Rethinking the World in East Asia 1850s-1990s

The idea of masculinity has never been fixed in one mold in Japan. Instead, it was left to remain contestable, even if that meant, at certain times, nervously guarded, challenged and manipulated.¹ Once the Japanese military held in place the authority to determine what a ‘man’ was – through tests of minimal physical requirement and strict psychological standards.² However, what the Japanese bureaucrats and ideologues would desire – the perfect ‘state subordinate man’ – would take more than a military exam to forge as not all young men and their families take great pride in their eligibility for military service.³ Many questioned the value of being found worthy of the emperors armed forces and were generally ambivalent towards Japan’s war efforts.²The postwar constitution situation of November third, 1946, would further unsettle the long-held understandings of gender as the role of the ‘masculine’ was replaced by the white-collar, middle-class, “company man and salaryman” – the embodiment of a middle-class lifestyle.⁴ The salaryman retained the will of self-sacrifice of the soldier. The ‘otaku’, on the other hand, did not.

Masculinity is often judged by its economic productivity in Japanese intellectual writings. What the man has to ‘offer’ – himself, his work, his life. The ‘otaku’ can be seen as a new form of Japanese manhood. Instead of economic productivity, it is manhood through consumption. The ‘otaku’ can be argued to represent men who ‘failed’ to become salarymen. They depict the perspective of masculinity outside the dominant ideal of male success. A lack of good education, salary, loving wife and children does not make a man less of a man.⁵

The role of ‘otaku’ can be further explored in the argument about the future of masculinity in Japan. In the United States, the term ‘otaku’ implies a “serious anime fan”, but in Japan, it is a word used to indicate people with an obsession for “geeky” realms of knowledge and activity, such as anime, manga, and computer games.⁶ This image of a geeky, socially inept, obsessive nerd presents itself to be completely opposite to the image of the gregarious salaryman.⁶ Since the value of masculinity was grounded in productivity, action, there are examples of “bad otaku” and “good otaku” – ‘bad’ produce violence and disturbing, sexualised media; and ‘good’ produce video games, animated films.⁷

They key and biggest differentiation of this new ‘man’, however, is the notion of ‘moe’ that otakus introduce. Japanese men in the past upheld the standard of heterosexual, real life, in other terms, “3-D relationships”. Otaku’s, on the other hand, depicted a new reality of ‘moe’, a term meaning the affectionate longing for the 2-D characters; the internalized emotional response to something with no hope for a reciprocal response.⁸ Indeed, for some writers, such as Honda Toru, ‘moe’ constituted a form of “love revolution” for men. Honda sees the new man’s fascination with 2-D characters as the natural evolution of mankind, of masculinity.⁹ As humanity accepts technology, so too will it accept it through love as well, and that men will “give up on the analog world of real women in favor of the digital world of characters”.¹⁰

Perhaps the rejection of relationships with real women is less to do with enforced gender stereotypes of men in heterosexual relationships, the demands and pressures of being a disputed form of ‘man’, but rather a form of defence for ‘failed men’. Men who did not agree with the stipulations demanded to them by the army begat a new generation of salarymen who begat a new generation of otakus. Failed men forge new identities, but retain the notion of competition and productivity in all spheres, be it 3-D or not, they acquire.

 

 

 

Bibliography:

 

Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, in Sabine Fruhstuck (ed.), Recreating Japanese Men (Oakland, CA, 2011; online edn, California Scholarship Online, 22 Mar. 2012), https://doi.org/10.1525/california/9780520267374.003.0013, accessed 1 Dec. 2024.

 

Frühstück S., Building the Nation and Modern Manhood. In: Gender and Sexuality in Modern Japan, New Approaches to Asian History. Cambridge University Press; 2022:19-46.

