Author: n24

This week’s blog post is diving into the wild, wacky world of Chinese Confucian revivals in and beyond the early twentieth century. Throughout this time period, all manners of Chinese scholars and philosophers considered how Confucianism might be preserved, honored, and adapted into the Chinese culture of the future as the nation collectively reacted to and, more importantly, acted upon western ideas of globalization and modernization. Historian Edmund S. K. Fung discusses a key component of this discourse: cultural conservatism and a deeply held faith in traditional values which might be harnessed and revitalized for the purposes of modernization.
I want to focus in on a specific concept which cropped up–propogated by some, disparaged by others–within this space of ‘cultural conservatism and modernity’ thought. Consider the term Easternization, especially with regards to the historically charged Westernization and all its implications of an encroaching, dominating, assimilating set of European ideas. The introduction and use of this word in Chinese philosophical discourse is deeply linked to Confucian revivals when considering the different ways in which Confucianism was harnessed as a cultural tool in the early twentieth century. Let’s investigate what Easternization meant to some Chinese thinkers, how it was utilized, and the sorts of philosophical visions that were crafted in relation to it.
Many voices, both contemporary and historical, focus on the distinctions or incompatibilities between Western and Chinese systems and societies when discussing Chinese modernity. There are many fundamental differences which make this work relevant, but I personally tend to gravitate toward the points of similarity and connection among us humans. In this case, Western and Chinese philosophers offered valuable commonality as Confucianism found itself in conversation with different flavors of European humanism. Suddenly, Parisian philosophers were seeking deeper understanding of Confucian texts while German philosophy was being translated into Chinese and spread in academic circles. Confucianism was just the thing for China to share with the world; the Confucian spirit was just the way to Easternize. Indeed, Chinese thinkers viewed their Confucian spirit as a crucial dimension of their culture which could fill a needed role for a western world filled with religious and moral declension.
It’s tempting to use language like “cultural export” or similar terminology to describe this sharing of Confucian ideals and Easternization more generally, but there’s a very specific reason why I’ve avoided doing so. The concept of Easternization goes much further than a one-sided imposition or the dropping of some imported goods on the doorstep. In order for classic and revivalist Confucian teachings to be shared to a western audience, a two-sided exchange of ideas needed to occur. Early twentieth century Chinese philosophers demonstrated this through their engagement with European philosophical circles and their amalgamating of Confucian ethics with European economic and political structures. Easternization demonstrated a story of Chinese cultural flexibility and active engagement with the direction of global modernization, offering a perspective far from the story of Westernization.
When considered in this light, Easternization strikes me as an engaging space for study and teaching. Why had I never heard this phrase before now, when Westernization is so commonplace as to hardly warrant a critical thought outside of the classroom? I’ll leave today’s post with this question: how can we continue to identify and address Euro-centric narratives in our classrooms, and how can we perhaps utilize ideas like “Easternization” to combat such narratives?
That’s all for this week. Stay safe, folks!

Hi all! This blog post finds itself pondering over the ways in which we, as historians, write about historical figures. There’s such a wealth of different styles, methodologies, frameworks, and so on, all with their own different merits and drawbacks on analysis and narrative levels, that it can get a bit overwhelming. A social history or a political history or microhistory or a biography? A microhistorical biography? A biographic microhistory? Oh my. Terminology is not the subject of this blog post, but it feels worth mentioning how the language around history-writing-that-focuses-on-one-figure is already a bit confusing sometimes.
Today, I want to consider two different takes on this genre of historical writing, both concerning similar figures from a similar corner of the historical record: two twentieth century Japanese philosophers, both part of an intellectual network called The Kyoto School. The first is an incredibly influential figure in the philosophical world, the founder of said Kyoto School, a man named Nishida Kitaro (1870-1945). The other was a close student and contemporary of his, a man named Miki Kiyoshi (1897-1945). The books that I’ll be looking at are, respectively, Political Philosophy in Japan: Nishida, the Kyoto School and co-prosperity (Routledge, 2005) by Dr. Chris Goto-Jones and Miki Kiyoshi 1897-1945 (Brill, 2009) by Dr. Susan Townsend. These two pieces engage with their chosen figures in very different ways, and I’ve found myself wondering how both books can engage directly with such similar figures (demonstrated by a principal focus on the mens’ own writings as primary sources) yet feel like such different final products. So, let’s get into it.
First, a look at Political Philosophy in Japan. Dr. Goto-Jones adopts a flexible, interdisciplinary approach to his work which marries together philosophical, historical, and religious lenses of analysis. His argument is focused on the idea of Nishida and his philosophies in wartime Japan: I would argue that while the man Nishida is, of course, crucial to this book, it is the idea of Nishida the philosopher and the different cultural connotations and judgements which surround that idea which Goto-Jones is fundamentally engaging with. I believe that this is the principal reason why this book, despite being focused wholly on Nishida, does not feel like a microhistory, biography, or any other style of life writing.
Townsend also adopts a bit of an interdisciplinary approach to her analysis of Miki Kiyoshi, but where Goto-Jones zigged toward philosophy she instead zags toward psychoanalysis and cognitive psychology. Townsend is deeply concerned with the motivations, machinations, and inner workings of who she deems “Japan’s itinerant philosopher”, a query which directs her down a road of Miki’s familial connections, emotional turning points, and intellectual points of struggle, all explored primarily through his surviving writings. That’s not to diminish her work: this is the first biography concerning Miki to ever be published in English, and offers insightful and well-conducted historical work into the brilliant and tragic figure up (he died in prison in the death throes of the Second World War).
Both of these pieces harness disciplines beyond the strictly historical to craft their narratives. Both are concerned with deeper truths of the lives of their subjects. These subjects are remarkably similar men, yet, once again, the two pieces read completely differently. When I started working on this post, I was fully intending to conclude with a definitive statement about the more compelling, ‘better’ of the two books. Yet now, on the other side of the process, I can only find a lesson on the versatility of historical figures and the stories we may responsibly attempt to glean from them. Political Philosophy in Japan is an example of the legacy, memory, and impact of a historical figure taking center stage. Biographic undertones are still present: they serve the narrative by offering a sense of timeline and keeping the figure of Nishida firmly rooted in the reminder of his humanity. Meanwhile, Miki Kiyoshi draws us into the intimate space of a man’s mind, ideals, and intellectual grapples throughout a Japan in flux. It offers us insights into both his reality and, by proxy, suggests dimensions of the lived experience of those around him.
Thanks for joining me for this exploration, and until next time! Have a great week.

