absolute can really let a person be himself or
saves a person by denying itself thoroughly ... In Buddhism it is
said that Buddha himself becomes a devil to save a person, while
in Christianity the meaning of God’s self-denial could be found in
his incarnation.’ (p. 436)
With these statements Nishida’s idea of the proper relationship be-

tween God and the individual can be discerned. If expressed logically, it
is the concept of ‘inverse correspondence’ (gyaku taioˉ in Japanese), which
is most significant and unique to Nishida’s view of religion. One point is
that it is possible by absolute self-denial, death, or nothingness, to pene-

trate both God and the self. Also, inverse correspondence is especially
argued with regard to God’s kenosis or agape. This is the profoundest ex-
pression of Nishida’s philosophy of religion, and what was represented
in ‘Place-Logic and the Religious World-View’. It also forms the core of
his religious thought and is equal to other fundamental concepts in
Nishida’s philosophy, such as ‘pure experience’, ‘self-awareness’, ‘the
place of absolute nothingness’, ‘absolute-contradictory self-identity’, and
so on. In developing his views on religion, Nishida often cited the
paradox of Kierkegaard. This indicates another commonality between
the two philosophers’ basic ideas.
What then is the absolute paradox for Kierkegaard? There is no doubt
that it expresses the proper relationship between the self and God. How
does it do so? It is impossible for the self to relate itself immediately to
God. The self can only be brought into a relation with God through
self-denial. The individual can only be justified and accepted by God
when he or she is really aware of his or her own sin and repents.
According to Kierkegaard, however, God enables the individual to do
that. This is illustrated in two ways: (1) such a possibility is only given
to the single individual by God. (2) God humbled himself and came
into the world in the form of a servant so that the possibility might be
realized. In other words, God became a human being to save human
beings, and took the humblest form of a servant. This shows how Jesus
Christ was simultaneously God and a human being. Hereby the proper
relation of the self to God is established, and the self is grounded trans-
parently in God.
This, however, is illogical, paradoxical, and unacceptable to reason or
understanding. It is only through faith that one can accept such a para-
dox. The paradox is also said to be the object of faith, and the moment
when faith accepts the paradox is decisive. Faith received the paradox at
the decisive moment when God became a human being (Jesus) to
redeem people from sin. Accordingly, for Kierkegaard this moment was
uniquely significant; it united the contradictions, eternalizing the his-
torical and historicizing the eternal. The paradox is the moment and
faith. The eternal is in a sense based upon the historical or temporal and
a sinful person who confesses his or her own sin accepts the paradox of
faith. This double paradox manifests itself negatively as the absolute by
bringing into prominence the absolute difference of sin between God
and humankind, and positively by aiming to annul this absolute diffe-
rence in the absolute equality of redemption or agape. This is the abso-
lute paradox for Kierkegaard.7 Self-denial, which is the most significant
and principal factor makes the absolute paradox real. This self-denial
should be thorough in both God and the self.
As I have tried to show, Nishida and Kierkegaard share in common
many ideas that underpin their interpretations regarding the proper
relationship of the self to God. Nishida called the relation ‘inverse cor-
respondence’ and made great efforts to express it as logically as possible
and Kierkegaard more passionately described it as the ‘absolute para-
dox’. However, major discrepancies remain: compared with Nishida’s
thought, how thoroughly were God’s kenosis and agape considered by
Kierkegaard? And is it God’s self-denial which enabled him to become a
human being and enables him to continue to express selfless love?
These are also significant problems for religion, but they must be
addressed another time.
Notes
1. Kitaro Nishida, ‘Bashotekironri to syukyoteki sekaikan’ [‘Place-Logic and the
Religious World-View’] in Nishida Kitaro zenshuˉ [Complete Works of Kitaro
Nishida] third edition, 11, ed. Torataro Shimomura (Tokyo: Iwanami Press,
1955) p. 371. Further references to this work will be given in the text. This
and other translations of Kitaro Nishida from Japanese are my own.
2. Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, 1, trans. Howard V. Hong and
Edna H. Hong, (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1992)
p. 571.
3. Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, p. 572.
4. Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, p. 461.
5. Nishida, Jissentetsugaku jyoron ‘An Introduction to Practical Philosophy’, Nishida
Kitaro zenshuˉ, 10, p. 7.
6. See Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling/The Sickness unto Death, trans. Walter Lowrie
(New York: Doubleday Anchor, 1954), pp. 46–7, (and The Sickness unto Death,
trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton
University Press, 1980) pp. 13–14).
7. See Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments, trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H.
Hong (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1985) pp. 61–2.
11
Kobayashi’s Spirit of
Unselfishness and
Kierkegaard’s Faith
Makoto Mizuta
Introduction to Kobayashi
Kierkegaard aimed to become the Christian who is a ‘single individual’

and sought to explain what this would involve. He was, however, aware
of the difficulty of directly imparting these ideas to others. He tried,
therefore, indirectly to lead his readers to the problem, while discussing
Christianity from the outside through the pseudonym of Johannes
Climacus, among others, and from inside through the pseudonym of
Anti-Climacus or under his own name.
It is frequently said that the Japanese have a strong tendency towards
conformity. Therefore, it is particularly because of the significance that
he attaches to the individual and because of what he calls the ‘untruth’
of the crowd, that it is important for the Japanese to study Kierkegaard.
The problem of how to understand Kierkegaard’s thought in a Japanese
context led me to look for Japanese thinkers whose ideas have some-
thing in common with Kierkegaard’s. One likely person here, it seemed
to me, is the modern thinker Hideo Kobayashi (1902–83), someone who
is hardly known in the West. I should like, therefore, to present
Kobayashi and compare his ideas with Kierkegaard’s. I will do this
mainly through a description of Kobayashi’s thoughts while providing
some sketches and short comments about Kierkegaard’s ideas.
Though Kobayashi hardly discusses Kierkegaard, there are remarkable
connections between their ideas. In spite of their different cultures and
backgrounds, they are close to each other in their thinking about the
nature of truth, ultimate reality, and the meaning of life. Kobayashi,
who lived in a more modern age than Kierkegaard, naturally had wider
185
horizons, which is not to say that we cannot find contemporary ways of

thinking in Kierkegaard’s works. However, Kobayashi had not only the
Eastern traditions and ways of thought readily at his disposal, but also
knew of those of the West. In contrast, Kierkegaard did not deal with
any non-Christian thinkers outside Western culture. Indeed, he did not
seem much interested in non-Western cultures (even though several
translated texts were then available). He considered only ‘paganism in
Christendom’. Kierkegaard tried to discover the truth of Christendom
through dialogue with Socrates, although he regarded him as a pagan to
the last. Kierkegaard thought that people had to learn from Socrates
how to obtain subjectivity, because each individual can grasp the truth
only after he or she becomes a subjective individual.
From another angle then, I should like to reconsider Kierkegaard’s
thought by undertaking a comparative study between Eastern and
Western thought. At the same time, I should like to attempt to purely
express the fundamental truth through defining the Christianity of
Kierkegaard. Traditional Eastern thinking is helpful here. However, one
should always aim at discovering the ultimate truth that exists beyond
both Eastern and Western philosophical traditions. Kobayashi’s ideas
are useful when re-examining Kierkegaard’s thinking and help in
understanding the relationship between Eastern and Western thought,
which in turn enables us to grasp deeper truths about the meaning of
existence.
Kobayashi is a model of the Japanese thinker as an essayist. He studied
French literature at Tokyo Imperial University and was impressed by
French writers like Jean Arthur Rimbaud and Charles Baudelaire. The
young Kobayashi was a person with a strong self-consciousness, which
was connected with thoughts of death and solitude. He often appeared to
be in the depths of despair. But, for him, despair was the starting point of
creativity. He began writing in his schooldays. After writing a few short
stories, he became a literary critic by profession. Shortly after that, the
Second World War broke out. Although Kobayashi was not a pacifist as
such, he believed that literature is irreconcilable with war. Literature is
insistently a peaceful activity. The writer is not a person of action, but an
individual who expresses ideas through an essentially peaceful pursuit.
Mistrusting modern Japanese culture, Kobayashi took a greater interest
in the contemporary cultural phenomenon of internal spiritual crisis. It
was in this way that he emerged from the ordeal of the war.
After the war, Kobayashi went into the aesthetic and ethical field as a
free essayist. He associated himself with the modern European spirit, by
which many Japanese people had been deeply influenced. His interest
Kobayashi’s Unselfishness and Kierkegaard’s Faith 187
at that time was the nature of human existence. He pursued his interest
by studying the lives of artistic geniuses such as Mozart, Dostoevsky,
van Gogh, Cézanne, and other impressionists. His favourite philoso-
pher was Henri Louis Bergson, who valued the power of intuition.
Since he had earlier in life been fascinated with the traditional
Japanese view of nature or values of beauty, in his later years he
attempted to recover the essence of Japanese culture. Thus, he concen-
trated his effort on writing his life’s work, Motoori Norinaga, about
Norinaga Motoori (1730–1801), one of the most famous Shintō scholars
in Japanese history. It is a work meant to confirm the ‘spirit of unselfish-
ness’ at the heart of Japanese culture.
Shintō is the native religion of Japan. The term itself means ‘the
divine way’ or ‘the principle of nature’. It is a form of animism which
stresses the importance of living in harmony with nature. It evolved
under the influence of Buddhism, Confucianism, and Taoism. (Some
people even claim that, in Shintō, they can find some signs of ancient
Christianity and Jewry that would have come into Japan along the Silk
Road, although this view is not widely held in the academic commu-
nity.) In medieval times, a theory arose that insisted on a fundamental
oneness of Buddhism and Shintō. After the Meiji restoration, Shintō
split into jinja shintoˉ (shrine Shintō) and kyoha shintoˉ (denomination
Shintō), in which there are 13 denominations. The government sup-
ported jinja shintoˉ, as the Japanese national ideology until the end of the
Second World War.
It is generally accepted in Shintō that there is no transcendental God
as the almighty power; rather there are many gods with their own
power, each existing immanently in this world. These gods are natural
spirits and ancestors who live in harmony with nature. Thus Shintō is
usually regarded as a veneration of nature and the ancestors.
However, Kobayashi’s interpretation of Shintō through his research
into Motoori’s thought is different. He tried to purify Shintō, and
insisted that Motoori believed in only the natural spirit Tama. This
spirit is sometimes called musubi no kami or a productive divinity, who
is always engendering something new in nature. (Nevertheless, it is
not presumed that Tama is God the almighty. Unlike the Christian
creator, this productive divinity brings harmony into the world
through existing in nature, not beyond it.) The spirit works with natu-
ral things when people visit them with a heart of gratitude. The
Japanese sense of intimacy with nature implies gratitude for the spirit
that works with natural things. According to Kobayashi, this sense is
the core of Shintō.1
In Kobayashi’s interpretation, while people cannot clearly know the

spirit itself, they can be aware of its presence when they are touched by
some unaccountable, mysterious power. They yearn for the ancient har-
monious world and their ancestors – who exist under the unaccountable
spirit – provide their ideal models of existence. Each time that the unac-
countable spirit is felt, it is given a different name. That is why Shintō is
often counted among polytheisms.
Language, history, and freedom
Kobayashi says that writers often start their works by talking about
themselves because of a heightened self-consciousness. He also says
that excessive self-consciousness leads to distress or anxiety and on to
depression. Here it leads to further sorrow when difficult conditions
cannot be confronted with clear objectivity.2 This bears similarities to
Kierkegaard’s idea of anxiety, a mood that has no definite object and
arises against a sense of what he called ‘the nothing’.3
According to Kobayashi, people enjoy themselves most when they
are thinking very clearly about things in life. At these times, creative
individuals strive to attain the best expression to demonstrate a recog-
nition of life. Kobayashi thinks that writers and other creative per-
sons, such as artists, become aware of their selves through their
creative activities. They do not, he says, try to escape from their own
personal experience. Rather, they immerse themselves in it, believing
that only the experiential world is reliable.4 This attitude has definite
connections to Kierkegaard’s and is found especially in his emphasis
on subjectivity.
Kobayashi says that the writer should be ready to work with thinking
as though it were language, and to think his or her way through the
world with language. That is to say, the writer must recognize no differ-
ence between thinking and writing. The writer uses words as if they
were natural things. Since every language has evolved through a very
slow transformation, writers must also value the cultural traditions that
enable these transformations. Tradition is not nature, but for human
beings it is a second nature. It especially works, says Kobayashi, in the
minds of those who endeavour to understand their own selves.5 The
writer’s determination for independence works together with an aware-
ness that people are integrated with both nature (the natural world) and
with a second nature of tradition or history. It is because of this latter
integration that the writer must, in some sense, determine to accept
tradition and history with humility.6
Kobayashi also considers the question of how to understand the rela-

tionship between freedom and necessity, and the inevitability of death.
These are common themes in philosophical inquiry. Kobayashi sees
freedom as a golden mean. According to Kobayashi, human freedom
consists in spiritual action through spontaneous, correct decisions
taken in constantly changing situations that can be either good or bad.7
Human beings are neither automatic machines nor omnipotent gods.
Our short lives intersect vertically with the stream of human history
and the relation of cause and effect. Everyone lives as an individual, but
we all feel that we exist as part of some great, nameless substance which
is our mutual foundation. This, says Kobayashi, appears in various ways
in the existence of each individual through inner experience. In other
words, each person expresses in various ways the whole experience of
this basic substance.8 That is why we cannot recognize spiritual free-
dom as a mass phenomenon. Here, one is reminded of Kierkegaard’s
single individual existing apart from the mass of the crowd.
The problem of morality
Kobayashi sees the problem of freedom and necessity as a moral problem

that leads in the end to a kind of mysticism. Morality, however, is itself
a complex problem of consciousness, conscience, and of human rela-
tionships. The focus here is more on personal relationships than on the
social system as a whole. And again, one will recall Kierkegaard’s atti-
tude to socio-political problems. Kobayashi noted that in modern social
sciences morality is pursued outside the experience of conscience.
Consequently, the principle of morality remains elusive.9 Social science
is a science of customs and is concerned with researching abilities and
efficiencies in actual life. As a discipline it is indifferent to the problems
of personality. To study morality from this perspective, we would do
better to keep away from ideas such as conscience, which is personal,
subjective, and ambiguous. It is easier to study social justice than to be
concerned with the problems of conscience. However, this leaves the
problem of morality as a problem of strife between psychological forces.
Even if we abandon the concept of conscience in our consideration of
morality, the reality of conscience remains in our heart. Thus, we all
worry about our guilt in private. Conscience does not obviously com-
mand us to action. Nor does it necessarily fit our socio-political struc-
tures. It exists as part of our deep personal emotions. Kobayashi shows
us that Motoori saw mono no aware as an element with these emotions.
(Mono no aware is difficult to translate into English. Its literal translation
is ‘the pathos of a thing’ or ‘the sadness of a thing’. It implies ‘the pathos

of nature’ and ‘the pathos of life’.) Motoori valued the consciousness of
mono no aware as a fundamental feature of conscience.10
Emotion is essentially the opposite of desire. With deep emotions, we
concentrate on our object (nature, other people) and are lost in it. At
that moment we discard the egoistic will or eagerness, and catch a
glimpse of the primary relationship between human beings and other
living things. Poetry arises from that consciousness when it is com-
bined with unselfish emotion. But this relationship always eludes
human egotism, even if this egotism is unconscious. Motoori’s theory
of mono no aware is based on awareness of this fact. Here, we might rec-
ognize something akin to ‘hereditary sin’ in the sense which Kierkegaard
considers in The Concept of Anxiety. For here, as with Kierkegaard’s con-
cept, we have a fundamental feature of consciousness which is closely
tied to human discontentment.
It is true that almost all Japanese feel a strong sense of intimacy with
the nature of their land. They have preserved a desire to belong to it.
Nevertheless, there is distance between nature and human beings.
Nature is transitory, like human beings, and this is a moving thought to
Japanese people. It demonstrates to them how ephemeral they are. But,
nature is periodically renewed, whereas the dead go away for ever. This
also touches people’s hearts. This feeling or emotion has also been
called mono no aware, and it is a basic awareness in the Japanese mind.
Only in the belief that they belong to nature and that the dead – who
become kami or gods – belong to nature too may they find solace. With
this belief, existence becomes an ambivalent combination of resigna-
tion and confidence.
The Japanese sense of intimacy with nature and relationships between
people are one, as in the primitive sense of religiousness in ancestor
veneration. Most Japanese have a tendency to want to melt into homo-
geneity instead of attaining an individual identity or self. Thus, they
desire to become a kind of mass. This is the pattern of the life of the
ordinary person as expressed in Kierkegaard’s terms. He thought that it
showed a kind of despair, namely, the despair that is ignorant of being
in despair.11
However, according to Motoori, the consciousness of mono no aware is
the core of poetry. We must be careful to note that Motoori did not
stress mono no aware itself, but the consciousness of mono no aware.
Sympathizing with him, Kobayashi said that literature could not be
separated from morality12 since creativity involves clear consciousness
and conscience. His view here is different from Kierkegaard’s. I will
come back to this point later. Here, I want only to add that Motoori’s
concept of deep emotion is, like Kobayashi’s, fairly similar to Kierkegaard’s
concept of passion. This is so because, for Kierkegaard, passion is also a
fundamental feature of human existence. Here too we become lost in
the experience when we concentrate on its object.
Japanese traditional thinking
I should like now to introduce Motoori’s chief idea through Kobayashi’s

interpretation. According to Motoori, the consciousness of mono no
aware or conscience means to grasp the real human heart. In Motoori’s
study of classical literature, this experience is called magokoro, namely,
sincerity or being true of heart. He firmly supported traditional Japanese
ways of thinking, sensitivity, and belief. In his studies, he tried to deal
with mythology and to understand each myth as if he were living in
ancient times. He found that ancient peoples had a sensitivity to myste-
rious events, which led them to speak of marvellous things in a legen-
dary form. He firmly believed that scholars should not distance
themselves from the apparent unreasonableness of legends. Rather,
they should pursue the storytellers’ reality behind the legends, and
should enquire into the meaning of the stories.13 This attitude reflects
Kierkegaard’s approach to biblical stories such as Adam and Eve in the
Garden of Eden, Abraham’s attempt to sacrifice his son Isaac, and
Lazarus rising from the dead.
Motoori deals with the problem of life and death, which lies at the
root of religious thought. According to Shintō doctrine, everyone, both
good and bad, continues to exist in the afterlife, though, as mentioned
in Chapter 1, there is much disagreement in Shintō thinking about
where this world is to be found. This idea of continued existence gives
solace and indicates salvation in Shintō. However, the dead never return
to their previous existence among their loved ones, leaving loved ones
with a deep sorrow. This deep sorrow breeds a kind of spiritual unself-
ishness. It is at this time that people are able to stand face to face before
the unaccountable – departed loved ones who continue but never return –
with an intuition that is a function of magokoro.14
Kobayashi said,
Study in the time of Motoori meant the study of morality. In a sense,

it belonged to the humanities, but rather it appeared as art. Scholars
started from self-awareness and came up with a method to solve
problems single-handedly. As they concentrated on what they were
studying, they became independent of each other. All were experts

at reading. They read the classics not for the purpose of collecting
knowledge, but for seeking guidance on how to live properly. Results
were dependent upon their reading ability.15
There, independence and unselfishness were one.