1. Frühstück S., Building the Nation and Modern Manhood. In: Gender and Sexuality in Modern Japan, New Approaches to Asian History. Cambridge University Press; 2022, p. 23. [↩]
2. Frühstück, Building the Nation and Modern Manhood, p. 24. [↩] [↩]
3. Frühstück, Building the Nation and Modern Manhood, pp. 24-25 [↩]
4. Frühstück, Building the Nation and Modern Manhood, pp. 33-34. [↩]
5. Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, in Sabine Fruhstuck (ed.), Recreating Japanese Men (Oakland, CA, 2011; online edn, California Scholarship Online, 22 Mar. 2012), p. 264 [↩]
6. Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, p. 264. [↩] [↩]
7. Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, p. 265. [↩]
8. Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, p. 263. [↩]
9. Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, p. 266. [↩]
10. Condry, Ian, ‘Love Revolution: Anime, Masculinity, and the Future’, p. 269. [↩]

Following the end of the Korean war, writers have grappled with what the division of the peninsula means for Korean nationhood, question whether either state has a unique claim to the Korean nation as a whole. Sci-Fi is a uniquely revealing medium to analyse these shifting attitudes because discussing a post-unification future intertwines fictious speculation with genuine policy studies. The vacuum of space, free from the constructed states of the post war world gives writers a chance to explore Korean culture with a new sense of freedom.

During the space race, North Korean writers were deeply influenced by the Soviet Union, as such they play a leading role in depictions of space travel. In Youth space expedition team (1960), a unified Korean expedition to the moon is led by a Soviet mentor and the journey involves stopping at many Soviet space stations.¹. However reflecting the internationalist attitude of socialism, the Koreans are joined by peoples from across the world including Americans and Europeans, all of whom have embraced socialism.². Whilst Koreans play a leading role in the story, the implication is that humanity has only succeeded due to the victory of Socialism and the success of the Soviet Union, putting the unification of Korean nationhood second to the spread of Communism.

When North Korean space stories do make a post-renunciation distinctions between Koreans, South Koreans are viewed with suspicion.³ In King of rare metals (1959), three Korean boys discover a utopian new power source on the moon, but are betrayed by a South Korean scientist who aims to harvest the crystals to make weapons of mass destruction.²This reflects the attitude that even following the triumph of North Korea, South Koreans could still be uniquely selfish due to their contact with capitalism. It is a given that North Korea represents all Koreans and that socialism is the superior system.

South Koreans never held the internationalist views of their Northern counterparts, with president Park Chung Hee writing that reunification would represent “regeneration” of Korean civilization, restoring Korea rightful place within Asia, free from the need for American assistance.⁴ Whilst Scifi such as Beneath a blue moon (1992), reflects North Korean views that post-unification cultural divisions would still exist, there are distinctions in the way Korean nationhood is discussed.

In Beneath a blue moon, Korea is governed by a federation between North and South, with each having a distinct lunar base.⁵ The Northern protagonist starts out as a sceptic of this unification, as Southern corporate greed had led to the death of her family, but she felt it necessary to cooperate due to wealth disparities. Over the course of the story, she allured to capitalism, starting with their experience in a lunar casino. Even though she believes the Northern “altruism is better than self-interest” of the South, she is convinced by the results of capitalism and comes around to reunification. (Ibid, 131.)) At the end of the story, both lunar bases apply to unify, but this is rejected by the federation, leading to their secession.

This achievement of han minjok (one ethnos) in space is done at the expense of the Korea on earth, reflecting the view that neither state represents Korean nationhood, but instead are active barriers to reunification.⁶ This post cold war perspective can also be seen in the depictions of the avarices of South Korean society alongside the authoritarian nature of the North. Whilst the author describes the successes of capitalism as self-evident, unity is achieved through the joining of Northern altruism with Southern ingenuity, reflecting the “true” Korea and not the colonial construct that exists in the present.⁷Unlike Northern science fiction, foreign powers play no role in the story and people on the other side of the 38th parallel are depicted favourably regardless of their political differences.

1. Zur, Dafna. “Let’s Go to the Moon: Science Fiction in the North Korean Children’s Magazine Adong Munhak, 1956–1965.” The Journal of Asian Studies 73, no. 2 (May 2014): 338. [↩]
2. Ibid. [↩] [↩]
3. Ibid, 343. [↩]
4. Samuel Gerald Collins, “Train to Pyongyang: Imagination, Utopia, and Korean Unification,” Utopian Studies 24, no. 1 (2013): 122. [↩]
5. Ibid, 129 [↩]
6. Ibid, 132. [↩]
7. Ibid, 131. [↩]

