A Culture That Does Not Draw Sharp Lines
When I think about Japanese culture, what surfaces first is not a doctrine but a sensibility—an almost peculiar refusal to slice the world into good and evil.
Not black or white. Whether things are in harmony in that moment. That quiet standard, I sense, nourishes a ground where coordination outweighs debate, shaping something intangible yet undeniable—a certain atmosphere we might call "the air of things done well."
This feeling, I suspect, runs deep in a long history of living alongside nature. Nature was both a threat and a source of blessings, never something that could be judged from a single perspective. And so the posture that took shape at the center of conduct became not how to judge, but how to find a way to live with it.
In my years abroad, when opinions clashed, the first question tended to be "Who is right?" Here in Japan, though, I have noticed moments where the mind bypasses correctness entirely and drifts toward a different axis: what feels most settled now? What does the surrounding presence ask of me? That small divergence lodged itself in me as a quiet, persistent curiosity.
Why do process and outcome carry equal weight here?
Why can opposing values coexist without friction?
Why does order rise smoothly, even when no one has spoken it into being?
Following those questions inward, I began to sense something quietly at work beneath the surface of Japanese culture.
Later I learned that others had circled the same terrain. , a cultural anthropologist who taught at the University of Hawaii, built on what she called social relativism: the premise that Japanese conduct is best read through relationship rather than through the isolated individual. , in a chapter of the volume Japanese Sense of Self, named the corresponding tendency the reference-other orientation: people act not from isolated will but from the gravitational pull of those around them. Reading their pages, I felt recognized. My long-held unease had been other people’s research question all along.