This is also Kobayashi’s attitude. He believed that the principle of
criticism is a well-trained unselfishness free of egotism or self-
centredness.16 The best works of the world compel a straightforward
approach and true self-understanding can only be achieved by a direct
appreciation of the works of others, unmediated by prior or perfunctory
knowledge. Kobayashi believed that the normal way of life means just
this: being absorbed in understanding and becoming oneself through a
direct appreciation of others. This is the true meaning of becoming
unselfishly oneself. He says that the best thinkers counsel us and say,
‘You shall be yourself.’17
Kan or vision and faith
Kobayashi said that belief and scepticism are less incompatible than are
independence and unselfishness. The spirit of unselfishness must also
contain a degree of scepticism, for scepticism is a normal human trait.
Unselfish people keep scepticism in mind. They are cautious of received
wisdom, since they find and experience a world that is not fully known.
They can doubt because they understand the often uncertain basis of
belief. Thus there is devoutness for reality, which provides the founda-
tion for belief.18 Socrates and Descartes, for both of whom Kobayashi
(and, indeed, Kierkegaard) had great respect, were two such thinkers.
Socrates started from the awareness of his ignorance, so he could doubt
everything. Descartes started from his awareness of his own thinking.
He believed in consciousness and reason.
Kobayashi considered reason or common sense along with intui-
tion. While common sense seems to represent a popular approach to
our questioning of the meaning of life, for Kobayashi the meaning
itself must be grasped with intuition. If we were wholly absorbed with
the commonsensical, we could not reflect, nor be full of creativity.
When we think deeply, we will naturally be led to meditation, for, in
a sense, such thinking is the beginning of meditation.19 It should be
recalled that Buddhist meditation – the final steps in the eightfold
noble path – begins with reflecting on the problem of meaning of
human suffering. Thus, philosophy is essential for us. And criticism is
more closely connected to philosophy than to science. Kobayashi

argued that Bergson, who had doubts about the current of rationalistic
thought or intellectualism, attached importance to intuition with a
concept of vision that had traditionally held a theological meaning.20
The word ‘intuition’ here is similar to the Japanese ‘kan’, which comes
from Buddhism.
In Japanese Buddhism kan is considered a fundamental experience. It
represents the experience of an unselfish state. Traditional Japanese
culture contains an idea of self-discipline that is expressed through a
type of meditation called kan po. This has direct connections to art and
literature because the fundamental experience in Japanese Buddhist
meditation includes an aesthetic quality. Kobayashi points out here that
Buddhism never fought against idol worship as Christianity did.21
While both hold that the highest truth cannot be expressed through
the making of images, Buddhism always assumed a tolerant attitude
towards religious images. In Mahāyāna Buddhism, which is the basis of
Japanese Buddhism, the use or worship of images is considered an expe-
dient means, which well might lead to a grasping of the ultimate truth
that lies behind the images.
Consequently, the making of images was happily accepted by
Buddhism. Christianity, on the other hand, disallowed the worshipping
of idols because it was considered blasphemy against a personal God.
Yet, art took religion and religious imagery as its subject, and religion
kept a close watch on art. It did this through social power, dogmas,
rites, and various systems. For Kobayashi, a religion manifested through
a social power is unable to control a person’s inner life; for each indi-
vidual will reflect religion in his or her own experience. As Shudo
Tsukiyama shows in Chapter 10, this is in harmony with Nishida’s view
that religion is, above all else, a fact in spiritual self-awareness. Artists,
who instinctively know this, must start from their own experience. In
not adhering to the social power, they may embody kan. Kierkegaard,
with his attack on the social power of organized religion and his argu-
ments for the truth of subjectivity, was just such a person.
For Kobayashi, thinking, action, and production formed a harmoni-
ous whole. In his view, knowledge is linked with morality and this is
linked to art and literature. In the end, all of these reach towards a reli-
gious stage of ‘unselfishness’, which is a state of perfect selflessness
through the path of concentration.
Kobayashi did not belong to any religion or denomination, but he
had a faith in his attitude towards life. He believes that each person in
his or her own way has such a faith. He said that he believed in himself,
therefore he could subjectively think and act. He expressed this by say-

ing he believes in his spirit hiding behind himself.22 He was sure if he
did not have a dialogue with the self that was more than and superior
to his own self, he could not grasp the meaning of existence.23
Faith and sin in Kierkegaard’s thought
Let us now reflect on Kierkegaard’s thought and his Christian beliefs.

Kierkegaard classifies the human existential form as comprising of the
aesthetic, the ethical, and the religious stage. The lowest stage is the
aesthetic one and the highest is the religious one. In moving to the
upper stage from the lower, the individual becomes more and more of a
subjective self. Kierkegaard further divides religion into what he calls
religiousness A and religiousness B in Concluding Unscientific Postscript,
which was published under the pseudonym of Johannes Climacus. His
religiousness B describes Christianity, while his religiousness A belongs
to other religions. In religiousness A, people believe in the oneness of
God and the human being. Faith becomes the subjective attitude of the
individual. So, Climacus says, subjectivity is truth. But in Christianity,
people cannot meet God by themselves because of their sin. So there-
fore he also remarks, subjectivity is untruth. Subjectivity can be truth
again only when an individual resolves to believe in Jesus Christ as the
revelation of God. Climacus presupposes the existence of the historical
Jesus, but he says that people cannot know anything about his real life.
Therefore people are asked to believe a paradoxical proposition: Jesus
Christ is God. He regards Christianity as a problem which urges people
to either believing the paradox or not believing it. This opinion of
Climacus might be linked directly with what could be called Christian
absolutism. However, one should not ignore Climacus’ confession that
he was not a Christian. Where in this did Kierkegaard reveal his real
intention?
Kierkegaard published The Sickness unto Death and Practice in
Christianity, using the pseudonym of Anti-Climacus. This author was
imagined as an extraordinarily high Christian. So, the question is how
far Anti-Climacus extricated himself from Johannes Climacus’ view. At
first, we should make clear the concepts of God and sin in The Sickness
unto Death. Here we find both the statement ‘sin is before God’ and the
concept that the opposite of sin is faith. It is one of the most decisive
definitions for all Christianity that the opposite of sin is not virtue but
faith. The non-Christian that Kierkegaard admired the most was
Socrates, and ‘sin is ignorance’ was the Socratic definition. However, in
a Christian interpretation, sin has its roots in willing, and this corrup-
tion of willing that is sin embraces the individual’s entire conscious-
ness. Here Christianity adds the doctrine of hereditary sin as a paradox.
This is a paradox because it is unclear how one can will something that
one also inherits. It assumes that there has to be a revelation from God
to show what this sin is. Thus, sin must be understood by revelations
from God, before God, in despair not to will to be oneself, or in despair
to will to be oneself. According to Kierkegaard (under the pseudonym of
Anti-Climacus) there are three kinds of sin: (1) the sin of despairing
over one’s sin; (2) the sin of despairing of the forgiveness of sin; and, (3)
the sin of dismissing Christianity absolutely, of declaring it to be
untrue.
The second sin is an offence against Jesus and the third is sin against
the Holy Spirit. So the first sin should be sin against God the Father.
Kierkegaard’s God is this trinity, that is, a god that is somehow all three
of these at once. The key issue for Kierkegaard is how Jesus, who was a
man, could at the same time be God.
The concept of the God-man
Kierkegaard calls Jesus the ‘God-man’. This is meant as an expression of

the contradiction of the unity of God and a human being in a histori-
cal, concrete situation. In this sense, God has become an individual.
Here Kierkegaard talks of God, of an individual, and of a unity of them
in one breath. It is also vital for Kierkegaard that it was a historical event
that God became an individual. It is ‘the holy history’ as a special inten-
tion of God. This idea of the God-man ties in, for Kierkegaard, with the
notion of embodying the truth or living as truth. Now, God is the truth
in a different sense. He is the truth in that he is somehow ultimately
responsible for all truths. In this sense, one could say, he is ‘truth
itself’.
Kierkegaard’s idea of truth here has a double meaning: ‘the truth
itself’ and ‘to be based on the truth’. God the Father is the truth. Jesus
the son is the truth as an individual who perfectly followed God the
Father. He is thus based on the truth or, because he is in a unity with
God, he is one with the truth. He is the standard by which humankind
should live. We can understand what truth is (though not through rea-
son) only when it is within us and becomes an aspect of our life. In this
way, Jesus is a symbol for Kierkegaard. Nevertheless, he is not a symbol
of what we can attain: no one can be the truth except Jesus. He stands
at the beginning as something which we can only reach through our
belief or faith, not through our reason. The God-man, then, is an abso-
lute paradox, the absurd, because no one can understand him through
reason. When we face the God-man, either we have faith in him (reason
will not help) or, from the Christian perspective, we offend him. This is
the most radical meaning of ‘before God’.
Before the absurd God-man, there were the paradoxes of human exist-
ence and sin. The paradox of human existence lies in the idea that a
human being is a likeness of God and at the same time he is qualitatively
different from God. It is this paradoxical blend that enables human beings
to sin: like God they can choose, but unlike God they choose evil. It is the
fundamental disobedience of an individual to God. Faith in Jesus, faith in
God’s salvation, means the awareness of one’s sin and believing in release
from sin. If an individual does not believe in Jesus, then, according to
Kierkegaard, he or she cannot help but offend. This is Kierkegaard’s idea of
sin in the strictest sense. Sin is the sign of the qualitative difference be-
tween God and human beings. Kierkegaard took a serious view of sin. In
his idea human existence is firmly tied to human sin. However, even to
him, sin is only the second nature of the human being.24
For Kierkegaard when people face the absurd God-man, they then
know their own sin. This then leads them to grasp the relation between
God and human beings. In this, however, there is always possibility of
offence in despairing or in dismissing Christianity. Now although it is
this awareness of sin that leads to despair, Kierkegaard dared to break
his order and gave priority to the analysis of despair in the first part of
The Sickness unto Death. This is the reason why many non-Christians
value this book. Part two of the same book, as well as Practice in
Christianity, on the other hand, have a stronger Christian character. The
categorical difference between Jesus and others is insisted upon in these
writings. Non-Christians may be concerned that Kierkegaard empha-
sizes the notions of paradox or offence too much and that he had left
the door open for the justification of blind or unfounded faith. In this
faith, believers are blind to fundamental problems concerning the rela-
tion between God and the human being. Without the real sense of
‘existential contemporaneity’ – something Kierkegaard thought essen-
tial (see Chapter 7) – they endeavour to cover an abyss full of problems
with their unfounded decision simply to have faith or with the simple
dogmatic proclamation of the Church that Jesus is the son of God.
However, Kierkegaard wrote in his last years, ‘It seems to me that,
despite the abyss of nonsense into which we are thrust, we all will still
be just as fully saved.’25 This makes it clear, I feel, that the idea of salva-
tion is more basic to Kierkegaard’s thinking than is the idea of sin. (It is
worth noting here that, in this way, his thinking is not that far from
Shinran’s Pure Land Buddhism: see Chapter 3.)
Kobayashi and Kierkegaard: unselfish faith
We are now in a position to draw a more thorough comparison between

Kobayashi and Kierkegaard: with what has been said, it is easy to see
that Kobayashi as a thinker was similar to Kierkegaard. Each empha-
sized the importance of subjectivity and faith. It is certain that Kobayashi
stressed unselfishness in place of faith, but we can also say that
Kierkegaard’s ‘faith’ is similar to ‘unselfishness’. He talks about faith
with ‘silence, obedience, and joy’.26 These words show us that his idea of
faith puts it close to unselfishness; for there is a clear sense in which
obedience to another, especially if carried out in joy and without pro-
test, is unselfishness. According to Kierkegaard, a human being is a
spirit, that is the self, and the self is a relation which relates itself to its
own self. But this relation is also a relation relating to that which
constituted the whole relation.27 And the power which enabled the
human self is called God. In this description, we recognize that the
concept of self includes consciousness (or self-consciousness) with will.
Kierkegaard goes on to say, ‘faith is that the self in being itself and in
willing to be itself rests transparently in God’.28 In this assertion, will,
conscience, and unselfishness are harmoniously unified. Thus, we
understand that faith is an unselfish subjectivity.
However, there are a few important problems that we must also con-
sider. Kierkegaard’s religiousness A means religion in general, in which
subjectivity is truth, and his religiousness B means Christianity, which
rests on the Gospels. There, people stand before the God of the God-
man Jesus and their sins are revealed. That is the time at which they can
perfectly accept salvation. Religiousness B, in which subjectivity is not
truth because of the consciousness of sin, is the religion of the grace of
God.29 From Kierkegaard’s point of view, Kobayashi’s ground is in reli-
giousness A. One question that could be raised here is whether, for
Kierkegaard, religiousness A has any inherent positive value. For example,
Kierkegaard highly admired Socrates, and yet his paganism or religious-
ness A meant that Kierkegaard inevitably set limits to his value of
Socrates.
Kierkegaard, however, recognizes religiousness A as an indispensable
step to religiousness B. He considers it to be the final preparatory stage
for religiousness B. Nevertheless, paganism was, in itself, of little interest
to him. His main concern was how to lead the pagan within Christendom
to genuine Christian faith. Kierkegaard’s faith is connected with a

heartfelt belief in the historical God-man, from whose absolute unself-
ishness to his heavenly father, God, believers must take their example.
Proper observation of his life should lead to unselfishness.
But, Kierkegaard’s emphasis on ‘the holy history’ with the possibility
of ‘offence’ indicates a tendency to Christian absolutism. Moreover,
Kierkegaard’s ideal Christianity was so strict that hardly anyone could
become a Christian. He regarded himself as a poet of the religious, and
said that from a Christian standpoint a poet-existence is sin; in spite of
the aesthetic.30 He could not value the aesthetic existence and in that
he differs from Kobayashi. In Kobayashi’s thought, not only morality
but also art and literature could be harmonious with religiousness. It is
definitely not a lower stage that one must transcend to arrive at rel-
giousness.
It is interesting that Kierkegaard regarded someone as a pagan because
of his worshipful attitude.31 On the other hand, he could not say he was
a real Christian, though he wanted to be. Nevertheless, in the end he
could not help but believe in salvation for everyone. He did not explain
the reason why he could come to this belief. There was a sort of dichot-
omy in his thought. But if we carefully consider his concept of the God-
man, we might arrive at some indication.
The most important point of God-man is that it shows us the funda-
mental, complete relationship between God and human beings.32 This
relationship must have universal validity. Thus, every person has a
chance to participate in salvation, even if he or she does not know ‘the
holy history’.
The fact of the fundamental, complete relationship between God and
human beings precedes even the holy history. As a result, the difference
between religiousness A and religiousness B would be relaxed. Here, the
name of Jesus is not necessarily related to faith in the sense of a spiritual
awakening to the unity of God and human beings in spite of the quali-
tative difference between them. Of course, the degree of precision in
thinking presents a problem, and we must recognize that certain guides
such as teachers, models, or symbols are essential for spiritual awaken-
ing. But if we are convinced that everyone possesses oneness with God
originally, we can believe that the fact of salvation is more basic than
the fact of sin. We can then say that recognition of this fact is faith. The
most important element of such faith is an essential cognition of the
fundamental fact, that is, the fundamental relation in which God and
every human being are never separated and never equal at the same
time. In this relationship, God is the Lord and human beings are sub-
ordinate. The order never changes.
Kobayashi did not comment specifically on Christianity. However,
silence should not be taken to equate to denial. In his last years,
Kobayashi particularly loved the French painter Georges Rouault
although he remained almost silent about him. Kobayashi might stand
still before Jesus as he stood still before one of Rouault’s woodblock
prints. His attitude here was unrelated to idol worship. The wrongness
in worshipping idols, if there is such wrongness, lies only in treating
them, through a selfish wish, as though they were gods, and Kobayashi’s
wish was to embody unselfishness.
Notes
1. Hideo Kobayashi and Gabriel Marcel, ‘Taidan’ [‘Dialogue’] in Mauseru
chosakushū bekkan [Marcel’s Writings, Supplementary Volume] (Tokyo: Shinjū-
sha, 1966) pp. 193–6.
2. Hideo Kobayashi, ‘Hyogen nitsuite’ [‘On Expression’] Kobayashi Hideo zen-
shū [Complete Works of Hideo Kobayashi] 7 (Tokyo: Shinchō -sha, 2001)
pp. 126–7.
3. Kierkegaard, Begrebet Angest [The Concept of Anxiety] in Søren Kierkegaards
Samlede Værker [Collected Works of Søren Kierkegaard] first edition, 3, ed.
A. B. Drachmann, J. L. Heiberg and H. O. Lange (Copenhagen: Gyldendalske
Boghandels Forlag, 1901) p. 313. Further references to Kierkegaard’s works
are to this edition.
4. Kobayashi, ‘Bungaku to jibun’ [‘Literature and I’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 7,
pp. 129–42.
5. Kobayashi, ‘Tetsugaku’ [‘Philosophy’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 12, p. 389.
6. Kobayashi, ‘Bungaku to jibun’, Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 7, pp. 137–44.
7. Kobayashi, ‘Chūyoˉ’ [‘The Golden Mean’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 10,
pp. 155–6.
8. Kobayashi, ‘Rekishi’ [‘History’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 12, pp. 98–100.
9. Kobayashi, ‘Doˉ toku nitsuite’ [‘On Morality’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 7,
pp. 74–9.
10. Kobayashi, ‘Ryoˉshin’ [‘Conscience’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 12, pp. 84–6.
11. Kierkegaard, Sygdommen til Døden [The Sickness unto Death] in Kierkegaards
12. Kobayashi, ‘Ryoˉshin’, Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 12, pp. 84–6.
13. Kobayashi, ‘Watakushi no jinseikan’ [‘My View of Life’] Kobayashi Hideo zen-
shū, 9, pp. 158–9.
14. Kobayashi, ‘Shinkoˉ nitsuite’ [‘On Faith’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 9, p. 253.
15. Kobayashi, ‘Shinzurukoto to shirukoto’ [‘Believing and Understanding’]
Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 13, pp. 399–401.
16. Kobayashi, ‘Moˉ tsuaruto no ongaku nitsuite’ [‘On the Music of Mozart’]
Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 11, p. 123.
17. Kobayashi, ‘Dokusho nitsuite’ [‘On Reading’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 6,

pp. 80–4.
18. Kobayashi, ‘Mushi no seishin’ [‘The Spirit of Unselfishness’] Kobayashi Hideo
zenshū, 12, pp. 102–3.
19. Kobayashi, ‘Ki’ [‘The Season’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 12, p. 376.
20. Kobayashi, ‘Watakushi no jinseikan’, Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 9, p. 168.
21. Kobayashi, ‘Watakushi no jinseikan’, Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 9, pp. 132–46.
22. Kobayashi, ‘Shinkoˉ nitsuite’, Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 9, p. 253.
23. Kobayashi, ‘Akuma tekina mono’ [‘The Demoniac’] Kobayashi Hideo zenshū, 1,
pp. 272–4.
24. Kierkegaard, Sygdommen til Døden, in Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 11, p. 216.
25. Kierkegaard, Søren Kierkegaards Papirer [Papers of Søren Kierkegaard] 11
(Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1969) p. 255.
26. Kierkegaard, ‘Lilien paa Marken og Fuglen under Himlen’, Kierkegaards
27. Kierkegaard, Sygdommen til Døden, in Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 11,
pp. 127–8.
28. Kierkegaard, Sygdommen til Døden, in Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 11, pp. 191.
29. Kierkegaard, Afsluttende uvidenskabelig Efterskrift [Concluding Unscientific
Postscript] in Kierkegaards Samlede Værker, 7, p. 508.
32. Kierkegaard, Indøvelse I Christendom [Practice in Christianity] in Kierkegaards
Samlede Værke, 12, p. 169.
12
Mori and Kierkegaard:
Experience and Existence
Mime Morita
In this chapter I will discuss the relationship between Kierkegaard and

the Japanese scholar Arimasa Mori (1911–76), one of the more famous
philosophers and Christian thinkers in modern Japan. Mori’s particular
significance in Japan lies in his position as one of a small number of
intellectuals who struggled to be individuals in the Western sense of
the term. Beneath these struggles lay strong interests in Western
thought, culture and civilization.
Because Mori is so little known in the West, I will start by giving an
account of his background and thought. I will then examine his rela-
tions to Kierkegaard from three points of view. Firstly, I will ask how
Mori understands Kierkegaard. Secondly, I will explore the relation
between Mori’s central concept of experience and Kierkegaard’s equally
central concept of existence. Here I will examine the resemblance of
Mori’s idea to Nishida’s idea of ‘pure experience’. Thirdly, I will look at
Mori’s interpretation of the biblical story of Abraham and Isaac and
explore its points of connection with Kierkegaard’s interpretation in
Fear and Trembling. Mori regards Abraham as the model of his idea of
experience and also of his notion of what it is ‘to be an individual’. To
have a full grasp of Mori’s interpretation of Abraham it will be helpful
for us to understand not only his thought, but also his life. From here I
will conclude that Mori grasped the essence of Kierkegaard’s philosophy
because – rather than trying to interpret Kierkegaard – he lived out his
own thought even as Kierkegaard did.
The background of Mori’s life
Mori’s grandfather Arinori Mori (1847–89) was the first Minister of

