Samurai philosophy, as applicable to modernity
The philosophy of the samurai, grounded in Bushido, may appear antiquated in the context of modernity, yet it remains startlingly prescient in its grasp of discipline, focus, and impermanence. As Yamamoto Tsunetomo reflects in his Hagakure, "Bushido is found in death" (Hagakure, Book 1, Chapter 2). The word alone—death—halts contemporary discourse. It is unspeakable in a culture that venerates vitality, where aging is an affront to be erased, and death an inconvenience to be postponed. In Hollywood, as in Mayfair, there is a near-pathological compulsion to defy it. Faces become taut, unrecognizable—suspended in a state somewhere between youth and the grotesque.
To accept Tsunetomo’s assertion is to confront something far more disquieting: that life, in its truest essence, is inseparable from death. As Heidegger posits in Being and Time, “If I take death into my life, acknowledge it, and face it squarely, I will free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life.” Death is not merely a terminal point, but the loosening of the grip—a recognition that the structures we cling to—ego, identity, status—are as impermanent as the body itself.
Bushido poses a more poignant question: "How does one live when death is not an enemy, but an ever-present shadow?"
This is where Gi—the devotion to moral rectitude—takes shape. For the samurai, Gi was not an abstract ideal, but a lived practice, a way of existing with unwavering integrity, even in the face of annihilation. Gi does not ask, "How do I preserve myself?" but rather, "How do I live virtuously when nothing can be preserved?" This is not a philosophy of self-abnegation, but one of piercing clarity. In a world of humblebraggy LinkedIn posts that begin with "I'm happy to announce that...," Tsunetomo’s words offer a return to a form of integrity that modernity has largely forgotten. Virtue—Gi (義)—is not a performance. It is the quiet, unglamorous act of doing what is right, even when no one is watching.
This unwavering integrity, embodied in Gi, demands not only moral clarity but also the discipline to act with precision. Miyamoto Musashi, the master swordsman, captured this discipline in The Book of Five Rings, writing: "Do nothing that is of no use" (Go Rin No Sho, Chapter 3). For Musashi, mastery was not attained through distraction or diffusion, but through relentless presence. The modern landscape—fractured, frenetic—lacks this intentionality. The impulse to do more—to produce, to show, to perform—often propels us into a relentless cycle of excess. Musashi would remind us to return to the essential, to focus only on what matters.
This is where Sei-chu-do (誠忠道) finds its expression—loyalty not to transient affiliations, but to enduring principles, even when such fidelity appears to contravene pragmatic logic. For the samurai, loyalty transcended transactional relationships; it was an unspoken, unwavering commitment to something greater than oneself. Tsunetomo regarded loyalty as “a matter of course” (Hagakure, Book 1, Chapter 3), a sentiment that stands in sharp contrast to the opportunistic affiliations of modern life, where loyalty is dictated by convenience and fleeting utility.
For a brand rooted in London’s tailoring tradition, loyalty to place and craft becomes an act of quiet defiance. The decision to remain local subverts the commodification of labor, signaling a commitment not merely to profit but to a deeper principle—one that elevates the integrity of craft over the dictates of capital. This fidelity, while seemingly irrational by market standards, mirrors the samurai’s ethos: loyalty is valuable not because of external rewards, but because of the inherent virtue of the act itself.
It is Mujō (無常)—impermanence—that the samurai internalized in a way that eludes us now. The Heike Monogatari opens with the tolling of bells: “The sound of the Gion Shōja bells echoes the impermanence of all things” (Heike Monogatari, Prologue). That sound—the low, reverberating toll—served as an ever-present reminder that all things, no matter how resplendent or powerful, must inevitably pass.
The samurai lived in this awareness, not as something to resist, but as an undeniable truth to be embraced. In our time, however, the bell has grown silent. Modernity has replaced its solemn resonance with the buzz of constant connectivity. Yet, if we are attentive, impermanence still lingers on the periphery. It appears unannounced: in the flicker of city lights at dusk, in the quiet pause between WhatsApp exchanges, in the fleeting stillness that punctuates our hurried lives.
Everything fades—success, failure, beauty, denim, the structures we labor over, the profiles we so carefully construct. The samurai did not cling to the illusion of permanence. They understood, as we should, that the things we believe will last are often the first to go.
Some quotes:
When starting something new, like a fashion brand.
“It may seem difficult at first, but everything is difficult at first.” — Miyamoto Musashi
When deciding whether or not to respond to social media commentary.
“To give a person an opinion, one must first judge well whether that person is of the disposition to receive it or not.” — Yamamoto Tsunetomo
On throwing yourself wholeheartedly into what you’re doing. We replace ‘a real man’ here with ‘a person of integrity’.
“A real man does not think of victory or defeat. He plunges recklessly towards an irrational death. By doing this, you will awaken from your dreams.” — Nabeshima Naoshige
When plagued by self-doubt after seeing the work of someone you admire.
“It is spiritless to think that you cannot attain to that which you have seen and heard the masters attain. The masters are men. You are also a man. If you think that you will be inferior in doing something, you will be on that road very soon.” ― Yamamoto Tsunetomo
On choosing to gamble everything to pursue your passion.
“There is nothing we should be quite so grateful for as the last line of the poem that goes, 'When your own heart asks.'” ― Yamamoto Tsunetomo
