One of my academic teachers once made a remark that stayed with me for many years. When he began his studies, he thought he knew nothing. After a few years, he thought he knew everything. Then, when he received his Master’s degree, he realised that only then could he truly begin to study.
I’ve always found this remark very insightful. And it applies not only to academic studies, but to martial arts as well.
In Hagakure, however, we find something even more interesting: a four-stage model of a swordsman’s development.
First, one has no skills and thinks that neither oneself nor others know anything. Second, one still has no skills, but can recognise one’s own shortcomings as well as those of others. Third, one has skills, is proud of them, and is respected by others. Fourth, one appears to know nothing—while everyone else recognises that person’s mastery.
Nevertheless, Yamamoto Tsunetomo points to something even more interesting. I will return to it at the end.
1. Before We Begin to Study
Before we begin any serious study, most people are simply ignorant of how little they know. They feel they already understand enough about everything. Professionals seem distant from real life, and their discussions appear to be pointless hair-splitting.
These are the people who think calligraphy is a waste of time, because everyone already knows how to write. They laugh at anyone who practises something more demanding than simply living day by day. Martial arts are, of course, no exception.
2. Those Who Still Have No Skills
It is only when someone begins to study that they realise how much there is to learn. And at first, it can feel overwhelming. Because of that, people at this stage often begin to doubt everything.
In martial arts, people like this are not rare. They question everything from the very beginning. As they say, they know life—and in life, situations are complicated. Maybe techniques work in the dojo, but on the street things are different. You know the story.
In many cases, this is simply a psychological defence mechanism: maybe I know nothing, but they probably don’t know much more either. Beginners sometimes delude themselves in order to protect their egos.
These are the people described in Hagakure as knowing nothing and believing that others know nothing either. Nevertheless, they are not the same as those who have never begun to study. The first and very important step has already been taken: the recognition of one’s own ignorance. And from that moment, the first seed of knowledge appears.
After some time, a person may still have no real skills, but they begin to recognise their own shortcomings. By this point, some work has already been done, and the first stage of overwhelm has been overcome.
To know what we do not know is already an important kind of knowledge.
However, this stage can also create a new illusion — the feeling that we already know something. In martial arts, people at this stage can sometimes become dangerous to their training partners, because their self-confidence grows faster than their actual skill.
2. Those Who Begin to Have Skills
After some time, a person begins to realise that their earlier self-confidence was unfounded, and it quickly starts to diminish. At the same time, if they continue practising, their knowledge and skills gradually increase.
Eventually, a moment may come — just as my teacher once said — when a person realises that this is precisely the moment when the real study can begin.
This is usually the stage at which people receive their black belts. As people often say, a black belt is not the end of the journey — it is only the beginning. A person now has all the tools in their hands, but still knows very little about how to use them.
The guidance of a teacher is still necessary to turn those tools into something that resembles true art.
Nevertheless, this is also the beginning of the third stage described in Hagakure—the stage at which a person becomes proud of their skills and begins to be appreciated by others, sometimes even as a master.
This recognition can easily create the illusion that there is nothing more left to learn. Many black belts stop their training at this point. And that is a real pity. Because after receiving a Master’s degree, a person can continue to develop through professional work. A black belt, however, has only one way forward: to continue training.
Finally, if a person is patient enough, they may reach the fourth stage of development described in Hagakure—the stage my professor tactfully left out. It is the stage at which someone appears to have no skills at all, while everyone recognises that person’s mastery.
In martial arts, we might hope to see it around the level of fourth dan, which roughly corresponds to the old menkyo kaiden in traditional Japanese martial arts.
At this point, a person becomes independent and can continue the journey on their own. This may be one of the reasons why, in arts such as judo, karate, or aikido, there are usually no examinations beyond fourth dan. It is the stage at which teachers no longer have anything left to test.
A true master no longer merely possesses skills — the master embodies the art.
3. Becoming Useful
Beyond what I have already said, Hagakure contains another remark that can easily be overlooked, but which I find quite interesting. It suggests that people at the first and second stages are not yet useful. A student becomes useful only at the third stage — when a person finally has some real skills and others begin to recognise them.
This leads to an important question: what does it actually mean for a martial artist to be useful?
Interestingly, this was not only a philosophical question. It became a very practical problem in Japan at the beginning of the twentieth century. The samurai class had disappeared, and the battlefield with it. If martial arts were no longer arts of war, what were they for?
One answer was given by Jigoro Kano. Instead of preserving martial arts simply as relics of the samurai past, he reinterpreted them as a form of modern education. The aim of practice was no longer preparation for the battlefield, but the development of the individual.
Influenced by the utilitarian philosophy of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill, he expressed this idea in two well-known principles: seiryoku zen’yō—maximum efficiency with minimum effort—and jita kyōei—the development of the individual for the good of society.
4. Developing Usefulness
When answering the question, “What does it mean for a martial artist to be useful?”, I should make one thing clear from the beginning: I do not claim to present Kano’s original teaching. What follows is simply my own interpretation of his ideas.
In my view, the search for usefulness should begin with oneself. A stream must first find its way between the rocks before anyone can drink from it.
I understand being useful to oneself as making one’s own development the first priority. This does not mean selfishly indulging oneself at the expense of others. On the contrary, self-development often requires renunciation, demands dedication, and sometimes simply leads to suffering.
In short, it means seeking development as a person, not merely seeking personal pleasure.
This idea has a very clear application in martial arts practice. One must develop oneself in order to become a worthy training partner for others in the dojo. Only in this way can a person truly be useful.
In the same way, only through self-development can we become useful to others in life. We educate ourselves in order to do a job. But only when our work develops our natural potential can we truly become useful workers.
In the same way, we must develop as individuals in order to become responsible spouses and parents. Only when a relationship allows our natural potential to grow—as Erich Fromm argued—can there be genuine love and a healthy partnership.
5. Losing Oneself in the Path
Hagakure also makes another interesting distinction. There are those who practise the path, and there are those who lose themselves in the path. This distinction is important, because it suggests something about the proper attitude toward one’s own development.
Those who lose themselves in the path eventually realise something simple: the path has no end. Because of this, they are not overly pleased by their successes, nor are they discouraged by their failures.
They are like solid ground beneath the surface of the water. Successes and failures are only superficial events, flowing past like the waters of a river. Such people do not attach themselves to either of them. There is only the path, to which they have dedicated their lives—and which they walk slowly, but steadily. The path itself becomes more important than its results.
In the end, such people become useful to society, but they do not strive for usefulness itself. On the contrary, they are like the stream described by Alan Watts: the stream simply flows—and it is up to others whether they drink from it.