Education in the Meiji government. Arinori Mori was born and brought
201
up in Satsuma-han (now Kagoshima Prefecture). He was sent to London

to study and from there he travelled to America where he came into
contact with Christianity through Thomas Lake Harris, a pious teacher
of religion. Mori was strongly influenced by Christianity, but kept his
faith to himself. At this period – just before the Meiji restoration –
Christianity was officially prohibited by the Tokugawa Shōgunate.
After the Meiji restoration Mori helped establish the Meiroku sha party
in 1875, and invited Harris to Japan, where he stayed for some time,
teaching English at the Naval Academy. In 1885 Mori become the first
Minister of Education in the cabinet of Hirobumi Ito and endeavoured
to establish a modern Western-style education system in Japan. However,
in 1889, on the day of a Great Japanese Imperial Constitution promul-
gation ceremony, he was assassinated by the ultranationalist Buntaro
Nishino. He was 43.
Although Arinori Mori was one of the most progressive politicians in
the Meiji era, he was not in the mainstream of the government. Mori’s
enthusiasm for Western culture, science, and technology, which he saw
as necessary in order for Japan to catch up with the West, spurred the
establishment of modern educational and school systems in Japan. He
also tried in various ways to change the Japanese language into English
and one of his major achievements was the establishment of the
Imperial Rescript on Education (Japanese: kyoiku tyokugo). This was not,
however, exactly what he wanted but was a compromise with the con-
servative powers who insisted that loyalty to emperor is the first aim of
education.1
Arimasa Mori’s grandfather was thus a pioneer in bringing Western
civilization to Japan, and Christianity was at the centre of his efforts.
He tried to introduce the idea of marriage by mutually agreed contract
into a culture of arranged marriage. This latter attempt was subverted
by his own divorce. He married again, however, this time to Horiko
Iwakura, the fifth daughter of Tomomi Iwakura, one of the most impor-
tant politicians of the Meiji restoration.
After Arinori Mori was killed, Harris, who had left Japan earlier,
returned as a missionary, and helped to console Hiroko and her son
Akira. Under Harris’s sway both mother and son became deeply influ-
enced by Christianity. They were later baptized by the famous Japanese
pastor Masahisa Uemura and it was at this point that Mori’s family
became firmly Christian. The strength of their Christian faith was such
that they were not to be swayed by the waves of temporal change.
Mori’s grandmother Hiroko represented an important characteristic
of the family. She prayed every day, sitting in Japanese style and closing
Mori and Kierkegaard: Experience and Existence 203
her eyes, remaining in this posture for four to five hours at a time. Her
prayers, she said, were for her family, members of the church, her neph-
ews and nieces, and over 50 other persons. Ayako Sekiya, Mori’s younger
sister, who later became president of the Japanese YWCA, wrote that
Mori felt Hiroko’s sincere attitude in these prayers showed the presence
of God silently and with dignity. Her attitude in her prayers thus became
a form of support and encouragement for her family: ‘we could not help
believing the unseen God whenever we saw our grandmother in
prayer’.2
Hiroko’s son Akira was a weak child and suffered so seriously from
asthma that he could not go to school. Instead, he studied by himself
and eventually became a pastor, establishing the church nakashibuy
kyoukai. As a pastor Akira donated almost all his property to the church
and to the students’ association kirisuto kyoˉ kyoˉjo kai (the Christian
Association for Mutual Help). Akira died when his son Mori was thir-
teen years old. The week after his father’s death Mori decided, as he says
in one of his essays, ‘I should return to here someday, too. However,
until I return to here absolutely, I will begin to walk from here.’3
After his father’s death, Mori remained with his grandmother, mother,
and younger sister, all of who were also strongly Christian. He thus
grew up in a family that was much influenced by Western culture, a
situation that was extremely unusual in Japan. Normally, a Japanese
only son would be expected to carry out Confucian familial duties
within a Buddhist or Shintō context. He also, it should be noted, studied
French and Latin and learned to play the organ. Acquiring foreign lan-
guage abilities and skills with a Western musical instrument that were
also rare for a Japanese in those times.
While at Tokyo Teikoku Daigaku (now Tokyo University) he read
French and French literature and became interested in the writings of
Descartes and Pascal. According to Sekiya, Mori got up at five o’clock
every morning in order to concentrate on reading or sometimes to play
the organ.4 However, while still a student, Mori contracted tuberculosis.
This necessitated his having to withdraw from his studies for four years,
during which time he received medical treatment and attempted to
recover.5 Eventually he returned to the university and became an assist-
ant in French literature in the Department of Literature. While there he
recommenced his study of Descartes and Pascal.
It is not known exactly when Mori first encountered Kierkegaard and
which of Kierkegaard’s works he read. However, Kierkegaard’s books,
The Sickness unto Death, The Concept of Anxiety, and Fear and Trembling
are mentioned in his early work Kindai seishin to kirisuto kyoˉ [Modern
Spirit and Christianity], which was published in 1952.6 He read many

books by Christian writers in his younger days, and one of those writers
was probably Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard, however, is hardly referred to in
Mori’s later writings. Yet the relations between Kierkegaard’s thought
and Mori’s are so obvious that it seems likely that Kierkegaard played a
significant, if unconscious role in the formation of Mori’s ideas.
Eventually he became an associate professor at Tokyo University,
which in 1950 gave him a year’s leave of absence and the cherished
opportunity to study in Paris. But he did not return to Japan, instead
resigning his position at Tokyo. Although he made occasional short
visits to Japan, he lived in Paris, engaged in his writing, until his death
in 1976.
The writings of Mori can, for the most part, be divided into three
groups. Firstly, there are dissertations on philosophers like Descartes
and Pascal. Secondly, there are essays on Christianity, including some
sermons and lectures. Thirdly, there are his original contemplations
and philosophical writings, most of them written in the style of a
diary.
Most popular in the last group are the philosophical essays, which are
characteristic of both Mori’s distinctive style of writing and of his
thought. The majority of these works combine sensuous descriptions
with Mori’s thoughts – so mixed that the boundaries between them are
blurred and the effect is almost that of a stream-of-consciousness mono-
logue. He can also be repetitive and borders at times on being logically
incoherent. Kunio Tsuji, a famous Japanese writer and one of Mori’s
students, has this to say:
In his essay Babylon no nagare no hotori nite [By the Flow of Babylon],
his style is developed through a principle that enables the expression
of the accumulation of sense. This principle is different from logical
strictness. The principle of such living ideas is needed in the case
where one grasps a concrete ‘the lump of sense’ rather than grasping
abstract ideas or concepts. In such a case, in order to keep the con-
tents of the idea alive, the homogeneous ‘lump of sense’ needs to be
sustained by the continuation of the images and ideas.7
Tsuji sees Mori’s style and ideas as being so closely and so vividly
interconnected as to be inseparable from each other. Mori developed a
process whereby concrete sense gradually cohered and ripened into the
expression of ideas. Thus the style is integral to the formulation of ideas.
Another characteristic of his writing is that he preferred not to use

established technical terms.
Mori’s thought was influential on many Japanese intellectuals up
until the 1970s. One of the most difficult problems faced in Japanese
modernization was that of establishing the notion of individual subjec-
tivity. Mori focused on just this, basing his ideas on a view of the prob-
lem of individuality as the core of the human problem, a problem that
he also saw as finding expression in both politics and education. He
struggled with the idea of how the individual is formed because he
regarded the idea of individuality as the foundation of Western thought
and civilization. Nevertheless, he kept his distance from both politics
and the social issues of the times. I think this distancing was a result of
his background and the purpose he saw in his own life. He neither
wanted to become involved in social movements nor to acquire any
social positions. Rather, his desires were simply to seek the truth and to
live sincerely.
In the 30 years or so that have passed since his death various testimo-
nies about Mori’s personality have appeared. In contrast to the serious-
ness of his thought, many people have claimed that, in real life, he was
an eccentric and a considerable epicure. For example, Kumiko Tochiori,
one of Mori’s associates, described Mori as stubborn, arrogant, and too
strong in his self-assertion.8 Tochiori said she wanted to ‘watch how he
grew old. He had such a lack of common-sense, was selfish, full of con-
tradictory behaviours, and sometimes avaricious for money and food.
He had all those things that I was not able to have even in my
imagination.’9 But Tsuji understood Mori otherwise: ‘he fought in life
literally and was agonized. As a philosopher he was a model of think-
ing. But in everyday life, there was all the more place for imagination,
and, within him, indifference and confusion lived side by side.’10
It seems likely that Mori’s personality was formed by his unusual
family background, and that it represented independence from political
power and authority, trust in an unseen God, and the dynamics of
thought and inquiry. His personality was perhaps too complex to be
easily grasped, but the value of his thought is nevertheless evident. It
could be further said that there seems little influence of the Japanese
tradition – Buddhism and Shintō, for example – in his thought. His
personality and the characteristics of his thought were formed within
the context of his family’s Christian faith, though this was still expressed
in a Japanese way. For example, his grandmother’s way of praying –
sitting in one posture for long periods – is reminiscent of some forms of
Buddhist meditation. Still, originality brought him into conflict with

Japanese human relations, customs, and society.
How did Mori understand Kierkegaard?
Mori perceives Kierkegaard as a person who thoroughly lived out his

Christianity. It is this existential aspect of Kierkegaard that brings Mori
to understand and appreciate Kierkegaard’s criticism of modern ration-
alism. I think this understanding is also much influenced by Mori’s
reading of Pascal and Dostoevsky. Mori started his academic research, it
will be recalled, with the study of Descartes and Pascal, philosophers
who represent the two major streams of Western philosophy. Let us
start then by having a look at how Mori responded to these two pivotal
philosophers.
Mori saw Descartes as the essential rationalist. But what is the basis of
this rationalism? The spirit of rationalism in Descartes was a means of
mediating that which promotes the free development of the human
spirit and providing a discipline which is able to change the things that
block such development. Thus, Descartes could treat nature methodi-
cally in order to promote the free development of the human spirit. For
example, Descartes saw the study of nature and Stoic generosity as
mediating between and complementing each other. Enlightenment
thinkers took up this rational criticism and applied it to social reality.
This prepared the way for the French Revolution and opened up positiv-
ism in the nineteenth century, in part as a study of society. But, says
Mori, the modern rationalism that arose from Descartes had a tendency
to see human beings as a part of the natural order. It thus lacked the
power to grasp the dynamic aspect in historical subjectivity.11
In comparing Descartes with Pascal, Mori argued that Descartes’
rationalism, along with the anthropocentrism that was characteristic of
modern times, portrayed human beings in a way that opposed the
thought of Pascal’s Christianity. Pascal’s insight, according to Mori, was
that there were two orders in the human being:
One order is the natural and direct pursuit of self-interest. It is the

order of flesh and desire. Here the spirit aims consciously and
methodically at self-sufficiency. In contrast, the other order is one
that denies the self and aims rather at the love of others; both God
and persons. It is the order of the spirit (Pascal’s original expression
is ‘order’ of heart). While there is a great distance from the order of
flesh to the order of spirit (Pascal claimed that the distance is infinitely
large), the former order is really only a symbol of the latter. This is
because there is difference in principle between the two orders: the
order of love is the supernatural order.12
Human beings, Mori argues, tend to choose the order of desire and
the pursuit of self. But we should be turned to the order of love. He
wrote that through the order of spirit or heart human beings seek God
and are supported by God. These orders – of the flesh and of the spirit –
Mori feels, are interrelated in human beings, and how to change one’s
life from the former to the latter was the most important task set forth
in Pensées.13
For Pascal, then, the self was to be denied and self-love extinguished;
for it is such things that prevent us from loving God and deny the order
of love.
As a Christian thinker Mori is thus clearly influenced by Pascal. He
had, however, a resistance to the full acceptance of Pascal’s ideas, and
found greater sympathy with Dostoevsky who was, in many ways, a
similar thinker. Because the characters of Dostoevsky’s fictions are so
full of contradictions and confusion Mori felt they were vivid depictions
of the ways in which the two orders could combine and clash within one
individual. Haruo Sugimoto, a Mori scholar, feels that the germ of Mori’s
thought can be found in his essay on Dostoevsky. Sugimoto points here
towards Mori’s interpretation of The Brothers Karamazov. In this novel, a
poor and miserable man named Snegiryov refuses to accept money be-
cause he imagines the shame that this will bring to his son Ilusya. Mori
analyses this feeling and says, ‘before his spirit there was Ilusya, the ex-
istence of love and anger. This is a simple fact that denies any reason or
deduction.’ Mori calls it love itself. Sugimoto focuses on this and com-
ments that the fact itself cannot be changed or operated upon, it can
only be encountered. Mori uses the word ‘encounter’ here but, as
Sugimoto points out, it is the germ of his key concept of experience.14
Mori argues that modern rationalism saw the human being as only
fixed and historical. This constituted a civilized life-system and was
meant to evade any radical or existential problems. However, problems
remained. Although many rationalists expressed optimism, says Mori,
the problems came together with a sense of the abyss. It was only a few
persons who noticed it. Yet the few who noticed this turned to criticism.
Luther, Pascal, Kierkegaard, and Dostoevsky were such people. As Eiko
Hanaoka points out in Chapter 9, it is natural that modern rationalist
culture, which is to be based on the evasion of contradictions, will be-
fore long fall into nihilism.15
Modern Western philosophy, which began with Descartes, developed

a sense of independence and freedom through its rationality and uni-
versality. However, such a rationality and universality could not, Mori
contended, understand the human being as an individual, an individ-
ual with an irrational and mysterious existence. True selfhood in the
human being is recognized only when one believes one is before the
absolute God. To achieve this, one must have faith. Kierkegaard, Mori
felt, was the rare philosopher who noticed this. And it is here that
Kierkegaard makes his way into Mori’s thought. Mori says, ‘faith must
be the human existence that is able to put the individual before God as
the absolute to the last. This was seen by Kierkegaard. The contents of
our existence are given to the very last by the side of God.’16
We cannot help calling such existence ‘faith’. And it is in such faith
that we first become aware of human individuality. We ourselves realize
this in the presence of God. But very few Japanese intellectuals at the
time could understand the significance of such thought based on
human existence. Mori, however, had insight into the significance and
essence of the Christian view. Furthermore, Mori believed that
Kierkegaard and other Christian thinkers describe ‘the dynamic root of
the deepest part of human reality’. This idea is most likely the source of
Mori’s original concerns. Mori says here:
This philosophy of religion is based on the ultimate awareness of

human existence as the existential root that underlies philosophy
and theology. It is a special dynamic awareness that includes the
awareness of the common root of both the universal and the particu-
lar to produce universality constantly. The greatest books illuminate
the mix of light and shade found in approaching this common root.
Works such as Pensées by Pascal, the writings of Kierkegaard and
Nietzsche, the Pauline epistles, The Confessions by Augustine, and the
literature of Dostoevsky, all these reflect the dynamic root of the
deepest part of the human being so as to be frightening.17
Here we can find the root of Mori’s concept of experience. Firstly, he

refers to ‘the ultimate awareness of human existence as the existential
root that underlies philosophy and theology’. Secondly, there is the
‘awareness of the common root of both the universal and the particu-
lar’. The particular here is not included in or related to the universal,
but has a common root and, for the individual, the particular produces
the universal. Thirdly, Mori finds in this ‘the dynamic root of the deep-
est part of the human being’. In all of this his concept is not all that far
from Nishida’s concept of pure experience, something I will come back

to shortly.
Mori also saw this in Kierkegaard. For example, Mori wrote of
Kierkegaard that:
faith criticizes cultural and moral orders as the foundation and

demands the conscious rebuilding of the foundation. Faith truly
finds itself in right relationship to God as Kierkegaard describes it in
The Sickness unto Death. However, in a sense, human self-pursuit and
the impulse of self-realization is the essence of human existence … but
sin appears for the first time in the destruction of relations of love
with others. In other words from the standpoint of faith people
believe it is their life’s responsibility to exchange their self-pursuit for
a solemn responsibility for seeking the will of God.18
Mori declared that from the standpoint of faith self-investigation was

contrary to modern thought. In this view the Christian faith repre-
sented by Kierkegaard is completely the opposite of modern rational-
ism. Mori claims here that ‘to deny systematic thought while making
much of individual existence in concrete reality is the overcoming of
nihilism’.19 Mori thus understands the history of Western rationalist
thought as having its significance in its ultimate conflict with
Kierkegaard’s existential thought.
For Mori Western thought was not only an object of study, but a sub-
jective way of living. This is why he felt such an affinity to Kierkegaard.
He wrote of this, saying, ‘I should write that to find the true meaning of
life is the most remarkable sign of despair. This is a difficult subject,
while at the same time it is the most universal. Some may say I took this
from Kierkegaard. However, I came to it as a result of my own
contemplation.’20
Mori’s purpose was both to seek the truth and to live truly. For Mori,
Kierkegaard was a model for such seekers and the guide who returned
him to his own essential problem. Here we can see the fundamental
similarities between Mori and Kierkegaard.
Mori’s experience and Kierkegaard’s existence
Experience is the core concept in Mori’s thought. He describes it as the

one lasting part of human existence in a subjective world. To him this
is the same as Kierkegaard’s concept of existence. Mori understands ex-
perience in this sense as essential to human beings, originating in the
dynamic root of our deepest core. Furthermore, he believes that experi-

ence is so personal and existential that each individual could only cre-
ate his or her own. Even so, each personal experience is part of the
universal experience.
Mori said that experience comes from fully sensing that which is out-
side of self. It begins when a person has an awareness of contact with
others or other things. When there is nothing to impede or prevent
direct contact with a thing outside oneself, something within is cre-
ated. This is the genesis of experience. The scholar Akemi Kugimiya
points out that Mori’s idea here is very similar to Husserl’s phenomeno-
logical reduction since it starts from experience with things outside
oneself and, bracketing the question of external existence, focuses on
and awakens pure sense.21
Mori describes his own first experience of this in an essay dated 24
March 1956:
When I stand in the presence of unchangeable things such as

untouched nature or an accumulation of stones, I am conscious of
turning and flowing within myself. I feel the change in my existence
with opacity which is tied and solidified by various things, gradually
being melted and isolated. It then begins to turn and gradually wind
up all of existence in the turning, gradually becoming more trans-
parent little by little, until at last the flow becomes something homo-
geneous. Then I find ‘the blue space’, a shaft of light, or light rather
than a colour, luminous points rather than light. The points of light
flow together becoming a greater light, adding height and width, col-
lecting innumerable luminous points in themselves.22
This amalgamation is both a psychological and a natural phenome-

non. Mori finds the two are unified as awareness becomes transparently
clear. Thus he feels there is no border between oneself and an object, or
self-consciousness and an object. It is worth noting that Mori thought
such a true experience happens only once in a lifetime. Other apparent
instances are merely a change of the same experience. Mori adds that it
becomes existential change in the pure sense. Mori calls this ‘enhance-
ment of the definition itself’. His view is that sense becomes experience
and experience leads to definition and thought. This was a basic tenet
of Mori’s view and one which never changed.
Mori further describes the characteristics of experience as it relates to
the passage of time. He emphasizes the importance of inner time. The
passage of time is essential for the maturing of experience: ‘That I myself
live for my sense faithfully depends on the irretrievable flow of this

time into myself. Images are heavily tinged with sedimentation of time,
which helps me to live sincerely according to my sense. During this
process the sedimentation becomes crystallized and formed more than
the time itself, until it gradually ferments and produces significance
resisting the flow of time from within myself.’23
We can compare Mori’s concept of time with Kierkegaard’s. For
Kierkegaard the fullness of time implies two meanings. Firstly, it means
the incarnation of Christ. The eternal was incarnated only once in his-
tory. Christ invaded human time. At that point the whole significance
of history underwent a decisive change. Secondly, every person is
changed decisively by meeting with eternity in real time, which awak-
ens them to real existence. Both meanings incorporate decisive turning
points in time or history.
One notable difference here between Mori and Kierkegaard is that
Mori does not, as Kierkegaard does, have the idea of a decisive turning
point in time. Mori values inward time, which is the process of change
or renewal of experience. Time does not go beyond itself and meet
something outside of time. Rather, the maturity of time means progress
in self-consciousness or experience. Thus he does not mention, as
Kierkegaard does, the idea of the meeting of the eternal and finite. His
concern is with the change of inwardness and inner time. Here, per-
haps, is a place where, despite his Christian background, he is under the
influence of Japanese thinking about the impermanence of things. This
idea is traditionally expressed in the Japanese idea of aware and in
Japanese Buddhism.
Finally, he claims that experience forms the inwardness of the self,
which leads to the relationship with existence. Mori uses the term ‘inner
prompting’ to refer to this forming of experience. Each person decides
his or her actions and choices in life based on this inner prompting.
When someone feels such inner prompting and thereupon comes into
contact with the outside world, it is the beginning of experience. Mori
describes inner prompting like this:
An important thing is that I continually follow this process in myself.

