By Christopher Scott Thompson

The game of Go has existed for about 4000 years, making it the oldest game in human history. It is still played by many people in China, Japan and Korea, and by an increasing number in Europe and America. It is perhaps the most sophisticated game of abstract strategy in existence, with so many more potential variables than Chess that the computer has not yet been invented that can defeat even a moderately good Go player. Essentially, there are so many variables that the strategic problems of Go cannot be solved by number-crunching alone- you can resolve a corner fight by counting out the consequences a few moves ahead, but play across the entire board cannot be effectively addressed in this way. Here, your decisions must be guided by intuition, by a broad sense of the possibilities rather than an objective assessment of what must happen. In this, Go is similar in essence to war, and for centuries it has been a favorite pastime of soldiers and martial artists.

In the 4000-year history of the game, Go masters have discovered certain "ideal" sequences- scenarios where, if each player makes the perfect move, the result in that corner will work out equally well for both parties. These sequences are called joseki, and for centuries Go training was based on memorizing these perfect exchanges. And yet there is a Go proverb which questions the wisdom of this approach:

The implication of this proverb is that merely memorizing joseki is worse than useless- it is a loss of "two stones strength." Modern writers on Go have emphasized the folly of this type of training:

This argument will be very familiar to martial artists. Chinese and Japanese arts have been taught for centuries through the medium of set forms, precise traditional sequences of attack and defense. In Japanese, these are known as kata. Kata have come under heavy criticism in the past few decades, especially by those involved in Western fighting arts, which have supposedly been taught primarily through free-play or "sparring":

Like much martial arts writing, this passage is permeated with unexamined assumptions. For one thing, what constitutes a "reasonable amount of time," and who decides? Should the narcissistic demands of a consumer society be applied to traditional arts in the first place ("I want it all and I want it now")? There are entire systems of swordsmanship that do not even aim to present students with "a working knowledge of how to fight effectively with swords." Kendo, according to its official mission statement, is intended to "discipline the human character through the application of the principles of the Katana," which is an entirely different matter from teaching practical sword combat skills- and arguably rather more germane in the modern world. But even if we focus the discussion only on combatively practical sword arts, the statement is still problematic. It contains the assumption that there is such a thing as a "realistic" sparring system, that the ideal sparring system is actually something like real sword combat. This assumption is not shared by all instructors even within the Western arts:

In this view, free fencing with historical weapons is an art in its own right, not merely a simulation of that which it can never hope to truly simulate- a combat with sharp weapons. This is true even in fencing arts that strive to base their logic as much as possible on that of actual combat. A fencing bout, no matter how realistic the rules or how intense the spirit of the fencers, is not a sword fight. The psychology of the two is utterly different. In the words of a German dueling fraternity member describing his first encounter with sharp weapons, the swordsman feels, "a primal emotion of apprehension and instinctive alertness that drains all learning and art from the mind and only leaves a tiny voice of reason piping in the void."

Can such a primal state ever be approximated in a bout with safe training gear, even with the most realistic of rules? Obviously not.

A brilliant technical fencer may find himself paralyzed with fear and useless in a duel with sharps, while a mediocre technician may discover that he has the will to get the job done despite his fear. There is simply no way to know beforehand. This is a problem faced by all weapons-based martial arts, and it has been a problem for every generation of swordsmen that has not participated in actual combat, from Tokugawa-period samurai to modern foil fencers. The nagging question in the swordsman’s mind is: could I do this for real?

As such, much of the criticism of kata practice involves a strange sort of circular logic. Someone who has never experienced sword combat says that kata training is unrealistic. How does he know this- how could he possibly know this- when he has never been in a real sword fight? He thinks he knows this because of his experiences in sparring, perhaps because he can beat swordsmen who have mostly trained at kata when they decide to cross-train with him in a sparring match. But a sparring match isn’t "the real thing" in the first place- it’s just a training tool, like kata, with its own advantages and disadvantages. At most he can say that a swordsman trained in a different type of artificial combat (kata) can’t beat him at his own type of artificial combat (sparring). But is this at all surprising? And does it prove anything in the first place? It would probably make more sense to take the view described above, where fencing safely with unsharpened weapons is seen as an art in its own right, but not as a true simulation of a duel. The only other alternative is to see it as a silly game with toy swords, and this is in fact how many Japanese-style swordsmen view sparring.