In Revolutionary Nativism: Fascism and Culture in China, 1925-1937, Maggie Clinton explores the ideological influences of the CC clique and Blue Shirt society, characterising them as ‘Confucian Fascism’. Whilst it’s accurate to say that the Blue Shirts envisioned China “bound together by Confucian culture”, compared to the CC clique their engagement with Confucianism was largely surface level, seeing it as a tool to achieve their aim of reshaping society among military lines.¹. This can be traced back to their origins in the Whampoa military academy, specifically alumni who were members of the “Sun Yat-Senism Study Society”, an anti-communist group who opposed the federation of Young Soldiers, a pro communist organisation in the academy.². This meant that whilst having certain overlapping ideas, compared to the CC Clique’s civilian bureaucrats, military men “constituted the core of the Blue Shirts”.³. As such, the militarization and complete unification of society was the primary goal of the Blue Shirts, something diametrically opposed to the idealized righteous hierarchy of Confucian ethics.

Instead of citing The Four Books, the model for the blue shirts was the Soviet Union and Japan, for what they saw as their successful regimentation of society and national strength.⁴ The founder of the Sun Yat-Senism Study Society, He Zhonghan was a delegate to the Soviet 1922 Congress of the Toilers of the East and would train int he Soviet Frunze military academy.⁵ Regardless of his anti-communist views, his military training the in the Soviet Union and Japan would inspire the Blue Shirt idea to create a nation with “united will” and “iron discipline”.⁶ To achieve this, they would diverge with conservatives in key areas such as land reform and economics, denouncing “feudal remnants” and “landlord exploitation” with goal of implementing a “controlled economy”.⁷ This idealized state mirror that described in Erich Ludendorff’s Totaler Krieg, in which war was a battle between “the life and soul” of competing races that had to be mobilized giving “everything to the army” as an expression of a people’s vitality.⁸. This work was influential for Japanese militarism and mirrors the Blue Shirts obsession with public health and the concept of vitality.

Any aspect of Confucian mandate is absent in the ideology of the blue shirts as any challenge to the state’s authority, regardless of it’s virtue went against fascist principles. When Chang Kai Shek greenlit the creation of the blue shirts, the foremost principle was that Chang was the “supreme and permanent leader”.⁹ Compared to Confucian conservatives, the Blue Shirts found aesthetic inspiration from futurism and concepts of “modernity”, releasing periodicals with titles such as “The Latest in the World of Science” and “Streamlined Forms”, with a focus on military developments.¹⁰

Therefore, beyond a sense of paternalism and reverence for hierarchy, the influence of Confucianism on the Blue Shirts was largely secondary to the events of the 20th century, as they envisioned a “modern” China free from what they considered weakening influences. In the words of Liu Jianqun, their goal was the “immediately overthrowing the feudal influences”, and their affinity for totalitarian states such as the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany had little basis in Confucianism.¹¹

1. Maggie Clinton, Revolutionary Nativism: Fascism and Culture in China, 1925-1937 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), 26 [↩]
2. Hung-Mao Tien, Government and Politics in Kuomintang China, 1927-1937 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1972), 54. [↩]
3. Clinton, Revolutionary Nativism, 30. [↩]
4. Ibid, 38 [↩]
5. Ibid, 39 [↩]
6. Ibid, 40. [↩]
7. Ibid, 41 [↩]
8. Erich Ludendorff, Totaler Krieg (London: Friends of Europe, 1936), 5-8. [↩]
9. Suisheng Zhao, Power by Design: Constitution-Making in Nationalist China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1996), 63 [↩]
10. Clinton, Revolutionary Nativism, 51-52. [↩]
11. Frederic E. Wakeman, Spymaster: Dai Li and the Chinese Secret Service (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2003), 75. [↩]

The early twentieth century witnessed the birth of science-fiction (sci-fi) as a literary genre in China. It was initially viewed by Ling Qichao (a prominent Qing period politician) as a gift from the West that would serve to express ideas charting the roadmap of Chinese progress.¹ Over the course of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, however, the genre has witnessed a meteoric rise across the globe (both in terms of readership and acclaim) that, perhaps, transcends Qichao’s perception of it. But, has Chinese sf truly established itself as something greater than the Chinese nation, or are they still tied to each other in some way?