For in doing so I am sure to find the true ‘prompting’. But one must
be certain that it is true prompting. However, wanting it by itself
might prove fatal to its appearance. For a person who desires it in this
limited way might not be permitted to enter the experience. Not
only that, when this prompting appears, a person must be certain of
its appearance. However, persons with patience and courage, and
even the virtue of believing that it should be possible because of

their sincere desire, do not always realize it. Another name for this
patience and courage is talent or a genius.24
While this inner prompting is personal, the results of it are universal.

Inner prompting is the beginning of being oneself, being individual,
and of experience itself.
From this individualistic standpoint, Mori criticizes what is meant by
being ‘Japanese’ (in the cultural sense of language, lifestyle, ways of
thought, customs, social manners, and so on). He thought that lan-
guage constituted a central problem and that a fatal flaw in the Japanese
language was its inability to enable real individuality. In other words
the language denies a person true subjectivity.
Mori contrasted French and Japanese to illustrate this. In French, the
speaker is the subject ‘I’ and someone to whom he talks is ‘you’. This
‘you’ is an absolute you, subjective, and the absolute other. ‘I’ also rep-
resents an absolute and independent subject. However, in Japanese,
when I talk to ‘you’, I am defined in part by ‘you’ and cannot be an
independent and absolute subject. When ‘I’ is used in Japanese, it must
be used according to the cases, watashi, boku, ore, which in turn accord
to the social and domestic roles, the age, sex, profession, and other con-
ditions of the person being addressed. This is also true of other pro-
nouns. Further, these conditions are also determined by the relation of
the person being addressed to the speaker. Thus, when a Japanese
chooses a certain form of ‘I’ (for example, watashi), she is immediately
caught up in the role implied by this situation and acts unconsciously
in the manner expected by the other person. So in Japanese ‘I’ is relative
and dependent upon others or situations and thus it is very difficult to
be an absolute individual. As a result, Mori concludes, the Japanese lan-
guage prevents a person from having true and pure subjectivity. Mori
calls it the relationship of ‘you for you’.
But the real ‘inner prompting’ occurs as one’s own innermost truth,
independent of other persons. Mori stated in a lecture that
In Japan, people have killed such inner promptings over and over
again since ancient times. The inner prompting of every person
makes him into a self, individual, or irreplaceable individual. This is
because the person only becomes ‘the other’ person in relation to
society, for the Emperor, and parents, if he becomes absolute self or
individual. But Japanese are afraid of this. You must not be afraid of
it. A person must not be afraid when his lover, friends, or even
parents become ‘the other’. In becoming ‘the other’ person he is

truly becoming himself.25
Mori claims that the significance of the individual comes through

being thoroughly oneself. What accomplishes this in the person is (Mori’s
notion of) experience. In this way both Mori and Kierkegaard emphasize
being a true individual or self. It is evident therefore that Mori and
Kierkegaard have this promotion of the individual in common.
Another question that naturally arises at this point concerns the rela-
tion of Mori’s concept of experience to Nishida’s concept of pure experi-
ence. (See chapters 9 and 10 where Nishida’s concept is fully discussed.)
Mori himself insisted that his experience was different from Nishida’s
idea of pure experience. Nishida’s concept is described as ‘the primitive
fact that unites subject and object’.26 Mori claims that his concept of
experience is different from Nishida’s because his concept does not refer
to the idea of ‘my experience’, but rather to ‘the total experience that
contains my experience and that of others’.
In Sugimoto’s analysis the relations between these two conceptions
of experience are very similar: both of them refer to the fact of experi-
ence itself. Both concepts share a fundamental unity of opposites, the
unity of subject and object, while differences remain in their equality,
and equality in their difference. Mori states that experience is reality
itself. Sugimoto describes Mori’s idea here by saying that they have the
same quality in each phase of experience. In addition, Sugimoto distin-
guishes between Mori’s and Nishida’s concepts by pointing to Nishida’s
further notion of ba or place. For Nishida, says Sugimoto, the idea of ba
is so basic to pure experience that it cannot be separated from it. Free
will is the ba that emerges in the consciousness beyond the difference
of subject and object.27 Although Mori does not agree with Nishida’s
idea of the loss of the boundary between subject and object, referring
more to the importance of facing the transcendental God and acting in
consciousness of God (thus maintaining the boundary between subject
and object), he nevertheless agrees with Nishida on the idea of free will.
Both Mori and Nishida, says Sugimoto, see human beings as able to
perform creative acts without a conscious sense of free will. Thus,
Sugimoto concludes that Mori’s concept of human experience has some
important resemblances to Nishida’s concept of pure experience.
I should like to point out, however, that there is an essential diffe-
rence here between Mori and Nishida. This is the subjective character of
Mori’s concept. Mori insisted that the individual should find his experi-
ence by himself. It is vital for Mori that an individual becomes aware of
his self through his own experience. For Nishida, on the other hand, it
is the essence of pure experience, that within it the individual becomes
subsumed into the universal. That is, pure experience does not enable
the individual to become aware of his own distinctive self. Mori, how-
ever, valued the importance of the individual. For him, the individual
could not and should not be subsumed into the universal. This is the
fundamental quality of Mori’s concept, and one that ties him closely to
Kierkegaard.
Mori’s Abraham and Kierkegaard’s Abraham
For Mori, Abraham was the father and model of faith – even as he is to
Jews and Christians alike. It is Abraham, says Mori, who represents the
‘ultimate example of the transparency of human experience’.28 Mori
claims that the defining characteristic of Abraham is his following the
inner prompting and leaving his ancestors’ land, an act undertaken
with no guarantees. This is part of Abraham’s faith.
Mori speaks about the attempted sacrifice of Isaac in a lecture titled,
‘Mount Moriah’. He suggests that this trial was a moment of crisis in
Abraham’s contract with God. It was a chance for him to re-evaluate the
meaning of obedience to God:
To sacrifice Isaac, his only child, for God, and to do it by his own
hand meant to lay waste to the contract between himself and God.
Furthermore, this sacrifice was ordered by God who had given him
the original promise as well as his son Isaac. Who can bear such
absurdity? ... Sometimes we meet with accidents which we cannot
explain to others or to ourselves. But I believe such accidents make
our lives unique. They are a once in a lifetime opportunity. When we
meet such opportunities we should take a risk with them, as in step-
ping over a hot fire. We should move forward, laying aside our hope,
inclination, nature, and natural propensity. Abraham did this fully
in his life.29
Abraham’s situation is absurd and he is alone, with no one to consult,

but it is through such trials – and the responses to them – that a person
can develop a sense of self. Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac. This
is inexplicable. Mori describes it as ‘faith’ or ‘obedience’, but it is impos-
sible to explain any further than that.
Mori gave another lecture on the story of Abraham and Isaac at the
International Christian University in 1972. This was entitled, ‘Birth
of an Only Child’. In it he stated, ‘the biblical record of this event is

really naively simple. But it is a quite dreadful thing, and in a sense
the contents can touch our faith, the most fundamental feature of
our existence as human beings.’ Mori said that when Kierkegaard
considered this episode, he started with the meaning of the problem
faced by Abraham and demonstrated why Abraham said nothing to
Isaac. 30
In this lecture Mori focuses on the relationship between Abraham
and God. Although Isaac was closest to Abraham in human terms, in
this story Abraham relates only to God as ‘you’. Isaac was an outsider to
this relationship. Abraham shares the secret only with God; the only
‘you’. No one could intervene between Abraham and God, the absolute
‘you’. This is what Mori meant by ‘faith’. So we may say that the rela-
tionship of faith with God excludes all other persons.
Kierkegaard also understood Abraham’s faith in terms of the absurd.
We let Isaac actually be sacrificed. Abraham had faith. He did not

have faith that he would be blessed in a future life but that he would
be blessed here in this world. God could give him a new Isaac, could
restore to life the one sacrificed. He had faith by virtue of the absurd,
for all human calculation ceased long ago.31
Kierkegaard emphasizes Abraham’s faith in spite of the absurd and

the paradox: ‘Precisely because resignation is antecedent, faith is no
aesthetic emotion but something far higher; it is not the spontaneous
inclination of the heart but the paradox of existence.’32
Both Mori and Kierkegaard discuss the solitude and absurdity of
Abraham, but only Kierkegaard writes about faith as a passion and as
the teleological suspension of ethics. Mori does not mention these.
What Mori values is the sincerity of Abraham’s life, as something
expressed not only in his attempt to sacrifice Isaac, but also as expressed
when his wife Sarah died or when he made the sacrifice to Melchizedek.
He does not focus on the construction of the absurdity or the paradox
of existence.
However, both Kierkegaard and Mori claimed that faith was an abso-
lute relationship with God which is where the idea of solitude comes in.
After that Kierkegaard returns to the paradox of existence and the
passion of faith. Mori, however, turns towards living his own life sin-
cerely. Mori does not make much of the passion of existence here. But
both Mori and Kierkegaard make faith the first priority in an absolute
relationship with God.
Conclusion
It is possible to conclude, then, that Mori’s concept of experience cor-

responds in significant ways to Kierkegaard’s concept of existence. But
there are caveats to this. Mori’s notion of experience contains a number
of aspects, and while from one aspect it is very similar to Kierkegaard’s
concept of existence, I also think that Mori intended there to be more
diverse meanings within his own concept as, for example, with his
ideas of inner prompting and sincerity. However, in the existential
aspect, both concepts have very similar content. But there is another
question: What did Mori and Kierkegaard really think of other people?
How did they relate to other concrete individuals? Naturally, they
argued for the importance of others. But within their work I cannot
find tangible examples of how they realize this relation.
They both emphasized the subjectivity of self or the individual.
However, the ‘you’ or absolute ‘you’ with whose relationship they were
primarily concerned was God, not the ‘you’ of other people. Yet Mori
was thoroughly convinced that the pursuit of self or subjectivity would
lead to objectivity or universality. But I wonder why Mori mentions
neither equal communication nor relations with others, especially
with women. Mori married while he was in Japan, but when he went to
France he got divorced. Then he married a French woman, but this
marriage also failed. I find Mori’s view of women to be so aesthetic that
he did not seem to consider them as actual subjects of experience. In
fact Mori seemed to avoid real and equal personal relations with
women.
This also appears to be true of Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard was engaged
once, but for reasons that remain unclear, broke the engagement off and
never married. It seems important to note here that many commenta-
tors have pointed to the similarities between Kierkegaard’s version of
the relationship between Abraham and Isaac and his actual relationship
with his fiancée Regine. That is, just as Abraham is determined to sacri-
fice his son, who plays no part as a subject in Kierkegaard’s view of the
matter, so is Kierkegaard determined to sacrifice (call off the marriage
to) Regine, who likewise plays no part as a subject. In other words, just
as Abraham does not consider Isaac’s subjective experience as an indi-
vidual, so too does Kierkegaard not consider his fiancée’s subjective ex-
perience as an individual. She is merely an object in his own complicated
scheme of subjectivity.
No doubt, Mori and Kierkegaard were both men of genius who pro-
moted their thinking widely. Each had a unique and strong personality,
complemented by original thinking. But I wonder if in the end their

concepts failed the test in relation to others. Did their concepts apply to
real concrete relationships, or did they only function theoretically
within themselves, floating free of any contact with real individuals? In
the context of deep personal relations with others these concepts were
severely tried, so much so perhaps that their authors’ awareness of self
or self-consciousness intensified to such a point that they were unable
to abandon their own persistent sense of self.
Notes
1. Ayako Sekiya, Ippan no kashi no ki [An Oak Tree: an Essay on the Mori Family]
(Tokyo: Nihon kirisoto kyodan syuppankyoku, 1981) p. 72.
2. Sekiya, Ippan no kashi no ki, p. 52.
3. Ayako Sekiya, Furikaerunobe no michi [Looking Back on the Path through the
Field: Memories of my Life] (Tokyo: Nihon kirisoto kyodan syuppankyoku,
2000) p. 29.
6. Arimasa Mori, Mori Arimasa zenshū [Complete Works of Arimasa Mori] 7
(Tokyo: Chikuma-shobo, 1979) p. 112.
7. Kunio Tsuji, Tsuji Kunio zenshū [Complete Works of Kunio Tsuji] 15 (Tokyo:
Shincho-sya, 2005) p.188.
8. Kumiko Tochiori, Mori Arimasa sensei no koto [My Memories of Arimasa Mori]
9. Tochiori, Mori Arimasa sensei no koto, p. 52.
10. Kunio Tsuji, Tsuji Kunio zenshū [Complete Works of Kunio Tsuji] 15 (Tokyo:
Shincho-sya, 2005) p. 177.
11. Mori, Mori Arimasa zenshū, 9, p. 349.
14. Haruo Sugimoto, Mori Arimasa ron [An Essay on Arimasa Mori] (Tokyo:
Chuseki-sya, 2004) p. 150.
16. Mori, Mori Arimasa zenshū, 7, pp. 50–1.
20. Arimasa Mori, Mori Arimasa essay-shu [Collected Essays of Arimasa Mori] 2
21. Akemi Kugimiya, ‘Mori Arimasa ni okeru keiken no soˉzoˉ’ [‘On the Creation of
“Experience”, in Arimasa Mori’] part 2, Gendai bungaku, 71, 2005: 38.
22. Mori, Mori Arimasa essay shū, 1, pp. 129–30.
23. Mori, Mori Arimasa essay shū, 1, p. 328.
24. Mori, Mori Arimasa essay shū, 4, p. 273.
25. Arimasa Mori, Furui mono to atarashii mono [The Old Thing and The New
Thing] (Tokyo: Nihon kirisoto kyodan syuppankyoku, 1975) p. 57.
26. Mori, Mori Arimasa zenshū, 12, pp. 14–15.

27. Haruo Sugimoto, Mori Arimasa ron, p. 210.
28. Arimasa Mori, Abraham no shoˉgai [The Life of Abraham] (Tokyo: Nihon kirisoto
kyodan syuppankyoku, 1975) p. 11.
29. Mori, Abraham no shoˉgai, p. 110.
30. Arimasa Mori, Hikari to Yami [The Light and Darkness] (Tokyo: Nihon kirisoto
kyodan syuppankyoku, 1977) p. 80.
31. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, trans. Howard and Edna Hong (Princeton,
New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1983) p. 80.
32. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, p. 47.
13
Otani: a Kierkegaardian
Fellow of the Dead
Kinya Masugata
‘Arise, dear συμπαρανεκρωμεnοι [fellows of the dead], the night is over;

the day is beginning its unflagging activity again, never, so it seems,
tired of repeating itself forever and ever.’1 Over twenty years ago the
founder of the Kierkegaard Society of Japan, Masaru Otani, who was
then 72 years old, gave a lecture on the relationship between the ethical
and the martyrdom of the individual. The lecture, which I attended,
was delivered on 12 November 1983 at Kyoto University and was pub-
lished the following year in Kierkegaard Studiet, the journal of the
Kierkegaard Society of Japan, under the title ‘The Ethical and Martyrdom
of the Individual in Kierkegaard’. I was strongly attracted to the word
‘martyrdom’. Not only was I overwhelmed by the power of his lecture,
but I also had an impression that Otani regarded himself as a martyr
who had given his life up to the study of Kierkegaard.
When we look back on his life of over seventy years, and also at his
interpretation of Kierkegaard, we find that Otani chose to tread a diffi-
cult path as a Kierkegaardian fellow of the dead. From the very begin-
ning of his writings on Kierkegaard, in his 1936 undergraduate thesis, it
is clear that Kierkegaard was to become the focus of his life’s work.
Several years after attending Otani’s lecture I became an editorial
member of the Otani Masaru zenshū or the Complete Works of Masaru
Otani. I was then given the chance to write a bibliographical note in one
of the volumes. I read the paper on the ethical and martyrdom again
and I clearly recalled the impression I had at that autumn lecture.
In 1982, Otani looked back at his past in a paper titled, ‘Ånder, som
Kæmper rundt om Kierkegaard: En privat erindring’ (‘Spirits that
Fight around Kierkegaard: a Personal Remembrance’). In this paper,
Otani described Kai Vilhelm Sejr Kühle as ‘the first, as it were,
Kierkegaardian συμπαρανεκρωμεnοι [fellow of the dead] who I met and
219
felt sad at his parting’. 2 It was in reflection on this comment, that I

came to the idea of writing something with the term ‘fellow of the
dead’ in the title.
The Greek word συμπαρανεκρωμεnοι, or symparanekromenoi in Latin
letters, is used by Kierkegaard in the subtitle, ‘Delivered before the
Συμπαρανεκρωμεnοι’, which appears in the chapters titled ‘The Tragic in
Ancient Drama Reflected in the Tragic in Modern Drama’ and
‘Silhouettes, Psychological Diversion’. It further appears in the subtitle,
‘An Inspired Address to the Συμπαρανεκρωμεnοι’ in the chapter titled
‘The Unhappiest One’ in Either/Or. Howard and Edna Hong translate
symparanekromenoi as ‘fellowship of the dead’ or ‘society of buried lives’.
This expression was coined by Kierkegaard as ‘an expression to desig-
nate the kind of people I would like to write for, convinced that they
would share my views’.3 Otani himself translated ‘The Unhappiest One’
into Japanese and added a note saying, ‘from the standpoint of Greek,
Kierkegaard has produced what Professor Eduard Geismar of the
University of Copenhagen calls an “impossible word”. Yet it is easy
enough to see what Kierkegaard meant by it, and Geismar freely trans-
lated it as “the fellowship of buried lives.” Kierkegaard imagines himself
addressing a society composed of people “who, for one cause or another,
are living lives which are spiritually or mentally entombed and
isolated”.’4
Before his translation of ‘The Unhappiest One’, Otani published the
article ‘Reading “The Unhappiest One” in Either/Or’. In this article we
find the following:
As aphorisms (aphorismer) in life, he who lives as the separated