It is said that the fear and stress of combat will cause the swordsman to lose approximately 80% of his learned skill. Different styles of swordplay have addressed this issue differently. Western fencing has generally sought to maximize technical skill, leaving as large a reservoir as possible to draw upon, so that even if 80% is lost, what remains is formidable enough for the task at hand. That this approach can work is demonstrated by the duel between Aldo Nadi and Adolfo Contronei. Nadi was an extremely skilled classical fencer with no dueling experience, while Contronei was an experienced duelist with far less technical skill. Nadi received a minor injury in the first moments of the duel, and throughout the duel he seems to have made glaring technical blunders from a classical standpoint. Yet enough of his skill remained intact that he was able to repeatedly injure his more experienced opponent, forcing him to give up the duel in fear of his life.

Asian arts have tended to approach the issue differently, forging the swordsman’s spirit through relentless training in kata. These exercises bear little resemblance to what most of their critics imagine. Properly performed, they are not merely empty dances devoid of combative intent. Though pre-arranged, they are performed with an intensity that is difficult to describe to anyone who has not experienced it firsthand. I have experienced both the roughest freeplay in Western arts, where injury was a significant possibility if I made an error in judgment, and traditional Japanese kata training. If anything, the kata training was the more intense of the two. My teacher’s eyes seemed to bore into mine as if he could read my thoughts, as if he could see everything I might even attempt to do. Looking into his eyes was like facing a physical attack. The wooden weapons we trained with whirred through the air at high speed only inches from each other’s faces, and we wore no protective gear at all. There was simply no alternative to performing the art correctly- except to be struck by those weapons or to accidentally strike my training partner. Indeed, I was expected to do so if he failed to apply the counter correctly- "if I don’t get the block, it’s my own fault. Go ahead and hit me in the head," my teacher said. When I first went to practice there, I was warned about what to expect- "It’s a tough dojo. There’ll be blood on the floor." I never saw any. But training in that particular dojo was the farthest thing from the flowery, meaningless performance of rote drills that many people falsely associate with kata practice. Essentially, I was forced to confront the genuine dangers of combat with weapons, and at least on some level I was being trained psychologically as much as tactically. That this approach can also work is demonstrated by the combat between Japanese swordsman Kunii Zenya and two robbers who turned out to be trained swordsmen. The young Kunii Zenya had been trained primarily through kata, yet he immediately applied the principles of his art in real combat when he needed to, cutting both of his attackers down.

If both approaches have been used successfully to train combat swordsmen, then why is there so much conflict between the exponents of freeplay and the supporters of kata practice? Cultural chauvinism and ignorance of both other arts and the history of our own arts seem to be involved on both sides:

Again, we have a long list of unexamined assumptions. First, that there are no Western arts with living lineages comparable to the Asian arts. (In fact, there are several classical fencing lineages that preserve elements of instruction from centuries earlier.) Second, that living tradition necessarily results in a distortion of combative technique, so that it would almost be better for the tradition to die and be revived later from books in a "pure" form- a bizarre assumption indeed. Third, that Asian arts are "mystical" and "aesthetic," while Western arts are "empirical" and "effective"- regardless of the fact that certain Asian arts (such as the Araki Ryu) are ruthlessly pragmatic in nature, while certain Western arts (such as La Verdadera Destreza) have had an association with aesthetics and mysticism from their inception. Clearly, this view has more to do with the author’s own likes and dislikes than with anything else. Perhaps the biggest false assumption in this passage is the idea that the changes in living tradition are by definition corrupting. A flame changes constantly, but it remains the same flame. The continuity of a living tradition functions in the same way.

Kata may seem from the outside to be a choreographed exchange of techniques, but this is not their actual purpose. The founders of the classical arts weren’t just fossilizing tricks that had proven successful in combat. The men who created these systems had experienced years of hard training and often dozens of life and death duels. At some point, the light bulb came on and that particular swordsman was able to understand the essence of personal combat on a fundamental level. The kata were created in order to meticulously guide a novice swordsman through the same process, forging him through years of intense practice so that he would experience the same insight as the founder. When the headmaster of a martial art passes on his skills to a successor, he chooses someone who can truly mold himself to that art- a person who can experience the same sort of profound understanding as those who came before him, absorbing the essence of that art at a level much deeper than the technical. While corruption can indeed occur, it does not have to. If the essence of the art is truly absorbed, minor technical changes in the curriculum will not effect the essence of what is taught in the least. When seen from this perspective, the criticism is simply ignorant.

