a light trace of incense, unformed words escaping into the air. The ink thickened and, when he was satisfied as to its consistency, he stopped and placed the ink stick on a marble rest.
“The ink, the grinding stone, the writing brush and paper, these were described by the ancient Chinese as the Four Treasures of the Study,” he said. He looked closely at the blank sheet of rice paper, as if seeing words that had already been written upon it. He pulled back his sleeve and dipped the brush into the ink, shaped it to a point against the stone and wrote.
It was a series of slashes and curves, his hand pressing the brush into the paper where he required a thick stroke, and lifting it almost off the paper where he wished to leave a light trace. The tip of the brush never once lost a strand of contact with the surface of the paper until it reached the border of the sheet and then the brush was lifted away like a hunting tiger leaping off a rock.
“My name,” he said, handing me the brush. His fingers curved around mine as he showed me the way to hold it. “It is like holding a sword, not too tightly, but not too loosely either. By the manner in which a man holds his brush, you will be able to tell how he carries and uses his sword and, ultimately, how he lives his life.”
I copied the strokes on the rice paper. “There is an order as to which stroke is placed first, much like the patterns of the ken —the sword,” he said. “And, as in aikijutsu where you must never lose the connection with your attacker, so too you must never lose the connection between your brush, your paper, and the center of your being.”
I tried a few more times, the brush moving awkwardly, like a wounded bird crawling across a road. He sighed and I could see he was growing impatient.
“Do not write with your mind. Write with your soul. Don’t think; the movements must come free from the weight of your thoughts.” He folded my effort into a neat square and said, “That is enough. I shall get you your own writing set so you can practice on your own.”
He wanted me to learn to speak Japanese, and to read and write the three forms of Japanese writing: hiragana, katakana, kanji.
“Why must I learn the language?”
“Because I bothered to learn yours.” He looked at me. “And because it will save your life one day.”
It was hard work, yet I enjoyed it. Perhaps after years of tedium in a constrictive school I had at last been set free to truly learn.
I spent a lot of time on his island, even when he was at his office at the Japanese consulate. As deputy-consul of the northern region of Malaya, he looked into the affairs of the small Japanese community. As such he was quite free with his time, although on occasions there were receptions and dinners he had to attend. He had declined the accommodations provided by the consulate on their premises, preferring to stay on his own.
The Japanese were not very popular in Asia at that moment, due to their presence in China, I told him.
“Let us not talk of war and events far removed from us,” he said stiffly.
I was by now used to his manner of speaking, but I found his reply puzzling. He saw the injured expression on my face and softened his tone. “Your government has been pressuring us to cease our incursions into China, even though England and Japan are not at war, and the whole affair is none of the business of the English. I had to listen to the resident councillor berate me today. As though I had a say in the decisions made in Tokyo. This from a representative of a government that saw fit to turn a nation of healthy Chinese into opium addicts just so it could force the Chinese government to trade with it.”
I waved away his apology, for he was correct. The British merchants, backed by their government’s gunboats, had twice gone to war to introduce opium into China, shifting
“The ink, the grinding stone, the writing brush and paper, these were described by the ancient Chinese as the Four Treasures of the Study,” he said. He looked closely at the blank sheet of rice paper, as if seeing words that had already been written upon it. He pulled back his sleeve and dipped the brush into the ink, shaped it to a point against the stone and wrote.
It was a series of slashes and curves, his hand pressing the brush into the paper where he required a thick stroke, and lifting it almost off the paper where he wished to leave a light trace. The tip of the brush never once lost a strand of contact with the surface of the paper until it reached the border of the sheet and then the brush was lifted away like a hunting tiger leaping off a rock.
“My name,” he said, handing me the brush. His fingers curved around mine as he showed me the way to hold it. “It is like holding a sword, not too tightly, but not too loosely either. By the manner in which a man holds his brush, you will be able to tell how he carries and uses his sword and, ultimately, how he lives his life.”
I copied the strokes on the rice paper. “There is an order as to which stroke is placed first, much like the patterns of the ken —the sword,” he said. “And, as in aikijutsu where you must never lose the connection with your attacker, so too you must never lose the connection between your brush, your paper, and the center of your being.”
I tried a few more times, the brush moving awkwardly, like a wounded bird crawling across a road. He sighed and I could see he was growing impatient.
“Do not write with your mind. Write with your soul. Don’t think; the movements must come free from the weight of your thoughts.” He folded my effort into a neat square and said, “That is enough. I shall get you your own writing set so you can practice on your own.”
He wanted me to learn to speak Japanese, and to read and write the three forms of Japanese writing: hiragana, katakana, kanji.
“Why must I learn the language?”
“Because I bothered to learn yours.” He looked at me. “And because it will save your life one day.”
It was hard work, yet I enjoyed it. Perhaps after years of tedium in a constrictive school I had at last been set free to truly learn.
I spent a lot of time on his island, even when he was at his office at the Japanese consulate. As deputy-consul of the northern region of Malaya, he looked into the affairs of the small Japanese community. As such he was quite free with his time, although on occasions there were receptions and dinners he had to attend. He had declined the accommodations provided by the consulate on their premises, preferring to stay on his own.
The Japanese were not very popular in Asia at that moment, due to their presence in China, I told him.
“Let us not talk of war and events far removed from us,” he said stiffly.
I was by now used to his manner of speaking, but I found his reply puzzling. He saw the injured expression on my face and softened his tone. “Your government has been pressuring us to cease our incursions into China, even though England and Japan are not at war, and the whole affair is none of the business of the English. I had to listen to the resident councillor berate me today. As though I had a say in the decisions made in Tokyo. This from a representative of a government that saw fit to turn a nation of healthy Chinese into opium addicts just so it could force the Chinese government to trade with it.”
I waved away his apology, for he was correct. The British merchants, backed by their government’s gunboats, had twice gone to war to introduce opium into China, shifting
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