(α′φορισμεnοι), ‘fellowship of the dead’, ‘who does not believe in the
game of gladness or the happiness of fools’, ‘who believes in noth-
ing but unhappiness,’ does not fear death; he knows a worse calam-
ity than death, namely, to live. If there were a person who could not
die, because he wrongly fears death, he would be the unhappiest
one. The most unfortunate person, the one who suffers most, is the
very one who is to bring consolation to others … the unhappiest
one cannot yet die by himself and only slides down into the grave.
(The passages within quotation marks here are from Kierkegaard)
(KS, 18 (1988): 29)
But the whole is a poem; the history of Kierkegaard’s religious
spirit at the time that he moves closer to conversion, but yet again
turns away from such conversion through writing a poem. The
agony of the romantic and the magnificence of the literary-tragic
Otani: a Kierkegaardian Fellow of the Dead 221
is going to perform a horrifying and endless twilight drama in the

halo of the religious. That is the very aesthetic Enten [Danish for
‘Either’]. It is this aesthetic which presupposes the contrast of Eller
[Danish for ‘Or’], namely, the ethical or the ethico-religious. This
is not only a gem of a poem in the originality of organization, the
profoundness of implication, the height of thinking, the sincerity
to truth, the compassion of oppression, and the sympathy of help-
lessness, but also a key to figuring out Either/Or. Besides this, it is
like Ariadne’s thread in that it helps us to resolve the enigma of
Kierkegaard. We can already see here the ideas of death and mar-
tyrdom that are emblematic of Kierkegaard’s last stage of life. (KS,
18 (1988): 35–6)
In Otani’s aesthetic and passionate style, we perceive the possibil-

ity that Otani paralleled his interpretation of Kierkegaard with his
own life.
There was a period of four years between ‘The Ethical and Martyrdom
of the Individual in Kierkegaard’ and ‘Reading “The Unhappiest One”
in Either/Or’, and in 1988 the Japanese edition of Kierkegaard Writings
first began to be published. Otani had talked about the publication of a
Japanese translation of Kierkegaard’s works since the early 1980s. He felt
this publication was his last mission in life.
The following is a chronology of his work on Kierkegaard from 1982
to 1988, from the time he was 71 to 77 years old:
1982
1. Lecture given at the Kierkegaard International Congress in
Milan: ‘The Ethical and the Individual in Søren Kierkegaard’.5
2. ‘Ånder, som Kæmper rundt om Kierkegaard (Part 1): En privat
erindring’6 (KS, 12 (1982): 35–6).
3. ‘Ånder, som Kæmper rundt om Kierkegaard (Part 2): En privat
erindring’ (KS, 12 (1982): 15–25).
1983
4. Lecture given at the annual meeting of the Kierkegaard
Society of Japan: ‘The Ethical and Martyrdom of the Individual
in Kierkegaard’.
1984
5. ‘The Ethical and Martyrdom of the Individual in Kierkegaard’
(KS, 14 (1984): 37–49).
1985
6. ‘On the Problematical Points in the Titles of Kierkegaard’s
Works 1: Problems in the Title of Philosophical Fragments’ (KS,
15 (1985): 17–27).
1986
Works 2: The Point of View, on my Work as an Author’ (KS, 16
(1986): 19–29).
1987
Works 3: Judge for Yourself!, Upbuilding Discourses, Stages on
Life’s Way’ (KS, 17 (1987): 39–48).
1988
9. ‘Reading “The Unhappiest One” in Either/Or’ (KS, 18 (1988):
27–36).
During this period, Otani did not lose his interest in the problem of
martyrdom, rather he became absorbed by it during his study for the
preparation of the Japanese edition of Kierkegaard’s Writings. It was in
terms of martyrdom that Otani mourned the death of the Kierkegaard
scholar Niels Thulstrup when he wrote a special editor’s note in
Kierkegaard Studiet:
When I think back to the hundredth anniversary of Kierkegaard’s

death in 1955, I recall that it was Thulstrup who waited for me when
I arrived the next day in Copenhagen as a Japanese representative.
He waited for me at a restaurant in Tivoli Gardens, in the not yet
familiar local geography. Taking me under his wing, he made it pos-
sible for me to stay in Denmark for a year with the help of W. Lowrie
in the USA and presented to me, through Lowrie, the first and sec-
ond edition of Kierkegaard’s complete works. Since then we have had
occasion to talk, just he and I, but it’s no use any more. Malantschuk
passed away and now Thulstrup, having wounds all over his body,
died – he who had devoted himself to Kierkegaard as a martyr. In this
Denmark Kierkegaard could be alive without any mishaps. (Emphasis
in the original) (KS, 19 (1987): 49)
Otani translated Kierkegaard’s term, symparanekromenoi, as ‘people who

died together’ in Japanese, and interpreted this word as the concept
of martyrdom. He further coined the phrase, ‘Kierkegaardian

symparanekromenoi’ or ‘Kierkegaardian fellow of the dead’, and he felt
proud to see himself as a member of this fellowship.
Otani related Kierkegaard’s concept of martyrdom to sym-
paranekromenoi in ‘The Ethical and Martyrdom of the Individual in
Kierkegaard’:
We can say that his martyrdom is not ‘a short-run martyrdom’, but

‘a long-distance martyrdom’ or ‘a protracted martyrdom’ or ‘a mar-
tyrdom of continuance’. And he compared his existence, as above
mentioned, with ‘a bloodless martyrdom’ or ‘a bloodless martyr’
against ‘bloody persecution’ – ‘a bloody witness.’ As for the case of
his later martyrdom, Kierkegaard suggested the situation of The
Corsar [the Copenhagen newspaper that ridiculed Kierkegaard], but
this later martyrdom is a universal sign of martyrdom which he
always used unchangeably. It appeared already in the comment on
συμπαρανεκρωμεnοι in Either/Or: ‘he became a martyr, even though
his martyrdom was not what he wanted, being nailed to the cross’.
(KS, 14 (1984): 43–4)
Otani quotes Kierkegaard’s words:
‘Still I cannot yet … properly … become a martyr for Christianity,

because in that high grade I do not dare to call myself a Christian. I
am properly a genius who could probably become martyr for the
truth, scilicet, truly to explain what Christianity is.’ (Otani’s emphasis)
(KS, 14 (1984): 42)
And: ‘the only true situation for being in the truth, from a Christian
point of view, is to become a martyr’ (p. 43). It becomes clear that Otani
thought that the one true path to understanding Kierkegaard, from an
existential point of view, was to become a Kierkegaardian fellow of the
dead, which is to become filled with pathos.
Otani’s methodological approach to the study of Kierkegaard was the
source of the depth of his interpretation of Kierkegaard and the origi-
nality of his reading. This methodological attitude appears especially in
his original Japanese translation of the titles of Kierkegaard’s works and
Kierkegaard’s terms. It seems that Otani derives something of his own
self-worth from the belief that the ‘true Kierkegaard’ comes to birth in
his own study, and this belief was the origin of bitter criticism against
other Kierkegaard scholars. For example, Otani heavily criticizes the
commentary by Hirsch and Holenberg on the history of completing

Either/Or. He says,
But Kierkegaard did not only have these psychological behaviours;

we must not lose a more qualitative task of human salvation while
focusing on Kierkegaard’s entirely personal, as it were, low dimen-
sional solicitude. We must not forget a woeful attitude towards the
truth or that Kierkegaard’s soul was filled up with the problems of
guilt, affliction, tragedy, despair, redemption, purification, and sal-
vation, or the deepness of the inner spiritual constitution of his
authorship that, as it were, deceives a person into the religious by
means of the aesthetical.7
Otani also criticized Schröer’s methodology for the displacement of

Kierkegaard’s thought in favour of his own theological method: ‘but
this kind of treatment of Kierkegaard, in truth, puts out something
other than Kierkegaard’s intention: we certainly lose Kierkegaard him-
self. To remove a part from the whole for some other expedient purpose
is to destroy the whole itself. We have to take care to preserve the whole
constitution of Kierkegaard’s style’ (KS, 1 (1964): 79). Schröer is critical
of Kierkegaard’s concept of paradox as the cause of many varieties of
theological confusion. But Otani criticizes Schröer’s understanding,
saying that Schröer’s criticism
neglects the intellectual situation of the time and overlooks the ‘how’
of how Kierkegaard first became conscious of ‘paradoxes, which are
nothing other than rudimentary majestic thoughts’ (P. II A 755). These
paradoxes are key concepts of existence-dialectic and orientate cate-
gorical significance in order genuinely to ascertain the religious.
[Schröer] forcibly interprets Kierkegaard’s figure of thought as ready-
made theology, removing Kierkegaard’s situational and educational
particularity. Schröer explains at great length the danger of uncritical
acceptance of Kierkegaard and, above all, claims that Kierkegaard’s
dialectic moves in the direction of over-dialectical observation thus
defying all the partial theological statements (S. 132 cf.). He states that
decisive middle determinations of biblical dialectic fall off and come
to have other structures and other stages (S. 96 cf.). Although such a
critical interpretation of Kierkegaard as Schröer’s might be a ‘contribu-
tion to theological logic’, it is not a correct interpretation of Kierkegaard
himself … Every theoretical criticism, beyond the narrative literature
written by Kierkegaard’s flesh and blood, only serves to remove
Kierkegaard’s importance. We must accept Kierkegaard in the form of

his passionate effusion, in other words, in Leidenschaftsform [the form
of passion], not in Denkform [the form of thought]. (KS, 1 (1964): 81)
The word ‘pathos’ indicates Otani’s fundamental attitude to the study

of Kierkegaard. He says, for example, ‘we must also learn to observe
Kierkegaard’s intention of work with positive feeling of pathetisk under-
standing [understanding filled with pathos], when we consider all of the
difficult situational conditions inflicted on him’ (KS, 14 (1984): 88).
These fundamental attitudes towards Kierkegaard give birth to a kind
of religious-philosophical ambition for investigation into religious-
philosophical truth through the understanding of Kierkegaard’s
thought. We can find this concretion in two articles which treat the
relationship between Kierkegaard and Shinran, the medieval Japanese
founder of True Pure Land Buddhism. For example, Otani says:
if the catholicity of actuality of transcendent faith moved by God –

which Kierkegaardian Christianity of the New Testament includes –
and catholicity of faith directed by the ‘other power of transcending
crosswise’ – which Shinran’s Buddhism includes – if they reflect each
other like a mirror, then in this place both catholicities can only
recognize the reciprocity of faith with the joy of self-denial. The cri-
terion that both employ is the decision of choice by the absolute
other. This criterion renders them identical with each other in ideal-
ity and consubstantial great mercy. (OMZ, 4, p. 394)8
(For a discussion of Shinran’s Pure Land Buddhism and the concept of

‘transcending crosswise’, see Chapter 3.)
In this state of affairs ‘the universality of faith in the absolute other
helps to brighten prospects for a truly tolerant ecumenism, one that is
full of love and mercy’.9
Finally, Otani did not develop his own philosophy of religion, but
remained as a Kierkegaard researcher. Kierkegaardian fellow of the dead,
Otani, characterized Kierkegaard’s genius as follows: ‘To the last he
never aspired to become a witness of truth in the way that the apostles
and saints were. Rather, he continued to observe the category of “ge-
nius”. This is just his martyrdom’ (KS, 14 (1984): 43).
I should like now to return to Otani’s interpretation of the similarities
between Kierkegaard and Shinran. We can here also perceive his atti-
tude of pathos to the study of Kierkegaard. It is hard not to feel that
Otani has a particular advantage over other scholars in the comparative
study of Shinran and Kierkegaard because he himself was steeped in the

tradition of the teachings of Shinran. In fact, he is part of a direct line
of scholarly descendents from Shinran. That is, Otani’s teacher was
taught by another teacher, who was taught by another teacher, and so
on, all the way back to a teacher who was taught by Shinran himself.
In beginning his research on the relations between Kierkegaard and
Shinran, Otani criticizes the Christian theologians Karl Barth and Paul
Tillich, who had a strong interest in Japanese Buddhism. His criticism
lies in the argument that they could not only not understand the
essence of Japanese Buddhism, but that they also rejected Buddhism as
being inferior to Christianity. Barth was greatly interested in Shinran’s
Pure Land Buddhism, but criticized it saying that the ‘good will and
mercy of this god entirely lacks relief for the authentic solution through
a dramatic rendition to redeem the human being. This is because it
lacks the doctrine of the anger and the sanctity of Amitabha [Amida
Buddha] without the lessons of law’ (OMZ, 4, p. 382). Finally, he dis-
missed Buddhism as ‘a miserable, ruined paganism’. The same dismissal
of Buddhism, says Otani, is given by Tillich. He says that although
Tillich ‘advocates reconsidering Christianity in the context of world-
wide religious phenomena, his final intention is only to open the pos-
sibility of a Christian mission to universal acceptability of faith by
denying the Barthian exclusive, ultra-naturalistic “negative” theology.
But in the case of Tillich, it is the guide of the Holy Spirit in the New
Testament that is the criterion being applied to all advanced religions’
(OMZ, 4, p. 379).
Otani also argues against Tillich that the self-criticism of Christianity
through the dialogue which Tillich recommends is based only on the
birth of Jesus and his resurrection. For Tillich these alone are the begin-
nings and the purpose of all beings (OMZ, 4, pp. 382–3).
Even if Christianity judges itself, it only has one criterion for judge-
ment, and that is the belief in the holy trinity. Barth and Tillich believe
that the Christian religion has an advantage of exclusiveness of only
one revelation of Jesus Christ. Tillich thus rejects the original founda-
tion of other religions although he recommends discussion between
religions. However, in the end, we find, for Tillich, that the ‘righteous-
ness’ of Christianity overcomes the merits of other religions.
Otani therefore offers a radical criticism of Barth and Tillich and goes
well beyond their religio-centricism when he proposes the new possi-
bility that Christianity and Buddhism might coexist. Otani bases this
proposal on the meaning of catholicism, or universality, as ‘transcendent,
altruistic faith of redemption by absolute being’ (OMZ, 4, p. 384), and
developed his view out of the ideas of Kierkegaard and Shinran. We can
find the core of this proposal in his article, ‘On the Possibility of Ideal
Contact between Japanese True Pure Land Buddhism and the Concept of
God by Kierkegaard’.
He writes in the first section that Kierkegaard and Shinran are closely
aligned in the depth of understanding of faith and the radical religious
ideal. Especially since that for both of them the essence of faith lies not in
‘what’, but ‘how’ (KS, 9 (1979): 190). Their similarities, says Otani, are even
greater than first seems the case (see Yamashita’s account of these simi-
larities in Chapter 3). In the second section, he traces the similarity in
Kierkegaard’s and Shinran’s ideas of faith. He describes this similarity in
several points. Firstly he mentions the depth of the purity of faith. In this
depth we can find a radicalism. We can see that there is a continuous
conflict between self-power and other-power in the case of Shinran. In the
case of Kierkegaard we can find this conflict in the rejection of his poetic
genius. Otani interprets their attitudes regarding truth as reflecting the
density of genuine faith, or the purity of faith. Shinran characterizes
himself as a shaven-headed fool; Kierkegaard, in contrast, only character-
izes himself as a religious genius. They distinguish strictly between the
religious and the non-religious, realizing there is a chasm between the
religious and the non-religious. This shows the purity of their faith.
Secondly he refers to the identification with God and becoming Buddha.
Kierkegaard writes in his papers (Papirer XI 2 A 8) that a human being is
transformed into likeness with God (Danish: at forvandles i Lighed med
Gud) by the means of the infinite love of God. This transformation, in
other words, is to become God. The real or true meaning of this trans-
formation is that human beings are created as a pure likeness of God
through faith. This is similar to Shinran’s concept of becoming a Buddha
through rebirth. When we hear the words of Kierkegaard ‘That God is
Love, naturally means that God will do everything in order to help you
to love God’, we make the association with Shinran’s thoughts of the
original vow of Amida Buddha (OMZ, 4, pp. 199–200).
Thirdly, there is a similarity in their notions of beyond good and evil.
Shinran said that if the good person can be saved, still more can evil
people.10 The evil person, who relies on the other power, originally has
the possibility to be saved. The sphere in which we decide between the
good and the evil lies in the world of other power. Also in Kierkegaard,
‘The essential thing is not to choose between good and evil, but to
choose the world of repetition of freedom’ (OMZ, 4, p. 200).
Fourthly, Otani points to the ideas of the single individual and the orig-
inal vow. We can find similarities between Kierkegaard’s concept of the
single individual and Shinran’s expression that the original vow of

Amida Buddha is for each individual alone. In this way Shinran does
not have any disciples to whom he can directly communicate the origi-
nal vow. Shinran says that the original vow of Amida Buddha cannot be
directly communicated to others and it is taught to the individuals by
the Buddha’s wisdom and is experienced as an other power.
Fifthly, there are, states Otani, connections between the ideas of the
salvation by the absolute power of the absolute other. He says, ‘In order to
experience a rebirth in the Pure Land of the Buddha we have no power
to help the Buddha’s power of salvation. The absolute mercy of Amida
Buddha to embrace and not to forsake any human being responds para-
doxically to the individual sentient person who, with purity of heart,
relies on the hand of salvation, and follows the royal command of
Amida Buddha’ (OMZ, 4, pp. 201–2). The reason why Kierkegaard
emphasizes the absolute difference between God and human beings, is
that he would like to emphasize the infinite power of God.
Otani further develops the last point in the third section of his arti-
cle. He does this by considering Kierkegaard’s absolute paradox between
God and human beings from two points of view. The first is his theory
of salvation by absolute grace. Human beings should be redeemed by
the grace of absolute similarity of the other being qualitatively sepa-
rated from every human being. This is the theory of absolute paradox.
Secondly, when we emphasize this absolute grace, what remains on the
side of human beings? Human beings, subjectively, only respond to the
absolute other with absolute pathos, desperate faith, and consciousness
of absolute deference of sin. This is also a paradox because it is beyond
the logical argument of God’s existence, the requisite argument of
moral reason, and it is not a peculiar phenomenon of possession or
theosophical phenomenon (OMZ, 4, p. 204).
Otani interprets Kierkegaard’s absolute paradox by means of Shinran’s
understanding of the relationship of ki (the deep human consciousness
of having evil karma) and hoˉ (truth itself). Shinran radically considers
human beings as pitiable, he decried himself as a fool, and argued that
all persons were nevertheless saved through the other power of Amida
Buddha. In accordance with this seeming paradox appeared the ulti-
mate circumstance of the absolute – absolute correspondence between
ki and hoˉ. Shinran’s aim was to create a correspondence with the origi-
nal vow of Amida Buddha. Otani expressed it as absolute correspond-
ence between ki and hoˉ. In his final years Shinran described it as, ‘to be
without righteousness is righteous.’ This is also called jinenhoni, the
spontaneity of the appearance of truth. Jinenhoni shows us a spiritual
state where the caller of nembutsu is unspontaneously saved by Amida