Spatial history is an analytical framework which seeks to understand abstract layers of the lived experiences of individuals and communities. Exploring the interplay between the physical and the abstract dimensions of a space–whether it be a home, a city or a sailing ship, to name a few examples–can offer us new perspectives on how spaces were felt and understood emotionally by their inhabitants. These emotions, in turn, may illuminate new dimensions of the social or political exercises of certain groups in relation to space and place. Compelling academic work surrounding spatial history often blends together the trappings of many different disciplines such as geography, anthropology, and even environmental sciences to create richer analysis and meaningful storytelling.

However, despite spatial history’s desire to discover and describe such a fundamental human experience–the emotional layers of the spaces we inhabit–the theory and language which are necessary to express these layers sometimes veer dangerously toward the abstract and intangible. This blog post seeks to highlight an intriguing piece of recent scholarship from Cambridge which in my opinion successfully balances dimensions of spatial history with a strong narrative thread which grounds the analysis in its physical space and alongside the human lives which surround it.
Historian Ilay Golan’s article “This Ship Prays: The Southern Chinese Religious Seascape through the Handbook of a Maritime Ritual Master” was published this last September (2024) in the Religions journal. In “This Ship Prays”, Golan uses a Daoist liturgical manuscript from between the late seventeenth to early nineteenth century as his primary source to investigate the religious traditions of Fujianese sailors of the South China Sea throughout the early Qing dynasty. The contents of the manuscript include a vast array of rituals to be undertaken by the ship’s crew, directed by their fellow crewmate and “Ritual Master”, at various points and ports of call throughout their voyages. Golan argues that the rituals possess a “trans-locality” about them, uniquely reflecting both the changes and the constants of the professional maritime lifestyle. The manuscript, referred to as “ACZK” is augmented by other travel accounts of these rituals from European perspectives. This cross referencing of accounts serves to strengthen Golan’s analysis whilst also deepening the narrative engagement of the piece: readers are invited to create a richer, more holistic understanding of the rituals and their practitioners using this wider pool of descriptions.

Golan’s work offers a fundamentally spatial perspective into the lived experiences of the Fujianese sailors who engaged with rituals like those found in ACZK. He discusses the concept of “sacred geography” alongside the trans-spatial worship structures outlined in ACZK, and even the aforementioned European travel accounts work to further situate “This Ship Prays” in a complex, developed sense of space. Additionally, Golan maintains a clear narrative voice throughout the piece that both conveys his argument clearly and makes it easier for the reader to follow along in the visualization of these ritual practices and spaces. This clarity and firm connection to a reconstructed reality is something that theory-heavy spatial history (and spatial geography, social science, etc…) pieces sometimes struggle with. Golan successfully marries his complex analysis with this engaging narrative style. His compelling voice is more than just set-dressing: it makes his history feel ‘real’, and in a sense it also restores humanity to the sailors he discusses.

“This Ship Prays” reminds us that successful spatial histories need not wallow in abstract theory in order to tackle abstract realities. Golan offers thoughtful, respectful analysis to ACZK’s rituals, and in doing so he provides audiences with an impactful vision of the layered space of Fujianese merchant vessels and the South China Seas which surrounded them. The physical helm, the spiritual helm-god. The physical stormy seas, the spiritual angry deity. In understanding the concurrence of the physical and the spiritual, we glean valuable new insight into the lives and landscapes of these historical actors.