But there is just as much ignorance in the criticism of Western arts by those who do not practice them. As mentioned above, the tendency is to view sparring as a silly children’s game of tag with toy swords. The truth is that it can be that, just as kata can be an empty dance. But it doesn’t have to be. A fencing bout between two skilled and respectful opponents is a confrontation on many levels- mental, spiritual, technical and physical. You bring your whole self onto the fencing strip to face the self of your opponent. Nadi once said that he could learn more about a man by crossing blades with him once than he could by having dinner with him. Clearly, this is a deeper matter than any game of tag. While it is not true combat, it is conflict- the meeting of two opposed wills in dynamic tension, each probing for a weakness or opening, each seeking to assert dominance and claim the victory. The actual touch that ends the bout is only one small part of the exchange. The fencing bout is a "conversation in steel." Years of training in this refined and intense sort of conversation can produce a man who could face a sharp weapon and prevail, just as Nadi did- and just as Kunii Zenya did after studying kata. The Japanese sometimes call martial arts practice "spirit forging." The salle where Nadi received his training was called "The Forge." Different routes to the top of the mountain, and yet the destination is the same. But closer examination reveals that even the routes to the top are not as different as many would believe.

Kata in the West, and Free Fencing in the East

Because free fencing is so prevalent in the Western arts today, the assumption is that this was always the case. But if we define free fencing as we do today- that is, a friendly bout with safe weapons and with low expectation of injury- there is surprisingly little evidence for that assumption.

The fencing mask wasn’t invented until the 18^th century, and it took some time to catch on. Fencers who wanted to bout before this did so at considerable risk to their eyes, with the result that many schools had a rule called "scholar’s privilege"- no attacks to the face were allowed. Even so, there were inevitably accidents. One fencing master was even assassinated on the orders of a former student whose eye he had accidentally knocked out. The rough and tumble singlestick players of England simply started each match with a prayer- "Lord, spare our eyes!"- and then had at it, trying to inflict the bleeding wound above the eyebrows which was their only recognized way of scoring a bout. The more refined students of the smallsword protected their eyes by fencing in an artificial and very deliberate way, in some cases going so far as to score only touches to the area of the heart. Simply put, you had two options before the invention of the fencing mask- fence under restrictive and artificial rules or just pray and take your lumps. While both are obviously types of "loose play," neither is much like modern sparring.

The further back we go in time, the less evidence we find of free fencing as we now understand it. Fencing manuals from the Renaissance and late Middle Ages describe specific sequences between the combatants:

How could this be practiced, except by acting out the sequence with a training partner? And what is that but a kata?

Even the term "assault," which in the fencing of today refers to free fighting, referred in the Renaissance to a set sequence:

In the Renaissance and medieval manuals, this is usually all we find- fixed sequences of attack and defense containing the underlying principles of the system, with no direct mention of any sort of "sparring." A few additional examples should make this clear:

To actually practice any of these techniques, one would be obliged to act them out with a training partner as a set sequence, only later incorporating them into free fencing once they have been thoroughly absorbed. It is clear that free fencing with wooden or blunted weapons did in fact exist, as there are numerous references to bands of swordsmen staging contests, tournaments and challenge matches. But the win was usually decided by a bleeding injury to the head, so is this to be considered "sparring" or a combat with rules? In medieval Japan, a match between two unarmored swordsmen with wooden swords would not have been considered "sparring" at all, but a type of duel.

If we take the earliest manuals literally, we’d have to conclude that training methods were similar in both regions. Swordsmanship was initially taught primarily by means of "kata," and free fencing bouts were more like duels of skill than sparring practice, with a substantial chance of injury. Free fencing only reached its familiar modern form much later, with the invention of safety gear- exactly the process by which the classical Japanese sword arts produced modern kendo.