Buddha’s act of grace. The ‘righteousness of the righteous, without
righteousness’ is Amida Buddha’s act of grace that we get only when we
absolutely deny or neglect the deliberation from our own will.
Otani points out the danger that Kierkegaard’s theory of Christ could
be interpreted as Docetism, that is, the view that Jesus’ physical body
was an illusion. Otani says that Kierkegaard’s theory of Christ could
blur the meaning of the physical human existence of Jesus on Earth.
But Otani finds some idealistic intersecting points in Kierkegaard’s view
of Jesus and Mahāyāna Buddhism’s vision of the world. Kierkegaard’s
theory of Christ has similarities with Shinran’s view of Amida Buddha
in which hosshoˉ hosshin (in English, truth itself) and hoˉben hosshin or
‘the shape through which human beings know the truth’ are distin-
guished and Gautama Buddha is interpreted as Amida Buddha (hoˉben
hosshin) or the real manifestation of the truth (hosshoˉ hosshin). This is
the way Otani observes some common ideality between Kierkegaard
and Shinran about the absolute paradoxical character existing between
God and human beings, and between hoˉ and ki (OMZ, 4, pp. 207–8).
Otani finds the difference between the two in that while Shinran
emphasizes the ‘natural’ embracement of ki by Amida because the grace
of the absolute-other is transferred to human beings through Amida
Buddha, Kierkegaard emphasizes the moment of subjective truth in the
phase of faith. Otani believes there is no crucial difference between the
two, only a difference in nuance.
However, I disagree that the difference is slight. Rather, they differ on
the idea of the origin of choice. In the case of Kierkegaard, it is human
beings who make choices, and in the case of Shinran, it is the absolute-
other that makes the choice. In his Christology, Kierkegaard emphasizes
the thought of imitatio Christi or the imitation of Christ. His Christology
goes beyond Docetism. This is why Kierkegaard characterizes Christianity
as the ethico-religious. In fact he uses the term ‘second-immediacy’, but
he also uses ‘second ethics’. I think Kierkegaard is very different here from
Shinran who emphasizes what is natural, or nature more than ethics.
The Concept of Anxiety is indeed a book about freedom, yet another
theme in this book is sex. On the one hand human beings are discrim-
inated as spirit, and on the other hand they are sexual beings. I think
spirit is not defined as being sexual; however, human beings are sexual
beings. This is an absolute contradiction for human beings.
Kierkegaard re-takes (gjentage in Danish) this finitude as finite, but he
eventually has a tendency to transcend this finitude in spirit. I think
his close relationship to spirit causes a problem, as Morita suggests in
the previous chapter, with his relationship with Regine. And in later life
he rejected marriage. In Shinran the problem of sex also is crucially
important. The female also has the Buddha-nature and the ultimate
task of all human beings is to become a Buddha. We can also find here
the absolute contradiction between the finite and the infinite. Shinran
radically affirms the finiteness of human beings as natural. In the case
of Shinran, to follow the original vow of Amida Buddha is important
and it is the ‘easy way’ to chant the name of Amida (nembutsu in
Japanese). As a result he emphasizes the concept of nature, and here we
can find the decisive differences between Kierkegaard and Shinran. The
former chooses the term ‘spirit’, the latter chooses the term ‘nature’.
Notes
1. Kierkegaard, Either/Or, trans. Howard and Edna Hong (Princeton, New
Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1987) p. 229.
2. Otani, Kierkegaard Studiet 12 (1982) p. 16. References to the publications in
this journal in the text will be given as KS followed by the year, volume, and
page number. Translations from Japanese are my own.
3. Kierkegaard, Either/Or, p. 539.
4. Kierkegaard, Either/Or, p. 450.
5. English outline in Otani, Kierkegaard Studiet, 12 (1982) pp. 15–25.
6. Kyerukegoˉru – Denmāku no shiso to gengo [Kierkegaard: Thinking and Language
Use in Denmark] Memorial volume on the occasion of Professor Dr Masaru
Otani’s seventieth birthday (Osaka: Tohoshuppan, 1982) pp. 361–92. Otani
sometimes used Danish titles for his works even though they were written
in Japanese.
7. Translator’s note in the Japanese edition of Kierkegaard Writings, 1, ed.
Masaru Otani (Tokyo: Sogensha, 1988) p. 637.
8. Otani, ‘Universality of Revelation Faith in the Absolute Other by Kierkegaard
and Shinran’, in Otani Masaru zenshū [Complete Works of Masaru Otani], 4, ed.
Kazuhiko Ozaki, Hidetomo Yamashita and others (Tokyo: Sogensha, 2000)
p. 393. Further references to this work are given in the text as OMZ followed
by the volume and page number. Translations from Japanese are my own.
9. See also Otani, ‘On the Possibility of Ideal Contact between Japanese True
Pure Land Buddhism and the Concept of God by Kierkegaard’, Kierkegaard
Studiet, 9 (1979) pp. 25–41.
10. The Collected Works of Shinran, 1 (Kyoto: Jōdo Shinshū Hongwanji-ha, 1997)
Chapter 3.
Index
Abhaya mudra, ‘Have no fear’, 26 appropriation-process, 132

Abraham, 8, 24, 46, 99, 102, 113, Aquinas, T., 108
115–21, 182, 191, 201 214–16 arhats, 62
hallucination, 24 Aristotle, 61
psychosis, 8 Asahara, S., see Saichi Asahara
silence, 115–16, 120 asceticism, see yogic asceticism
absolute-contradictory self-identity, aspiration to Buddhahood, 64
45–6, 167–70, 174, 182, 183 Astanga, 2
abstract ideas, 159 asuras, 55
absurd/absurdity, 8, 24, 122 atheism, 107
act-intuition, 45 attack on Christendom, viii, 36
Adam and Eve, 8, 191 Augustine, 208
aeterno modo, 107–15, 117, 118, The Confessions, 208
120, 121 awakened existence, 80
agape, 61, 170, 181, 183 aware, 19, 24, 168, 211
Agrippa, 60 see also mono no aware
aidagara, 43 awareness, 13, 14, 25, 54, 89, 94–7, 99,
al-‘Arabi, I., 107, 108, 111, 115 101, 103, 104, 109, 113–22, 129,
Amaterasu, 11 155, 168, 169–70, 177, 179, 188,
America, 39 190–2, 208, 210
see also USA contact with other things, 210
Amherst College, 39 eternal, 114
Amida Buddha, 19, 25, 50, 54, 55, 56, fragmenting, 87
59, 226–30 inevitability/certainty of death, 26,
Amida Sūtra, 54 142–4, 146–7
ancestor veneration, 16, 23 natural, 25
ancestors, 12, 23, 27 primordial, 13
see also ancestor veneration; early satori, 81
Japanese ancestor worship sin before God, 78
ancient Greeks, 159 sin, 196
Andersen, H. C., 39 ultimate, 208
anguish, 117, 121, 122 universe constituted, 100
animal/animals, 55, 127, 144 see also water, awareness;
instinct, 75 eco-awareness; faith,
nature, 76 awareness; self-awareness
Annen, 16
Dōjikyō, 16 ba, 213
anthropology, 44 Baldwin, J. M., 35
anxieties unto death, 10 Dictionary of Philosophy and
anxiety, 3–5, 8, 26, 44, 49, 116, 160, Psychology, 35
163, 164, 170, 188 ‘ball of doubt’, 77
see also Heidegger, anxiety Bankei, 130
appropriation, 48, 143, 149 Baoche, 110
231
232 Index
Barrett, W., 124 Buddha, 2, 17–18, 21, 26, 37, 65,

‘Zen for the West’, 124 75–7, 79–82, 83, 85, 90, 94,
Barth, K., 226 97–9, 100, 109
Baudelaire, C., 186 ‘The All’, 100
beasts, 11, 12 compassion, 68, 82, 181
Beauvoir, S. de, 10 The Connected Discourses, 100
becoming subjective, 23 ‘Dhammacakkappavattana’, 90
being true of heart, 191 four sights, 28, 73–4
Bergson, H. L., 187 hand, 76
Berkeley, G., 2, 159 infinite light, 19
Bessho, U. land, 78, see also one jump into the
‘The Gospel of Suffering, Vigny and land of Buddha, 78
Kierkegaard’, 41 name, 22, 78, 79
translator of hymns, 41 nature, 81, 84, 98, 230
bewilderment, 8 philosophy, 90
Bible, 7, 8, 40, 100 Samyutta Nikayā, 100
‘Genesis’, 116 ‘The Setting in Motion of the
‘Matthew’, 66, 68 Wheel of Truth’, 90
New Testament, 8, 225 suffering, 73–4
‘Philippians’, 170 this mind, 19
‘Romans’, 63 way, 92, 97
biblical apologist, 7 wisdom, 21
bird/birds, 11, 12, 19, 167 within, 20
birth, 18, 20–2, 48, 56, 59, 65, see also Gautama
109–10, 120, 143, 146 Buddha-dharma, 109, 113, 114
Blum, M. L., 107 Buddhahood, 54, 60, 62, 63
bodaishin, 64 see also aspiration to Buddhahood
bodhisattva, 18 Buddhism, 11, 14, 17–23, 25, 26, 62,
see also hell, hell-bodhisattva; 166, 187, 205, 226
Hōzō bodhisattva accessible, 53
Bohm, D., 122 Chinese Cha’n, 4, 20
borderland, 58–9 Chinese, 18, 20
Brand, 34, 37 Chinese Tien-t’ai, 90, 92
‘All or nothing’, 34 esoteric forms, 94
Either/or dilemma, 36 Hı̄nayā na, 62
Kierkegaard model, 37 Hossō school, 96
Brandes, G., 32, 33, 41 Mahāyā na, 18, 61, 73, 90, 168,
‘First Impression of Ibsen’, 37 193, 229
Henrik Ibsen, 36 Mind Only school, 2
Henrik Ibsen, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson. Nara, 64
Critical Studies, 37 Nichiren, 19, 21, 61
Ibsen and Bjørnson, 36 Pure Land, 20, 25, 53–70, 79, see
brightness of existence, 78 also faith, Pure Land; history,
British empiricist/empiricists, 159–60 Pure Land Buddhism
brotherly love, see Confucius, Rinzai school, 71, 75, 83
Confucian virtues Shingon, 18
Buber, M., 68 Sōtō sect/Zen, 50, 125
‘I-Thou’ relation, 68 Tendai, 18, 50, 90, 92
Index 233
Buddhism – continued ‘existential contemporary’, 99,

True Pure Land, 19, 20, 45, 55, 130
225, 227 incarnation, 211
Yogacārā/Yogacārā school, 62, 66, 96 living embodiment of real
Zen, 19, 20, 24, 42, 46, 48, 50, 53, Christianity, 13
59, 71–85, see also Buddhism, performer of miracles, 128
Rinzai school; Buddhism, Sōtō worthy of discipleship, 156
sect/Zen history, Zen Buddhism; Christian Association for Mutual
Japanese Buddhism, Kamakura Help, 203
Zen; meditation, Zen; Zen Christian doctrine, 10, 40
training/practice Christian missionaries, 22
see also Japanese Buddhism; Christian non-church movement, 38
Shinran, Buddhism Christian writer/writers, 7, 204
Buddhist doctrine/doctrines, 53 Christianity, viii, 7, 10, 36, 38, 40, 41,
Buddhist philosophy, see philosophy, 44, 46, 62, 66–9, 98–100, 125–6,
Buddhist 152, 166, 177, 182, 185–7, 193–9,
Buddhist sages, 62 202, 204, 225
Buddhist teachings, 63 Buddhism, inferior, 226
Buddhist thinkers, 54 ethico-religious, 229
Buddhist thought, 18–19, 24 fake, 130–2
Zen, 24 Japanese thought, 22–3
see also Kamakura, centre of offence, 128
Buddhist thought paradox, 132, 134, 194
bushido ,̄ 17 religious love, 60, see also love,
butsudan, 28 religious
byōdōshōchi, 62 salvation, 58, 72
truth, 23, 40
The Cambridge Companion to Christology, 229
Kierkegaard, 1 Chronicle of Great Peace, 17
Cézanne, P., 187 Chronicles of Japan, 11
chain of dependent origination, 18 Chuang Tzu, 14, 112
Chao-chou, 79, 83 ‘Palace of No-Place’, 112
character formation, 15 clouds, 89, 97, 98, 166
Chih-i, 92–3, 97 communication, 131
Great Concentration and Insight, 92 existential, 135
China, 19, 80, 90, 107 equal, 216
Chinese classics, 15 direct, 129, 131
Chinese Pure Land master, indirect, 129, 131
see Shan-tao compassion, 54, 62, 63, 65, 81, 82,
Chinese words, xiv 164, 221
Chinese Zen, see Buddhism, Chinese see also Buddha, compassion
Chiyo, 47 concentration, 18
choice/choices, 3–5, 8, 25–6, 49, 84, confession, 88, 97, 98, 101–2
99, 129, 148, 211, 225, 229 Confucianism, 11, 15–16, 18, 22, 27,
Chōmon Zen’a, 130 135, 187
Christ, 63, 99, 128 ‘this-worldly’ quality, 16
contradiction, 129 see also Shintō, ‘this-worldly’
crucifixion, 125 quality
234 Index
Confucius, 2, 15, 17, 27 mind; desire/desires, peace of

Analects, 15 death; fear, of death; meaning of
Confucian thinking, 27 to die; meditation, inevitability
Confucian virtues, 15, 16, of death; philosophy, death;
17, 27 thinking earnestly about death
consciousness, 46, 48, 55, 60, 67, 80, death in mind, 141, 145–8, 151,
92, 97, 134, 174, 186, 189–92, 154, 156
195, 197, 213, 228 deep faith of oneself, 61
eternal, 119 deep human consciousness of having
integral, 107–9, 112, 114, 115, 119, 122 evil karma, 228
shame, 79 deities, 11
see also manas-consciousness; delusion/delusions, 19–20, 60–1, 90,
self-consciousness 97, 103, 109–10, 119, 120, 127
Contemplation Sūt ra, 54 see also everyday world of delusion;
contemporariness, 82–3 illusion/illusions; self, grand
Copenhagen, 32, 222 delusion
The Corsar (Copenhagen newspaper), demons, 55
223 Denmark, 40, 41, 222
cowardice, 152, 155 depression, 7
craving, 18, 20, 28 Descartes, R., 77, 108, 114, 139, 192,
culture/cultures, vii–viii, 87, 112, 113, 204, 206, 208
140, 166, 172, 185, 201, 202 cogito ergo sum, 114
European, viii, 32, 159 desire/desires, 7, 13, 87, 99, 142, 143,
Japanese, vii–viii, 11, 17, 18, 50, 93, 154, 190, 205–7, 211, 212
166, 186, 187, 193 earthly, 21, 61
non-Western, viii, 186 evil, 20, 26
rationalist, 207 immoral, 56
Western, 186, 202–3 obscuring, 25
opposite of emotion, 190
daibodaishin, 64 peace of death, 150
Daidoji, Y., 146, 150, 151 rational, 137
The Primary Essential-Mind of the selfish, 18, 22, 28, 90
Warrior, 146 trivial personal, 148
Daiichi Secondary School, 39 worldly, 56, 61
daimyō, 154–7 despair, 3, 6–7, 9–10, 18, 27, 51, 68,
Daito-kokushi, 168 75, 77–8, 118, 125–6, 160, 164,
Daitokuji temple, 168 180, 186, 190, 195–6, 209, 224
dark night of the soul, 77 authentic, 75
darkness of non-existence, 78 culturally induced, 126
Dasein, 116 see also great doubt; depression
datsuraku, 21 deterministic ties, 4, 25
dead sitting, 133 devil, 61
death, 3–4, 6–7, 17, 24, 26–7, 73, dewdrop, 111
74–6, 79, 82, 109–10, 120, 127, dhāranı̄, 22
137, 141–57, 163, 165, 177, dharma/dharmas, 54, 63, 79, 92–3,
179–83, 186, 189, 191, 220–2 98, 116, 118, 126, 127, 131, 134
see also anxieties unto death; see also Buddha-dharma; dharma
awareness, inevitability/ body
certainty of death; death in dharma body, 115
Index 235
dialectical tensions, 10 Eastern philosophy, see philosophy,

Diamond Sūt ra, 182 Eastern
diamond-like mind of crosswise Eastern thinkers, 2
transcendence, 64 Eastern thought, 107
Diem, H., 49 see also Japanese thought;
direct experience, 20 philosophy, Asian; philosophy,
discursive thought, 115 East Asian; philosophy, Eastern;
divination, 15 philosophy, Japanese
The Divine Comedy, 107 Eckhart, M., 107
Docetism, 229 eco-awareness, 122
Dōgen, 20–1, 48, 50, 53, 87, 90–104, ecstasy, 138
106–23, 130, 167 ecumenism, 225
‘Actualizing the Fundamental eightfold noble path, 18, 192
Point’, 107, 109, 110, 116, 119, Eikan, 19
see also Dōgen, ‘The Realization emotion/emotions, 43, 134, 189, 190–1
of Things as They Are’ [same aesthetic, 215
work] love, 119
‘Mountain and Water Su ˉtra’, 93 opposite of desire, 190
‘On the Endeavour of the Way’, 21 personal, 189
‘Point of Zazen’, 167 poignant sadness, 19
‘The Realization of Things as They unselfish, 190
Are’, 92 see also aware; grief; happiness;
Shōbōgenzo, 91, 107, 167 sadness; unhappiness
Treasury of the Eye of the True emperor/emperors, 39, 202
Teaching, 91 Japanese, 17
dōkyō, 13 empiricism, see British empiricist/
Dōkyo Etan, 81 empiricists
Donran, 65 ‘emptiness is immediately form’, 69
Commentary of the Treatise on the emptiness, 62, 69, 107, 138, 167, 168, 170
Pure Land, 65 see also ‘emptiness is immediately
Dostoevsky, F., 68, 187, 206 form’
The Brothers Karamazov, 207 The Enduring Questions, 2
double-mindedness, 87–8, 97, 101, 104 Engakuji temple, 29
Dr Maximus, 107 Engels, S. M., 2
see also al-‘Arabi, I. The Study of Philosophy, 2
dualism, 122, 138 enhancement of the definition itself,
Arian, 74 210
Hegel, 109 Enlightenment [historical period],
subject-object, 42 159, 206
see also dualistic view enlightenment, 18, 19, 21, 59, 61, 64,
dualistic view, 96 79, 90–3, 95–6, 98–9, 116, 124,
125, 127, 132–3, 137, 138
eagle, 110 awakening, 130
early Japanese ancestor worship, 16 dissolution of the self, 138, see also
see also ancestor veneration mind, enlightenment
early Japanese poets, 18 first stage, 62
earnestness, 39, 40, 89, 143–5, no self, 78
149–50, 175 supreme, 54, 63
East Asia, 94 synthesis, 76
236 Index
Epicurus, 143 see also Abhaya mudra

epistemology, 2, 37 feudal lord, 154
eros, 61 Feuerbach, L., 37
ethics, 2, 32, 33, 35, 43, 121, 229 Fichte, J. G., 165
social, 15 filial piety or love, see Confucius,
teleological suspension, 99 Confucian virtues
Europe, 37, 41, 107–8, 114, 118, 119, 160 finitizing, 7, 77
European continent, 125 Finland, 39
European philosophy, see philosophy, First International Conference of the
European Kierkegaard Society of Japan, see
Evangelist, 37 Kierkegaard Society of Japan,
everyday world of delusion, 6, 55 First International Conference
evil, 55, 59, 89, 103, 179, 196, 227 First World War, 44
existentialism, 32, 49, 78, 124 flow of time, 211
end, 50 four noble truths, 17–18
father, 122 four sights, see Buddha, four sights
Kierkegaard, 73, 161, 163 France, 216
polemical, 125 freedom, 3–5, 8, 25–6, 60, 76, 78, 99,
Zen, 73 103, 104, 115, 148, 161–3, 188,
existentiall, 48 189, 208, 227, 229
existentiell, 48 necessity, 75, 76, 161, 162, 189
existing individual, 3, 4, 72, 132, 163 friendship, 67, 87
expedient means, 18, 20, 55 see also love, within friendship
experience (Mori’s concept), 210–14
Gaia, 112
faith, 3, 19–20, 23, 59, 60, 72, 99, 101, The Gateless Gate, 83
102, 113–15, 117–21, 126, 129, Gautama, S., 17
132–4, 138, 170, 181, 183, 185, see also Siddartha
192–4, 196–8, 202, 205, 208, 209, Geismar, E., 220
211, 214–15, 225, 227 genius/geniuses, 187, 212, 216, 223,
altruistic, 226 225, 227
awareness, 118 genius in a market town, 29
basis of Christian love, 67 Germany, 39, 43, 45
Christian, 39 Kierkegaard renaissance, 43, 45
desperate, 226 God, 8–9, 24–5, 46, 57, 60, 61, 67, 72,
God, 196 75, 88, 98–9, 101–2, 107–8,
Jesus, 42, 196 111–16, 118, 122
Kierkegaard’s concept, 56–8 absolute duty, 121
person of, 78 all things, 66
psychological or phenomenological all things are possible, 9
state, 8 belief, 9, 24
Pure Land, 72 death, 46
subjective truth, 229 ethical evil, 46
see also knight of faith; two aspects existence, 8, 101–2
of deep faith instrumental, 78
fear, 26, 39, 57, 81, 87, 116, 133 love, 65, 120
death, 26, 142, 144–53, 155, 220, nature, 25
see also death in mind relation/relationship, 9, 60
life, 152 salvation, 80, 81
Index 237
God – continued Heidegger, M., 43, 44, 47, 49, 116

sanity, 10 anxiety, 44, 48
truth, 195 Being and Time, 116
see also awareness, sin before God; see also existentiall; existentiell
Nietzsche, F., God is dead; Zen Heidelberg, 43, 44, 47
training/practice, no saving heijōshin, 61
God hell, 12, 55, 58, 59, 79, 80, 81
goddesses, 11, 88 hell-bodhisattva, 82
gods, 11–12, 88 hermeneutics, 50
good, 88–90, 97, 99, 100, 102–4, 227 Hirata, A., 13
graveyard, 27 Hiroko Iwakura, 202–3
great aspiration sent by the Buddha, Hirsch, E., 224
64–5 Hisamatsu, S., 72–3, 80–1, 165
great doubt, 75, 77, 137 hishryō, 91
Great Japanese Imperial history, 15, 44, 45, 129, 159, 188–9,
Constitution, 202 195, 211
grief, 18 completing Either/Or, 224
guilt, 26, 88, 189, 224 holy, 198
Gundert, W., 39 Japanese, 12, 187
gunki mono, 17 Japanese Buddhism, 50
gyaku taiō, 182 Kierkegaard research, 31, 141
Kierkegaard’s religious spirit, 220
Hakuin, 22, 24, 75–8, 81, 82, 106, literature, 35, 51
124–40 Pure Land Buddhism, 55
Wild Ivy, 130 teleological views, 170
Halle University, 41 universal, 4
hallucination, see Abraham, Western rationalist thought, 209
hallucination Western, 152, see also history,
Hanazono University, 71 Western rationalist thought
Hannay, A., 99 Zen Buddhism, 85
happiness, 28, 57, 58, 60–2, 220 history of philosophy, see philosophy,
eternal, 56, 57, 129, 132 history of philosophy
temporal, 132 hō, 228
Harris, T. L., 202 Hobbes, T., 160
Hartford Seminary, 39 hōben hosshin, 229
Hasedera temple, 29 hoen no jihi, 62
‘Have no fear’, see Abhaya mudra Høffding, H., 32, 35, 37, 41, 42
Heart Sūt ra, 69 ‘Danish Philosophy in the 19th
heaven, 8, 11, 12, 23, 55, 58, 66, 82, Century’, 32
98, 167 Ethics, 32
before, 116 Psychology, 32
Christian, 98 Søren Kierkegaard as Philosopher, 33, 35
Hegel, G. W. F., 3, 43–5, 47, 48, 125, Hohlenberg, J., 224
128, 138, 159, 168 Holtom, D. C., 16
Encyclopaedia of the Philosophical Hōnen, 20, 50, 53, 64
Sciences, 159 The Choice of the Nembutsu of the
essentialism, 161–2, see also Orginal Vow, 64
dualism, Hegel Hong, H. and E. Hong, 220
Heian period, 16, 53 hosshō hosshin, 229
238 Index
Hōzō bodhisattva, 54 International Christian University, 214