The time period in which Chinese sf is placed has by no means been a politically stable one. Dissent (and a governmental crackdown on it) has been a recurring theme throughout this phase. I argue that the emergence sf granted Chinese writers the ability to operate in shades of grey, and thus, voice criticism in subtle, creative yet effective ways.

The relationship between artistic expression and compliance with authority has been a complicated one in China, especially in recent times. Mo Yan, a prolific Chinese writer who was awarded the Nobel Prize in 2012, received severe criticism for not using his platform to criticise Xi Jinping’s regime, and being silent on certain pressing political issues. Salman Rushdie called him a ‘patsy of the regime’.² Ai Weiwei also disapproved of Yan- himself, a noted Chinese artist known for expressing brutal criticism of the regime via his artwork. Weiwei is the son of Ai Qing, a poet who was exiled under the Mao regime for his dissentious writings. Weiwei, like his father, too, has been subjected to repeated attempts of silencing made by the government in response to his artwork.³

In this milieu, do artists really have to make a surrender-or-die choice in their artwork? Do they have a responsibility to express criticism? It is noted that western audiences expect art from ‘authoritative’ nations to only be good if it is dissentious.⁴  However, the case of Chinese sf has shown two things: first, that aesthetic merit isn’t compromised by the lack of criticism; and second, if artists do choose to express criticism, they don’t have to do it in an overt manner in order for it to have value.

Consider the skepticism towards rapid development in the works of Wang Jingkang and Han Song. In ‘The Reincarnated Giant’, Wang relays a cautionary tale of rampant development spearheaded by a business tycoon in the fictitious ‘J-nation’ (a reference to Japan), leading to ‘uncontrollable results’ at the cost of human life. Han Song, in ‘Goatie’ and ‘Subway’ uses  Chinese high-speed trains and the Beijing subway network as a metaphor to depict eventual catastrophes that will occur as a consequence of uncontrollable development.⁵  In ‘Goatie’, a high-speed train deviates from the space-time continuum, and cultivates the emergence of a ‘harmonious society’ within it-Song uses this as a metaphor for forced harmony in the face of rapid development in Chinese society.⁶

Sf has also served as an avenue to parody and critique China’s historical memory. In another novel, Song sets his story in 2066 (to mark the 100th anniversary of Mao’s revolution), when China has taken over America as a global superpower; while this does mark change, the 2066 Chinese regime maintains its power by employing a mind-controlling AI, Amuando- intended by the author as a callback to China’s authoritarian ways.⁷ Contrast this criticism of China’s past with Ai Weiwei’s  ‘Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn’; a series of photographs, beginning with Weiwei holding this relic of the Chinese past, ending with it shattering into pieces.⁸ While Weiwei’s art may be lauded for its bold, straightforward approach to voice criticism, I don’t think it’s the only way forward for Chinese artists; as in the case of SF, an artist can use more creative and nuanced ways to deliver similar messages. 

Sf, then, not only represents an alternative way to voice criticisms, but also serves as a novel lens for historians to understand the manner in which dissent has been voiced in China. 

1. Song, Mingwei. “Variations on Utopia in Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction.” Science Fiction Studies 40, no. 1 (2013): 86 [↩]
2. Katie Stallard, “Literature under Xi Jinping,” The New Statesman, March 23, 2022. [↩]
3. Walter C. Clemens Jr., “The Literature of Utopia and Dystopia in China”, Global Asia, 2023 [↩]
4. Michael O’Krent, “The Language of Chinese dreams is Science Fiction- and sometimes, they’re nightmares”,  Reactor Magazine, 2022 [↩]
5. Song, Mingwei, ‘Variations on Utiopia’, pp. 92-93 [↩]
6. Ibid., 94-95 [↩]
7. Ibid., 87-88 [↩]
8. ‘Ai Weiwei dropping a Han Dynasty Urn’. Guggenheim Bilbao. 1995. Accessed 29 November 2024 [↩]

Hello, all! It’s crazy to think that we’ve already arrived at my last blog post. I’ve had such a blast with these, honestly–it’s been really fun and refreshing to play with historical scholarship and questions in this informal, conversational sort of way. Thank you for reading!

