Lights Along the Road · Hiroshi Kanda
Chapter 24: Digging Until You Find Your Own Vein
The Words: Natsume Sōseki, 1914
In November 1914, the novelist Natsume Sōseki gave a lecture to the students of a school, later printed under the title My Individualism. He spoke openly about his own years of confusion and about how he finally found his path. In my own words, he told the students: keep digging until you strike the vein that is truly yours, the work that fits who you are. When you find it, you will feel at ease and confident. And once you have this freedom, you must respect the same freedom in other people.
The picture is of a miner with a pickaxe, searching for a vein of ore in the rock. Sōseki did not promise that the digging would be quick. He said that people should go on, even for a long time, until they reach the place where they can say: here, at last, is my road. He also said that a person who has found their own way must respect the ways of others. Individualism, as he described it, is not selfishness. It joins personal freedom with respect and responsibility.
The Life Behind the Words
Sōseki was born in 1867 and wrote in Japanese. As a young man he studied English literature and became a teacher. For years, he said in the lecture, he felt like someone shut up inside a bag, unable to see out, unsure what he was meant to do. He was sent to study in Europe, and there, lonely and unhappy, he came to a turning point. He decided to stop simply borrowing other people's opinions and to build his own way of thinking, standing on his own feet. In the lecture he called this taking the self as the base.
After he returned home, he began to write fiction, and his first novel, which shows the human world through the eyes of a cat, made him famous. A few years later he gave up his post as a university teacher to write novels for a newspaper, a bold choice at the time. In the years until his death in 1916 he wrote many of the most loved novels in his language. The lecture of 1914 was given near the end of that road, by a man who had dug for a long time and found his vein.
What the Words Ask of Us
Many people feel, at some time in life, that they are in the wrong place, doing work that belongs to someone else. Sōseki's words ask us to take this feeling seriously and to keep searching, patiently, for what is ours. This does not always mean a new job. It may be a way of working, a subject that fills us with interest, or a role in our family or community. What matters is that we look for it ourselves, rather than borrowing someone else's idea of success.
Think of Theo, twenty-seven, who studied law because it seemed the safe choice, and who feels flat and tired in his work. In the evenings he has always helped neighbours fix their computers, and he loves solving such problems. He begins a course in programming, slowly, while keeping his job. Months later he realises that this is the vein he was looking for. He talks it over calmly with his family, and they listen. Theo has found his own road, and he does not ask anyone else to walk it.
Similar Words From Around the World
The Bhagavad Gita, a sacred poem in Sanskrit, says in its third chapter that it is better to follow your own path, even imperfectly, than to follow another's path well. In the poem these words are part of a teaching about duty given to a warrior before a battle, and they belong to the beliefs of those who hold the poem sacred. Read simply, they say almost what Sōseki said: your own vein, even if you dig it clumsily, is worth more than a borrowed one dug with skill.
In Plato's Apology, written in Greek, Socrates tells the court at his trial that the unexamined life is not worth living for a human being. He meant that we should keep asking what is good and who we are, all our lives. Sōseki's long digging was such an examination. He did not accept the first answer given to him. He questioned, looked inside and kept going. The echo reminds us that finding our own way is not a single discovery. It is a habit of honest questioning.
Living It Today
Sōseki spoke to students, but his words fit anyone. A young person choosing what to study can ask what truly interests them, not only what others expect. A person in mid-career can look for the part of their work that feels most like their own and give it more room. Someone who has retired may find, at last, time to dig for a vein they never had time to reach. And all of us can respect the different roads that others choose.
This week, take a small notebook and, each evening, write down one moment from the day when you felt fully at ease and absorbed in what you were doing. At the end of the week, read the list. You may see a pattern, a sign of where your own vein lies. Then give that thing a little more time next week. Keep digging, gently and patiently, and one day you may say, as Sōseki did: here, at last, is my road.
Chapter 25: No Hatred or Bitterness Towards Anyone
The Words: Edith Cavell, 1915
On the night of 11 to 12 October 1915, a nurse named Edith Cavell spoke quietly with a chaplain who had come to visit her. It was the last night of her life, during the First World War. The chaplain later reported what she said, and her words have been remembered ever since. In my own words, she told him that love of one's own country is not enough; she must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.
These are remarkable words for that moment. She was in a prison cell, far from the land of her birth, during a great war in which hatred between nations was everywhere. Many people around her spoke of enemies. Cavell spoke instead of a love wider than any one country. She did not say that her own country did not matter. She said that it was not enough, and that a human heart must go further still.
The Life Behind the Words
Edith Cavell was born in 1865 in Europe, the daughter of a clergyman. As a young woman she worked as a governess, and later she trained as a nurse. She became skilled and respected, and in time she was asked to lead a new school for training nurses in a large city in another land. There she worked to raise the standard of nursing, teaching young women to care for patients with skill, discipline and kindness.
When the First World War began, the city came under the control of a foreign army, and her school became a hospital. Cavell and her nurses cared for wounded soldiers from both sides of the war, treating each one as a patient, not as an enemy. She also helped soldiers who were hiding to reach safety. For this she was arrested, and in October 1915 she was put to death. Her calm courage and her words of that last night moved many people, and she is still remembered as a nurse whose care knew no borders.
What the Words Ask of Us
Cavell's words ask something very hard: to let go of hatred, even towards people who have harmed us. This is not the same as saying that wrong is right. She saw her situation clearly. But she chose not to let bitterness be the last thing in her heart. Bitterness is heavy to carry, and it often hurts the one who carries it more than the one it is aimed at. To lay it down is a kind of freedom.
Most of us will never face anything like her last night. Our tests are smaller. Think of Karim, fifty-five, whose brother said something cruel to him at a family gathering years ago. Since then Karim has kept a quiet anger, and the two brothers hardly speak. One day he realises that the anger has become a stone he carries everywhere. He does not pretend the words did not hurt. But he decides to write his brother a short, friendly note. The answer comes slowly, and it is warm. Karim's heart feels lighter than it has for years.
Similar Words From Around the World
The Dhammapada, a collection of the Buddha's sayings in Pali, says in its fifth verse that hatred is never ended by hatred; it is ended only by non-hatred, and this is an ancient law. These words could almost have been spoken by Cavell herself. Hatred answered with hatred simply grows. Only someone willing to stop and answer differently can end the chain. The echo also calls this an old and lasting truth, which reminds us that Cavell was not alone; many people, in many ages, have discovered the same thing.
The Tirukkural, a book of short couplets in Tamil, a language of South Asia, traditionally credited to Thiruvalluvar, says in couplet 314 that the way to correct those who harm you is to do them good, so that they feel ashamed. This echo goes one step further than Cavell's words. It does not only ask us to drop hatred; it asks us to answer harm with kindness. As a nurse caring for soldiers of both sides, Cavell lived this too. Her kindness was a quiet answer to the hatred of her time.
Living It Today
Cavell's words speak to anyone who has been hurt: a child left out by classmates, a worker treated unfairly, a family member wounded by old quarrels, a person who carries memories of a hard past. Letting go of bitterness does not mean forgetting or excusing. It means refusing to let the hurt rule the rest of our lives. It is something we do for our own peace as much as for anyone else.
This week, think of one person towards whom you carry a small bitterness. You do not have to talk to them or forgive everything at once. Simply wish them well, in your own heart, once each day, perhaps in the evening. If it feels right, do one small kind thing for them. Notice whether the weight grows a little lighter. A heart without bitterness has more room for everything good.