Hsiang-yen Hih-hsien, 84 International Eastern Conference, 32
Hsu-t’ang Chih-yu, 80 interpersonal harmony, 15
humaneness, see Confucius, intuitive understanding, 115
Confucian virtues inverse correspondence, 45, 168, 172,
humanistic concerns, 3 180–4
Hume, D., 2, 159 invisible church, 132
humility, 14, 188 inwardness, 27, 99, 101, 124, 131, 132,
Humphreys, C., 20 137, 175–8, 211
Husserl, E., 210 see also turning inward
hymns, 7 Ippen, 53
see also Bessho, U., translator of Isaac, 8, 117, 120, 182, 191, 201, 214–16
hymns Ishida, S., 33
Islam, 166
Ibsen, H., 36–7, 39, 40 isshiki ikkō muhi chūdō, 69
A Doll’s House, 33, 34 Ito, H., 202
An Enemy of the People, 33, 34 Iwakura, H., see Hiroko Iwakura
Brand, 34, see also Brand Iwakura, T., 202
Peer Gynt, 34 Izanagi and Izanami, 11
Ibsen, K., 33
‘Danish Philosophy of the Last James, W., 37, 165
Decade’, 33 Japan, 22, 31–6, 38, 41–5, 51, 71, 93,
icchō jikinnyū nyoraji, 78 107, 141, 166, 202, 212, 216
idealism, 2 defeat, 47, 49
see also Buddhism, Mind Only militarists, 47
school; Platonic idealism Japanese Buddhism, viii, 18–22, 25,
ignorance, 18, 22, 62, 127, 192, 194 50, 54, 67, 72, 193, 211, 226
illusion/illusions, 6, 65, 92 Kamakura Zen, 20
optical, 95 six schools, 18, 64
see also self, illusion see also Buddhism, Hossō school;
imagination, 7, 9–10, 129, 176, 205 Buddhism, Nara; Buddhism,
imitatio Christi, 229 Nichiren; Buddhism, Pure Land;
immorality, 55, 56 Buddhism, Shingon; Buddhism,
immortality, 138 Tendai; Buddhism, True Pure
imperial court, 18 Land; Buddhism, Zen; history,
Imperial Rescript on Education, 202 Japanese Buddhism; Taoism,
impermanence, 28, 211 Japanese Buddhism
impressionists, 187 Japanese language, 202, 212
inborn nature, 76 Japanese philosophy, see philosophy,
India, 2, 73–4 Japanese
individualism, 33–5, 37, see also Japanese Tendai sect, 54
Nietzsche, extreme individualism see also Buddhism, Tendai
individuum, 119 Japanese thinking, 31, 211
infinitizing, 7, 77 Japanese thought, vii, 1–3, 10–12,
inner prompting, 211–12, 214, 216 14–19, 22–9, 50–1
inner time, 210, 211 syncretism, 11
insanity, 10 synthesis with Western thought, 43
intelligence, 75, 131, 133 see also Christianity, Japanese
intention/intentions, 3, 87 thought
Index 239
Japanese tradition of the warrior, Kanetomo, Y., 14

16–17 Kant, I., 100, 162
Japanese universities, 23, 50 Kao-feng Yüan-miao, 133
see also Hanazono University; karman samsā ra, 55
Kyoto, Imperial University; karma (evil), 55–6, 61, 63, 228
Kyoto, University; Tokyo, see also desire/desires, evil; deep
Imperial University; Tokyo, human consciousness of
University; Waseda University having evil karma
Japanese words, xiv keiken, 40
Jaspers, K., 44 Kenchoji temple, 29
Jesus, 8, 23, 42, 66, 82–5, 98, 163, kengai sasshū, 78
183, 194–9, 226, 229 Kenko, 130
indirect disciple, 85 kenosis, 170, 183, 184
love, 66 kenshō, 81, 91
‘Love your neighbour as ki, 228, 229
yourself’, 66 Kierkegaard, S.
offence, 195 ‘At a Graveside’, 141, 142, 143, 145,
teacher of the truth, 82–3 149, 150, 175
truth, 163, 195 Attack upon Christendom, 125
see also faith, Jesus The Concept of Anxiety, 8, 26, 44, 48,
Jewry, 187 99, 103, 104, 163, 190, 203, 229
jihi, 62 The Concept of Irony, 44
jinenhoni, 228 Concluding Unscientific Postscript,
jinja shintō, 187 27, 49
jiriki, 72 ‘Diapsalmata’, 108
John (New Testament writer), 62 ‘Diary of a Seducer’, 44
Joshu, 83 ‘The Edifying in the Thought that
jukyōshugi, 15 Against God we are Always in
the Wrong’, 108, 111, 113
K’uo-an Shih-yuan, 80 Either/Or, 6, 108, 110–13, 115, 220,
Kagoshima, 202 221, 223, 224, see also history,
kakuzon, 80 completing Either/Or
kamakiri, 24 ‘Either/Or, an ecstatic lecture’, 108
Kamakura, 19, 20 Fear and Trembling, 8, 43, 44, 45, 99,
centre of Buddhist thought, 19 201, 203
temples, 28 Kierkegaard’s Writings, 49, 221, 222
Kamakura period/era, 18, 19, 53, 90, The Moment, 33, 44
107 ‘An Occasional Address’, 8, 87, 88,
Kamakura Zen Buddhism, see 103, 104, see also Kierkegaard,
Japanese Buddhism, Kamakura Zen S., Purity of Heart is to Will One
kami, 11–12, 14–16, 17, 23–7, 93, 94, Thing [same work]
135 ‘One Lives Only Once’, 28
kami no michi, 11 Philosophical Fragments, 82, 129,
kamikaze, 17 163, 222
kan po, see meditation, kan po The Point of View for my Work as an
Kaneko, C., 33, 37 Author, 10
‘Kierkegaard’s view of Life’, 37 Practice in Christianity, 6, 44, see also
‘New Great Man of Literature’, 33 Kierkegaard, S., Training in
‘Religious Truth’, 37 Christianity [same work]
240 Index
Kierkegaard, S. – continued Kühle, K. V. S., 219

Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing, kuei-ken, 13, 14
87 Kugimiya, A., 210
Repetition, 44 kyoha shintō, 187
Selected Works of Kierkegaard, Kyoto, 50, 71, 165, 168
49, 50 Imperial University, 32, 35
The Sickness unto Death, 5, 8, 9, 43, school, 43, 48, 72, 80, 83
44, 45, 48, 49, 162, 169, 194, University, 219
196, 203, 209 kyoiku tyokugo, 202
‘Silhouettes, Psychological
Diversion’, 220 Lao Tzu, 13, 20, 25, 94
Three Discourses on Imagined Lazarus, 8, 191
Occasions, 141 letting go of one’s hold from a
‘The Tragic in Ancient Drama precipice, 78
Reflected in the Tragic in Liang K’ai, 20
Modern Drama’, 220 Lieh Tzu, 14
Training in Christianity, 128 Lin-chi, 76–7, 79
‘The Unhappiest One’, 220 ‘one true person of no rank’, 68
‘The Work of Love in Remembering literature, 35, 48, 165, 186, 190, 193,
one Dead’, 27, 47 198, 224
Works of Love, 27, 48, 63, 66 Brandes, Danish historian, 32
Kierkegaard International Congress in classical, 191
Milan, 221 French, 186, 203
Kierkegaard scholars Occidental, 32
Japanese, 71 Scandinavian, 34
Western, 1 see also history, literature
Kierkegaard Society, 49 living earnestly, 141
Kierkegaard Society of Japan, ix, 219 see also thinking earnestly about
First International Conference, ix death
Kierkegaard Studiet, 49, 219, 222 Löwith, K., 44
Kierkegaardian fellow(ship) of the Locke, J., 159
dead, 27, 219–20, 223, 225 logic, 3, 32, 48, 59, 162
kino jinshin, 61 dutiful ethical, 117
kirisutokyokyō kyōjo kai, 203 identity and difference, 59
Kito, I., 49 objective, 164, 167
The Philosophy of Possibility, 49 paradoxical, 59
knight of faith, 8 place, 45, 160, 164
ko kindaijin, 73 religion, 46
koan, 22, 24, 83–4 species, 47
Kobayashi, H., 25, 185–93, 197–9 The Lotus Sūt ra, 18, 21, 81, 94, 133
Motoori Norinaga, 187 love, 3, 88, 89
Kobayashi, I., 32 Christian, 63, 65, 67, 68
‘Modern Philosophy of concept, 61
Denmark’, 32 erotic, 61, 67
koji kyūmei no gyōdō, 77 eternal, 65
Kojiki, 11 natural, 63
kokumanman ji, 78 religious, 61–3
kōmei rekireke ji, 78 selfish, 62
Kuˉkai, 19 self-negativity, 65–7
Index 241
love – continued Zen, 96, 166, see also meditation,

unchangeableness, 67–9 sitting/seated
unconditional, 65 Meiji government, 22, 201
within friendship, 61–2 Meiji period/era, 31, 33, 42
see also Confucius, Confucian Meiji restoration, 187, 202
virtues; faith, basis of Christian Meiroku sha party, 202
love; God, love; self-love; melancholy, 51
trinity of love Mencius, 15
Lowrie, W., 222 merit, 14, 67
loyalty to one’s superiors, 16–17 metaphysics, 2, 78, 92, 125, 138, 161,
see also Confucius, Confucian 164, 165, 168
virtues mi nu tuku, 48
Luther, M., 207 Miao-fa lion-hua ching, 18
middle land, 12
magokoro, 191 middle way, 69, 131
Mahā Vairocana Sūt ra, 136 found in all things, 69
Mahāyā na Buddhism, see Buddhism, truth, 69
Mahāyā na Miki, K., 43
Mahāyā na platform precepts, 54 ‘Contemporary Thought’, 44
Malantschuk, G., 222 Inexpressible Philosophy, 44
manas-consciousness, 62, 66 ‘Kierkegaard and the Present Age’, 44
mantra, 20 ‘Ontological Explanation of
mappō, 53 Dialectic’, 44
Marburg, 43 Selected Works of Kierkegaard, 44
Marino, G. D., 100 ‘A Study of Humanity in Pascal’, 45
marriage, 202 ‘The Thought of Anxiety and its
arranged, 202 Conquest’, 44
mutually agreed contract, 202 Miletus, 2
martyrdom, 156, 219, 221–3, 225 mind, 13, 15, 19, 21, 25, 126, 136, 137
Marx, K., 47, 49 against itself, 87, 91
Marxism, 47 deep, 56
Marxist materialism, 45 diamond-like, 64
Masashige, 17 discriminating, 83
Masnawi, 107 enlightenment, 130
Masuda, K., 49 entrusting, 56
‘The Meaning and Method of everyday, 168
Kierkegaard Study – One Japanese, 190
Apology’, 49 mind-body relation, 46, 92, 138
mathematics, 3 peaceful, 74
meaning of to die, 3–4 save all sentient beings, 62–5
meaninglessness of existence, 10 seeking, 79
meditation, vii, 18, 20, 21, 22, 90–1, sincere, 54
127, 130, 131, 192 unmovable, 61
Buddhist, 192, 206 see also Buddha, this mind; death in
inevitability of death, 146–7, 151 mind; diamond-like mind of
kan po, 193 crosswise transcendence; double-
new concept, 75 mindedness; mindfulness;
sitting/seated, 21, 91, 165, see also wondrous law of the one mind
zazen mindfulness, 18, 127
242 Index
Mitsuchi, K., 31, 43 Nagarjuna, 167

Drunken Songs, 31, 43 nakashibuy kyoukai church, 203
‘The Love of Kami’, 43 nakasutkuni, 12
suicide, 43 Nakazato, S., 25
Miyahara, K., 50 Nam myoho renge kyō, 21
Philosophy of Melancholy, 50 Namu Amida Butsu, 20, 54
moment, concept, 45, 47 Nara, 18, 23, 166
Mongols, 107 Nara period, 18, 19
mono no aware, 189–90 nationalism, 33, 47
mood/moods, 142–4, 149–52, 155–6, nature veneration, 12
188 Nearman, H., 91
moon, 92, 95, 99, 101, 111 nembutsu, 229, 230
morality, 166, 178–9, 189–91, 193, neo-Kantians, 42
198 New Novel, 36
Mori, A. (Arinori), 201–2 New Testament, see Bible, New
Minister of Education, 202 Testament
Mori, A. (Arismasa), 201 Nichiren, 21, 53, 61
‘Birth of an Only Child’, Nietzsche, F., 34–5, 36, 42, 43, 159,
214–15 168, 208
By the Flow of Babylon, 204 extreme individualism, 35
Modern Spirit and Christianity, God is dead, 159
203–4 revaluation of all values, 161
Mortensen, F. H., 1, 23 superman, 161
Kierkegaard Made in Japan, 1 Nietzscheism, 34
Motoori, N., 11, 12, 187, 189–91 nihil, 161–2
Mount Hiei, 50 nihilism, 48, 159, 161–2, 164–5, 207,
Mount Olympus, 93 209, see also self, nihilistic
Mount Tsurigi, 12 Nihongi, 11
mountain veneration, 93–4 nirvā na, 21–2, 90, 98
mountain/mountains, 11, 12, 13, Nishida, K., 37–8, 42, 43, 44, 46, 50, 72
93–6, 97, 100, 101, 110, 116, 127 ‘Absolute Nothingness as
see also mountain veneration Determined through
Mozart, W. A., 187 Self-Consciousness or
Mt Yamamuro, 13 Self-Determination through
Mu-chou Tao-tsung, 84 Self-Consciousness of Absolute
muen no jihi, 62 Nothingness’, 45
Mulamādhyamaka Sūt ra, 167 ‘From that which Acts to that
Murakami, H., 111, 112, 123 which Sees’, 45
music, 15, 118 An Inquiry into the Good, 37, 42,
Mutō, K., 24 172–3
Myōe, 64 ‘Introduction to Practical
Breaking the Wheel of False Philosophy’, 45, 169
Teaching, 64 ‘My View of Hegel’s Dialectics’, 37
Myōhō, 137 ‘Place-Logic and the Religious
myōkōnin, 55 World View’ (also referred to as
mysticism, 189 ‘The Logic of Place and the
Catholic, 78 Religious World View), 45, 46,
Christian, 48 173, 175, 177, 183
Eastern, 116 ‘The Principle of Self-Awareness’, 37
Index 243
Nishida, K. – continued ‘On the Problematical Points in the

‘Self-Determination of the Eternal Titles of Kierkegaard’s Works 2:
Present, 45 The Point of View, on my Work
Nishino, B., 202 as an Author’, 222
Nishitani, K., 46, 48–9, 83, 159–60, ‘On the Problematical Points in the
164–70, 172–84, 193, 201, 209, Titles of Kierkegaard’s Works 3:
213–14 Judge for Yourself!, Upbuilding
nishu jinshin, 55 Discourses, Stages on Life’s Way’,
Nitta, 17 222
non-action, 13, 25, 67 ‘Reading “The Unhappiest One” in
non-discriminating wisdom, 62 Either/Or’, 220, 221, 222
non-substantial way/ways of ‘Spirits that Fight around
thinking, 159–60, 163–4, 166, Kierkegaard: a Personal
170 Remembrance’, 219
nori, 93 other power, 19–20, 25–6, 64, 72
no-self theory/view, 2, 17, 102 transcending crosswise, 225, see
see also subjectivity, no self also two-part classification
nothing to cling to is an sub-divided into four parts,
inexhaustible store, 67 transcending crosswise and
nothingness, 60, 107, 138, 167, 181, 183 departing crosswise;
absolute, 45, 49, 83, 160–5, 167–70, diamond-like mind of
174–5, 181–3 crosswise transcendence
oriental, 80
relative, 160–2, 164 paganism, 186, 197, 226
pagoda, 23
Obama, 54 paradox, 45, 56, 76, 84, 111, 120, 121,
objective truth, see truth, objective 134–7, 139, 182, 195, 196,
oˉchoˉ shidanru, 63 215, 224
odes, 15 absolute, 84, 172, 180, 183, 184,
Ogawa, K., 49 196, 228, 229
‘The Problem of the Interpretation see also Christianity, paradox; logic,
of Kierkegaard’, 49 paradoxical
Ohnishi, H., 32–3 parents, 16, 27, 212–13
Ohtsuka, Y., 34–5 Paris, 45, 204
‘A Look at our Current Literature Pascal, B., 45, 203, 204, 206–8
through the Romantic Pensées, 208
Movement’, 34 pathetisk understanding, 225
one jump into the land of Buddha, 78 pathos, 48, 190, 223, 225, 228
original vow, see vow/vows see also pathos of a thing;
Osaka, 49 understanding filled with
Otani, M., 27, 219–29 pathos
Complete Works of Masaru Otani, 219 pathos of a thing, 190
‘The Ethical and Martyrdom of the Paul (New Testament writer), 57–62, 98
Individual in Kierkegaard’, 219, period of imitative law, 53
221, 223 period of last law, 53
‘On the Problematical Points in the period of righteous law, 53
Titles of Kierkegaard’s Works 1: pessimism, 37, 121, 122
Problems in the Title of see also Schopenhauer, A.,
Philosophical Fragments’, 222 pessimism
244 Index
phantoms, 83 plants, 11, 12, 83

phenomenological reduction, 210 Plato, 168
phenomenology, 50 see also philosophy, Platonic;
philanthropy, 35 Platonic form/forms; Platonic
philia, 61 idealism
philosophical psychology, 32 Platonic form/forms, 89, 159
philosophical traveller, vii Platonic idealism, 165
philosophy, vii, 2, 31, 33, 35, 42, 44, pleasure/pleasures, 40, 44, 74, 88,
47–9, 51, 72, 87, 159–61, 166, 168, 112, 118
173, 192, 193, 208 poetry, 15, 190
analytic, 50 Rumi, 107
Asian, 31 polytheism/polytheisms,
Buddha, 90 11, 188
Buddhist, 127, 130 post-modernist, 73
Chinese, 13 Praise to Amida Buddha, 20
Christian, 23, 160 Praise to the lotus of the wondrous
comparative, vii law, 21
Danish, 32 prayer/prayers, 7, 93, 181, 203
death, 47, see also death praying mantis, 23
Descartes, 108 Protestantism, 35
Dōgen, 90 prudence of the four phases, 167
East Asian, 71 pseudonym/pseudonyms, 1, 3, 40,
Eastern, 2, 164 103–4, 141, 183, 194, 195
European, 32, 108, 159, 161–2 pseudonymous works, 3
Hakuin, 75 psychology, 33, 35
Hegel, 47, 162 see also philosophical psychology
Heidegger, 44 psychotherapy, 10
history of philosophy, vii, 32 pure experience, 44, 48, 165, 168,
inexpressible, 44 169, 183, 201, 209, 213, 214
Japanese, 1, 2, 23, 31, 164, see also Pure Land, 21, 25
Kyoto school see also Buddhism, Pure Land;
Kierkegaard, vii, 3, 42, 47, 99, 103, Buddhism, True Pure Land
138, 163, 201 Pure Land Buddhism, see Buddhism,
Nishida, 166, 168–9, 174–5, 183 Pure Land
philosophy of history, 3 Pure Land sect, 50
Platonic, 159–60 see also Buddhism, Pure Land
Tanabe, 46
Taoism, 94 qualitative leap, 4, 25–6, 99
Western, 22, 23, 32, 42, 71, 164, quantum theory, 122
206, 208
Zen, 59 ratio, 115, 117
physics, 35 rationalism, 206–7, 209
piety, 40, 177 rebirth, 18, 54, 139, 227, 228
see also Confucius, Confucian recollection of truth, 78
virtues Record of Ancient Matters, 11
place (Nishda’s concept), 160, 164–5, Regine, 10, 117, 216, 229
167–9, 174, 175, 178, 180, 183, reincarnation, 76
213 reliability in word, see Confucius,
plane of high sky, 12, 20, 135 Confucian virtues
Index 245
religion/religions, 10, 11, 12, 31, 35, Saito, S. (Shinsaku), 37