Alrighty, then! Today we’re looking at some different philosophical ideas around science fiction and cyberpunk. Specifically, Japanese science fiction media as it has emerged over the last sixty or so years, tracing roughly back to the classic animated series Astroboy (1963-66)–both a hallmark in the worlds of anime and of science fiction (SF). This visual and literary genre, while containing many universal elements, is uniquely suited for continuing long-standing Japanese philosophical discussions around Westernization and modernity. Scholar Kumiko Sato considers the significance of the human/machine duality as representative of the juxtaposition between “…subject and Other, West and Japan, science and occult, as well as machine and human organism.”¹ Here, Sato suggests universalist dimensions of SF’s abstract meanings while also exploring how that dichotomy can tell uniquely Japanese stories. However, cyberpunk is unique from other stories that focus on the simple literary device of juxtaposition: by utilizing fantastical, SF-related visions of technology, cyberpunk places itself into conversation with the anxieties of modernization. In a Japanese context, this connects cyberpunk back to philosophical traditions of the 20th century, including our favorite Kyoto School philosopher, Nishida Kitaro. Just as Nishida famously wrote on “overcoming modernity” by paradoxically working through modernity, the cyberpunk protagonist often works to overcome a larger injustice through usage of the very cybernetic enhancements that form the backbone of their unjust world.² And, yes, I am absolutely delighted to connect cyberpunk with 20th century Japanese philosophy. 

In a similar analysis of Japanese utopia/dystopia fiction, Yoriko Moichi places SF squarely within a tradition of politically-minded utopian literature alongside figures such as Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift.³ Through the exploration of “reality and unreality,” as Moichi describes it, political visions of the future could be uncovered with the potential for impactful social influence.⁴ Like with Sato’s analysis, Moichi finds a duality at the heart of SF. Again, this duality places SF into conversation with Japanese intellectual debate around modernization, westernization, and anxiety for the future. 

As a long time fantasy enjoyer and shorter-time SF enjoyer, I’m very intrigued by these dualities and this new perspective on the genre. The way that modern scholarship is seriously considering these fictitious expressions in their larger intellectual contexts is inspiring, and I hope that these scholarly trends continue to engage with popular media so earnestly and critically. As perhaps a final thought, I’m curious about if and how these ideas around SF and cyberpunk could connect to other influential genres of Japanese media. For example, when discussing dystopian fiction, is the horror genre not also within arm’s reach? What about the overwhelming inclination toward high fantasy that exists throughout anime? Comparative analysis across these different flavors of fantastical Japanese media could reveal even more perspectives on its connection to long-standing intellectual and philosophical traditions. 

Right. That’s all from me! Thanks again for reading, and take care.

1. Kumiko Sato, “How Information Technology Has (Not) Changed Feminism and Japanese: Cyberpunk in the Japanese Context”, Comparative Literature Studies, Vol. 41, No. 3 (2004), p 353. [↩]
2. Ibid., 342. [↩]
3. Yoriko Moichi, “Japanese Utopian Literature from the 1870s to the Present and the Influence of Western Utopianism”, Utopian Studies, Vol. 10, No. 2 (1999), p. 90. [↩]
4. Ibid., p. 89. [↩]

Muruyama Masao has identified Kita Ikki as “the ideological father of Japanese fascism.”¹ The ideology that Kita fathered is an utterly bizarre cocktail of contradictory principles, some of which go directly against the tenets of classical Italian Fascism and German National Socialism.  Kita fused imperial autocracy with democracy,  militant nationalism with cosmopolitan internationalism, technocratic elitism with radical egalitarianism, and market incentives with strict socialism. This blog post will determine the place of Kita’s eccentric ideology within the wider philosophical continuum of fascism.

According to Roger Griffin, the “mythic core” of all fascist ideologies is   “palingenetic ultranationalism.”² What does is palingenetic ultranationalism and where does Kita’s ideology stand in relation to it? To properly understand Griffin’s definition of fascism and its relation to Kita, it must be broken down into its constituent parts. 