38–9, 45–8, 61, 72, 94, 125, 128, ‘Who is Ibsen: Ibsen and
165, 166, 168, 172–9, 182–4, 187, Civilization in the 19th
193–4, 197, 202, 226 Century’, 37
fundamental understanding, 51 salvation, 58, 125
Nishida, 46 see also God, salvation;
see also Buddhism; Christianity; Christianity, salvation
Islam; Japanese Buddhism; samata-jnāna, 62
Shintō; Taoism, ritual and Samos, 2
magical practices samsā ra, 55, 61, 90
religiousness A, 73, 81–2, 175–7, 194, samurai, 17, 26, 141–2, 145–57
197–8 Sanskrit words, xiv
religiousness B, 73, 81–2, 176, 194, Sarah, 120, 215
197–8 Sartre, J-P., 10
repetition, 227 Satan, 57–8
concept, 47, 69 satori, 78, 83, 130
returning to the root, 14 see also awareness, satori
see also returning to the source Satsuma-han, 202
returning to the source, 13, 94 saving sentient beings from
see also returning to the root suffering, 62
reverence, see Confucius, Confucian Sazanami, I., 36–7
virtues ‘Henrik Ibsen’, 36
Rimbaud, J. A., 186 Schopenhauer, A., 31
Rinzai, see Lin-chi pessimism, 35
Rinzai school, see Buddhism, Rinzai Schopenhauerian thought, 37
school Schröer, H., 224
Rinzo, S., 50 science, 4, 25
‘Journey in a Melancholy Fog’, 51 Western, 202
rites, 15 sciential intuitiva, 115, 117
ritualized form of suicide, 152 sea/seas, 11, 12, 89, 97
river/rivers, 92, 93, 101 Second World War, 17, 47, 49, 186, 187
river nymphs, 93 seeing into one’s own nature, see
Romans, see Paul (New Testament writer) enlightenment
romanticism, 35 Seelye, J. H., 39
Rouault, G., 199 Sekiya, A., president of Japanese
Rudin, W., 40 YWCA, 203
Søren Kierkegaard’s Person and self, 7, 21, 28, 33, 46, 60, 62, 65, 66,
Authorship, 40 78, 84, 92, 95, 102, 109, 112,
Rumi, 107 115–20, 137, 138, 154, 159–71,
Russia, 35 173, 174, 176, 178–84, 190, 194,
Russo-Japanese War, 36, 40 197, 206, 207, 210–14, 216, 217
grand delusion, 22
sadness, 18, 119, 168, 190 historical, corporeal, 45
see also unhappiness illusion, 96, 102
Saichi Asahara, 54, 61 nihilistic, 165
Saichō, 19, 50, 53 no self, 78
Saito, S. (Shinji), 49 non-existence, 18
Socrates and Kierkegaard: the Concept sinful, 60
of Irony, 49 synthesis, 7, 9, 74–5, 162
246 Index
self – continued Shinran, 20–1, 25, 45, 50, 53–4, 56,

true, 77, 82, 109, 116, 118, 164–6, 60–1, 67, 72, 225–30
168 Buddhism, 225
unchanging, 90, 111 Kyō gyō shin shō, 54
universal, 81 A Record of Lament of the Divergences,
see also no-self theory/view; spirit/ see Yuien, A Record of Lament of
spirits, self the Divergences
self-annihilation, 175–6 Teaching, Practice, Faith, and
self-assertion, 14, 67 Attainment, 54, 63, 64
self-awareness, 37–8, 83, 166, 168–70, Shintō, viii, 11, 12, 14–15, 22–5, 93,
174–6, 179, 180, 183, 191 135, 166–7, 177, 187–8, 191, 203,
see also spiritual self-awareness 205
self-boasting, 14, 67 denomination, 187
self-complacency, 14 Indian and Greek origins, 11
self-consciousness, 54 nature veneration, 12
self-deception, 3, 4, 5–6, 8, 25, 87 shrine, 187
self-denial, 46, 66, 67, 157, 178, ‘this-worldly’ quality, 12,
180–4, 225 24, 25
self-display, 14, 67 see also kami
self-emptying, 170 Shintō thinking, 27
self-identity, 46, 167 shiza, 133
see also absolute-contradictory shōbō, 53
self-identity Shōgun/Shōgunate, 19, 22
self-love, 66 Shōgun/Shōgunate, Tokugawa, 22,
self-nature, 81 202
self-power, 54, 64 Shōju Rōjin, 133
sentient beings, 54, 56, 62, 109, 110, shōzōmatsu, 53
120, 182 shrines, 11
see also saving sentient beings from shugendō, 93
suffering; mind, save all Shūhō Myōchō, 85, 130
sentient beings shujōen no jihi, 62
seppuku, 152, 155, 156 shūnya, 62
seven treasures, 94 shūnyatā, 69, 83
sex, 229, 230 Siddartha, 131
sexual beings, 229 see also Shā kyamuni Buddha
sexual union, 21 silence, 88, 97, 136, 139–40,
Shā kyamuni Buddha, 59, see also 197, 199
Buddha see also Abraham, silence
shamanistic and animistic Silk Road, 187
practices, 11 sin, 26
Shan-tao, Commentary on the original, 8
Contemplation Sūt ra, 56 a person of, 78
shape through which human beings Sino-Japanese War, 33
know the truth, 229 six schools of Buddhism, see Japanese
shikishū, 80 Buddhism, six schools
Shikoku, 12 six worlds, 55
shiku funbetsu, 167 Sixth Patriarch of Zen, 20
Shimane, 55 Skovgaard-Petersen, C., 40
shinjin [faith], 20–1, 58 sky, 111, 166, 167
shinjin [mind and body], 21 see also plane of high sky
Index 247
Socrates, 37, 136, 192, 197 Zen, 72–3, 79–82

see also recollection of truth; suchness, 61
Socratic method suffering/sufferings, 7, 17–18, 22, 26,
Socratic method, 84 28, 58, 60, 74, 75, 90
sorrow, 6, 19, 110, 143, 188, 191 bodily, 74
Sōtō school, see Buddhism, Sōtō sect/ existential, 74
Zen law, 74
soul/souls, 28, 40, 55, 60, 61, 87, 88 physical, 74
spatio-temporal world, 12 see also saving sentient beings from
Spinoza, B., 108–16, 118, 122 suffering
spirit/spirits, 11, 12, 13, 55, 56, 69, 93, Sugimoto, H., 205, 213
126, 163, 188, 194, 206, 207, 229, suicide, 150, 152–7
230 recovery from depression, 7
absolute, 162 see also Mitsuchi, K., suicide;
Christian, 114 ritualized form of suicide;
friendly, 61 seppuku; suicide pilots,
Hegelian, 162 suicide pilots, 17
holy, 62, 195, 226 sun, 92, 99, 101
human/human being, 114, 162, The Sun, 33
180, 197, 206, 229 Sung dynasty, 80
natural, 187 Sung poets, 127
original, 14–15 support of family and friends, 10
self, 114, 180, 197 Suzuki, D. T., 59
see also history, Kierkegaard’s Sweden, 32, 39
religious spirit symparanekromenoi, 220, 221
spiritual self-awareness, 173–4,
176–80, 193 Taiheiki, 17
spontaneity of the appearance of Taihō reforms, 14
truth, 228 taishi ichiban, 77
sports, 165 takamanohara, 12, 135
stars, 89, 97, 98, 100, 101 Takayama, C., 33–4
Stoicism, 152 ‘Treating Aesthetic Life’, 34
Stoics, 152 ‘The Writer as a Critic of
Sūt ra of Immeasurable Life, 54 Civilization’, 33
sūtra/sūtras, 22, 58 Takayasu, G., 33
Buddhist, 20, 54 Tama, 187
Indian, 19 Tamura, Y., 19
tearing up, 20 Tanabe, H., 43, 46–8
see also The Lotus Sūt ra ‘An Appreciation of Professor
sub specie aeterni, 128 Nishida: a Response to his
subjective thinker, 44 Teaching’, 46
subjective truth, see truth, ‘Either Ontology of Life or
subjective Dialectics of Death’, 47
subjectivism, 37 Hegelian Philosophy and Dialectics, 46
subjectivity, 3–4, 7, 24, 26, 49, 78, 79, ‘The Individuality of Existence and
85, 122, 126, 132, 139, 161, 163, Sociality of Nothingness’, 47
165, 186, 188, 193–4, 197, 205–6, ‘Memento Mori’, 47
212, 216 ‘Obligations of Love and Social
no self, 73, 80–1 Practice’, 47
Socratic, 80 Philosophy as Metanoetics, 47
248 Index
Tao, 13–15, 94 Tokyo, 204

see also water, symbol of the Tao Imperial University, 186
Tao Te Ching, 13, 15, 116 Senmon Gakko, 33
Taoism, vii, 11, 13–15, 18, 20, 22, Teikoku Daigaku, 203
135, 187 University, 203, 204
Chinese, 94 Tolstoy, L., 35
freedom, 25 Tomonaga, S., 35
Japanese Buddhism, 25, 67 Dictionary of Philosophy, 35
ritual and magical practices, 14 torment, 7
tariki, 54 totalitarianism, 49
Tathandlung, 165 Tou-shuai Ts’ung-yueh, 76
tathatā, 61 transcendence, 21, 69, 82–3, 98
tautologies, 10 see also diamond-like mind of
teleological suspension of ethics, see crosswise transcendence
ethics, teleological suspension transmigration, 56
Ten Ox-herding Pictures, 80 trees, 11, 12, 83, 88, 98, 101, 118
Ten Thousand Leaves, 166 trinity of love, 47
Teruji, I., 50 True Pure Land Buddhism, see
Tetsujiro, I., 32 Buddhism, True Pure Land
theism, 7 truth itself, 228
theology, 39, 208, 224, 226 truth, 4, 6, 37, 39, 44, 48, 60, 62, 66,
Christian, 165 69, 82–3, 90, 94, 99, 101, 121,
dialectical, 44 134–9, 163, 176, 185, 193, 194,
things as they are, 61, 96 205, 209, 221, 223–5, 227
thinking beyond thinking and not concept, 163
thinking, 92, 97 indirect transmission, 84–5
thinking earnestly about death, 142, infinite, 40
145, 151, 153 jump, 78
third kind of knowledge, 111–12 living, 40
thorn in the flesh, 57–60 objective, 3
Thorvaldsen, B., 39 religious, 61, 176
three essentials, 133 subjective, 3, 99, 101, 229, see also
three periods of the teaching, 53 faith, subjective truth
Thulstrup, N., 222 subjectivity, 23–4, 163, 197
Tilegnelse, 48, 61 see also Christianity, truth; four noble
Tillich, P., 226 truths; God, truth; Jesus, truth;
time, 138, 145, 148, 210–11 middle way, truth; recollection
see also flow of time; of truth; shape through which
impermanence; inner time; human beings know the truth;
time-being; timeless spontaneity of the appearance of
interdependence of all things; truth; truth itself
timeless place Ts’ui, 79
time-being, 120, 122 Tsubouchi, S., 33
timeless interdependence of all ‘Ibsen’s Social Drama’, 34
things, 109 Tsuji, K., 204–5
timeless place, 107 Tsunajima, R., 37
Tivoli Gardens, 222 turning inward, 4, 23
Tochiori, K., 205 twentieth-century receptions of
Tōkai Shōshun, 29 Kierkegaard, 1
Index 249
two aspects of deep faith, 54, 56, 67 war tales, 17

see also deep faith of oneself warfare, 145
two-part classification sub-divided Waseda Literary Magazine, 33, 34
into four parts, 63–4 Waseda University, 33
transcending crosswise and water, 93–7, 100, 102, 111
departing crosswise, 64, see also awareness, 97
diamond-like mind of clear to the bottom, 167
crosswise transcendence symbol of the Tao, 13–14, 25
transcending lengthwise and Watsuji, T., 31, 36
departing lengthwise, 64 Søren Kierkegaard, 31, 42
Wei-shan Ling-yu, 84
Uchimura, K., 38–42 Western and Christian perspective,
‘A Story of Denmark or a Story of viii
how Faith and Forestry Saved a Western civilization, 202, 205
Country’, 41 Western philosophy, see philosophy,
The Biblical Study, 41 Western
The Diary of a Japanese Convert, 39 Western technology, 202
‘The Great Ambition’, 38 Western thought, viii, 2, 43, 61, 107,
How I became a Christian, 39, 40, 41 112, 114, 180, 201, 205, 209
Ueda, B., 39 see also Japanese thought, synthesis
‘Ibsen’, 36 with Western thought
Ueda, K., 14 wind, 89, 97
Uendliggjørelse, 7 Wolff, M., 40
understanding filled with pathos, 225 wondrous law of the one mind, 133,
underworld, 12–13 135, 138
undivided activity, 92, 114 wondrous law, 136, 137
undivided from the whole, 119 see also wondrous law of one mind
unhappiness, 220 Wu-men Hui-k’ai, 83
see also sadness Wu men kuan, 83
United Church of Japan, 23 wu-wei, 13, 14, 25, 67
universals, 3
unselfishness, 187, 191–3, 197–9 Yamamoto, T., 146–7, 150
untruth, 77, 78, 83 In the Shadow of Leaves, 146
crowd, 185 yogic asceticism, 74
Upanishads, 2 yogin, 74
upāya, 18 yomi, 12, 13
USA, 222 you for you, 212
Yüan-hsien Yung-chiao, 127
van Gogh, V., 187 Ch’an-yü-nei-chi, 127
vanity, 58 Yuien, 54, 58, 59
Vashubandhu, 2 A Record of Lament of the Divergences,
Vedas, 2 54, 58, 67
viewing things from the perspective Yun-men Wen-yen, 84–5
of eternity, 107, 115, 122
virtue/virtues, 15–17, 27, 54, 61, 194, 212 zazen, 21, 91, 92, 96, 101, 103,
exalted, 63 130, 165
see also Confucius, Confucian see also dead sitting
virtues Zen, see Buddhism, Zen
vow/vows, 19–20, 54–6, 227–8, 230 Zen Buddhism, see Buddhism, Zen
250 Index
Zen sickness, 125 Ziegler, T., 34

Zen training/practice, 29, 82, 118, ‘The Spiritual and Social Currents
130, 165–6 of the 19th Century’, 34
no saving God, 78 Zilu, 17
Zendo, see Shan-tao zōbō, 53
zettaimu teki shutai, 80 Zohar, 107, 108, 114

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Kierkegaard and

THE NATURE OF SEXUAL DESIRE

Notes on the Editor and Contributors x

Editorial Note xiv

1. Introduction: Kierkegaard among the Temples

2. A Short History of Kierkegaard’s Reception

3. Japanese Pure Land Buddhism and Kierkegaard 53

4. A Zen Understanding of Kierkegaard’s

5. To Practise One Thing: Kierkegaard through

6. Aeterno Modo: the Expression of an Integral

7. Truth, Paradox, and Silence: Hakuin and Kierkegaard 124

8. Living with Death: Kierkegaard and the Samurai 141

9. Kierkegaard and Nishida: Ways to the

10. The Religious Thought of Nishida and Kierkegaard 172

11. Kobayashi’s Spirit of Unselfishness and Kierkegaard’s Faith 185

12. Mori and Kierkegaard: Experience and Existence 201

13. Otani: a Kierkegaardian Fellow of the Dead 219

This is a book with several purposes. First, it is a book on the philosophy

James Giles studied at the University of British Columbia and the

Adam Buben is a Presidential Doctoral Fellow in the philosophy

Philosophy of Religion at the Graduate School of Osaka Prefecture

Kinya Masugata was born in Japan in 1947, studied at Kyoto University,

Ian Mills is a poet, now working as an independent scholar and an

Makoto Mizuta, PhD, is former Professor of Philosophy and Medical

to gendai no jitsuzon – hikaku shisoˉ to taiwa no seishin [Comparative Studies

Mime Morita (née Ikeda) is Associate Professor of Philosophy, Ethics,

Eshin Nishimura was born in Shiga-ken, Japan in 1933. He graduated

Shudo Tsukiyama is Professor of Intercultural Studies at the University

Hidetomo Yamashita is Professor of Philosophy of Religion at the

In order to avoid confusion for the English reader Japanese personal

The writings of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard (1813–55) are

In a way, this ignoring of Japanese thinkers is part of a larger tradition

But what is it about Kierkegaard’s philosophy that suggests a comparison

Kierkegaard, are determinations of subjectivity, yet real lovers, persons

deceive themselves about their own despair by living an illusion. He

The ordinary view of despair holds to appearances and is a super-

is to take an idea or passage from the Bible and then re-interpret it in

Let us then turn to Japanese thought to get an idea of where these

I do not yet understand the meaning of the term kami. Speaking

Thus, although kami refer to supernatural beings, such as the primor-

warriors, or emperors. However, it is not just these renowned persons

It is worth noting here that a later Shintō scholar, Atsutane Hirata

vegetable world have displayed their luxuriant growth, we see each of

These Taoist philosophical concepts, which were developed further

in word, reverence, filial piety or love, brotherly love, and loyalty to

In the presence of a superior, do not suddenly stand up.

centuries became enshrined in bushidō or the way of the warrior as

Buddha, ‘Birth is suffering; ageing is suffering; sickness is suffering;

Nevertheless, there were several aspects of Buddhism that fitted well

oneself and that other power? A possible answer, suggested by

stressing the importance of zazen or sitting meditation. It is in meditation,

It is evident that, despite some divergence, there is a strong connec-

nirvāna. When one chants Nam-myoho-renge-kyo even during the

It is interesting to note that even among Japanese who consider themselves

brings him into harmony with Japanese ways of thinking, is nicely

mind, so is the qualitative leap really my own choice. Where Kierkegaard

the Japanese practice of bowing to the family butsudan – a small altar

thinkers at Hasedera and Kenchoji temples, would have felt an affinity

The relationship between Kierkegaard and Japanese thinking may be

First period: the dawn (late 1880s–1906)

Fourth period: assimilation and Kierkegaard renaissance (1920–45)

Let us look at each of these periods.

First period: the dawn

Kierkegaard’s two routes to Japan