Palingenesis is the complete rebirth of a community against the forces of decadence and decay. Rebirth in the fascist context refers not to the restoration of an old social order (as is the case of traditional reactionaries), but the creation of a completely new order that while preserving “essential” social institutions and values is perfectly in line with the inexorable march of modernity.³ There is no doubt that Kita’s vision of Japan’s future is palingenetic in nature. Kita saw Japan as a decaying nation that had to be renewed through the complete destruction of the existing socio-political order and its replacement by a new one: the present ruling classes were to be purged from positions of power, “excess” private capital confiscated en masse by the state, a highly extensive system of state welfare established, and strict social controls enforced, all with the intention of building a new society. But despite all of this radical change, the emperor would remain at the undisputed center of the new order. This was because while the feudal nobility were an archaic relic of the past and the capitalist zaibatsu an unwelcome outgrowth of modernity, the emperor was seen as a timeless and essential pillar of Japanese communal identity; to Kita, without the emperor there could be no Japan.⁴ 

While palingenesis is common to all revolutionary movements, ultranationalism is a distinctive trait of fascism. Ultranationalism is to be distinguished from regular nationalism by its overtly anti-liberal and supremacist nature. As such, fascism is an inherently racist and bigoted ideology.⁵ By contrast, Kita quite explicitly calls for the equal treatment of ethnic minorities and for brotherhood among nations. Yet such sentiments cannot be considered to be truly anti-racist or internationalist. While in principle Kita supported the theoretical equality of nations, in practice he was supremely chauvinistic. Kita believed that many of Japan’s neighboring nations, especially Korea, were so utterly incapable of self-determination as to require foreign domination in order to be “civilized.” Needless to say, Kita believed that Japan was in a superior state of development compared to rest of Asia, and thus had a duty to spread “civilization” throughout the east.⁶ Unlike the Nazis and other fascists, who saw the natural hierarchy of nations as unchanging, Kita saw it as fluid but nonetheless historically essential. Kita thus did not truly believe that all nations should be seen as equal, but that all nations could be made equal if molded in the image of Japan. In this way, Kita’s racism was neither of the exterminationist brand of the Nazis nor the segregationist brand of many modern fascists, but of a distinctly assimilationist brand.

Being fundamentally anti-liberal, fascism in its purest form rejects notions of universal rights, equality, pluralism, and individualism.⁷ This would seem to be a stark contrast with Kita, who believed in the inalienability of certain human rights, including universal male suffrage, and called for radical social and economic equality. At the same time, Kita outright rejected the sanctity of popular will and of the social contract fundamental to liberal democracies. The protection of basic political rights was by no means an endorsement of pluralism; not every voice was deserving of consideration and some voices in fact ought to be suppressed especially in the initial period of transformation. Ultimately, Kita insisted on human rights and equality not for their own sake, but for the specific goal of establishing a cohesive national community. The act of political participation was seen not an exercise of individual sovereignty; rather it was an affirmation of membership in, and loyalty to, the Japanese Nation in much the same vein as military service. The equality of citizens served only to further reinforce and clarify the supreme sovereignty of the emperor.⁶ 

Despite his rhetoric of human rights, equality, and anti-racism, Kita Ikki’s ideology can rightly be placed within the continuum of Japanese Fascism. For all its superficial dissimilarity to more familiar European fascisms, Ikki’s fascism is built on the same mythos of palingenetic ultranationalism. 

 

1.  Masao Maruyama and Ivan Morris, “The Ideology and Dynamics of Japanese Fascism,” essay, in Thought and Behaviour in Modern Japanese Politics (London etc.: Oxford University Press, 1969), 28. [↩]
2. Roger Griffin, “The Palingenetic Core of Fascist Ideology,” essay, in Che Cos’è Il Fascismo? Interpretazioni e Prospecttive Di Richerche (Rome: Ideazione Editrice, 2003), 97–122. [↩]
3. Griffin, “The Palingenetic Core of Fascist Ideology”; Roger Griffin, “1. Staging the Nation’s Rebirth,” Fascism and Theatre, December 31, 2022, 13–7, https://doi.org/10.1515/9781785330476-002. [↩]
4. Ikki Kita, General Outline of Measures for the Reorganization of Japan (Shanghai, 1919). [↩]
5. Roger Griffin, “Nationalism,” in World Fascism: A Historical Encyclopedia. Volume 1 A-K, ed. Cyprian P. Blamires and Paul Jackson (Santa Barbara , CA: ABC-CLIO, 2006). [↩]
6. Ikki Kita, General Outline of Measures for the Reorganization of Japan [↩] [↩]
7. Griffin, “Staging the Nation’s Rebirth,” 7 [↩]