"Kata" actually has a long and ongoing history in the Western Martial Arts. It was not abandoned when safe forms of free fencing were introduced. The Highland broadsword manuals of the eighteenth century describe a number of such choreographed sequences:

In all of the eighteenth century Highland broadsword manuals, much more space is devoted to "set play" or "lessons" (kata training) than to "loose play" (free fencing). In one case (Page’s manual of 1746) even those sections described as "loose play" are actually set sequences. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century broadsword posters of Henry Angelo, free fencing is not even mentioned- only a sequence of ten set play lessons with two swordsmen, and a solo form called "The Manual." From other sources, we know that loose play was included in Angelo’s broadsword lessons with the singlestick, and that it was relatively brutal training:

But surely it is significant that only set play merits a mention in Angelo’s published broadsword posters, despite the rather severe practice of loose play in his salle. It seems rather difficult to support the idea that choreographed sequences were not used in the Western arts, or even that free fencing was considered very important as a training method until a late date in the history of Western fencing. Most of the references to its importance date from the nineteenth century:

One could say that free fencing as we now understand it- that is, fencing with safe weapons and with low expectation of injury- only became significant as fencing was in the process of becoming a sport. Even at that time, military manuals such as the broadsword texts still emphasized set play as the most practical way to train combat swordsmen in the basics of their art. This was the same time period in which the scientific worldview was becoming so prevalent in Western life- the same worldview that led chess players to challenge set chess openings, and eventually led Go players to become critical of joseki. If this is an accurate understanding, then the difference isn’t really one of East versus West, but of "the modern world" versus the mindset of earlier centuries. Swordplay, however, is a survival or revival of pre-modern forms of combat. Therefore, to assume that it can best be understood through a modern lens is problematic.

Set sequences are still taught in classical Western fencing:

Historical Western fencing groups use kata as well, because there is no other way to practice the sequences described in the historical manuals. Often the same groups that profess to disdain kata as something artificial and non-combative actually practice it, which is a truly ironic situation. Perhaps they believe that they are not practicing kata because their forms are short and devoid of any ritualized form of etiquette, but the training function of the form is ultimately the same. One partner carries out a certain attack, and the other one responds with the appropriate historical counterattack. To practice in this way while condemning kata is truly myopic.

Kata is still the teaching method in the classical Japanese sword arts precisely because it preserves the essence of the art’s history- the art as it was understood by those who created it. Some schools, such as the Tenshin Shoden Katori Shinto Ryu (widely considered to be the oldest of the koryu, and definitely founded during the period of feudal warfare in Japan) pride themselves on the fact that they have never used any type of free sparring in their practice:

The master in question, Otake Rinsuke, went on to say that, in sparring, "the vital responsibility and danger of handling a real weapon is replaced by the mental approach of the game-player with a toy weapon." This could very well be true of sparring with safety gear, but it would not be true of the unarmored fights with wooden or blunted swords that were once common in both Japan and Europe. However, it is likely that Otake Sensei would not have referred to these as sparring but as taryu shiai (a duel).

However, many students of the Japanese sword arts have been so zealous in their defense of kata that they may have overstated the case. It has often been said that free fencing does not exist at all in classical (pre-Kendo) Japanese swordsmanship, but this does not seem to be absolutely true. In the words of one instructor of a classical school:

Whether in free fencing or kata, intensity seems to be the key. The same instructor’s own experiences with free fencing bear a certain resemblance to the description of Angelo’s singlestick school as quoted above:

This description of training in one branch of the Araki Ryu is obviously not representative of most classical Japanese swordsmanship training, and it seems to have been a physically and psychologically traumatic experience as well.

In the later period of classical swordsmanship, when the transition was already being made to modern Kendo, traditional swordsmen questioned the utility of safe sparring even as they practiced it in their own schools. Yamaoka Tesshu, one of the greatest of Japanese swordsmen and a survivor of several assassination attempts and duels with live blades, made an extremely rigorous form of sparring a central feature of his Muto Ryu. But he was ambivalent about the value of the practice in comparison with the older approach of dueling with wooden swords and no armor:

Tesshu did state that "there may be some value in conducting matches," but he was clearly concerned that the use of safe sparring weapons and protective gear would lead classical swordsmanship to degenerate into a mere game. However, just as kata training can be either a flowery and dance-like exercise or a serious encounter requiring full commitment and complete attention, so is there more than one way to conduct free fencing practice.

This is obviously not much like "sparring" as it is now understood, with padded weapons or padded fencers and little risk of serious injury. Free fencing under such harsh conditions would have the effect of pressure-testing the student’s technique, because in every bout he would be forced to confront the genuine fear of injury. His opponent’s singlestick would become an actual weapon in his eyes, and not merely a toy or training tool, and the training that resulted would naturally be that much more effective. As one of the historical British masters said:

Of course, as severe as this sort of training may be, it is still a far cry from the visceral terror of facing a sharp blade. There is one type of Western swordsmanship that still maintains that aspect. This is the mensur fencing of the German dueling fraternities. The two fraternity students face each other at point-blank range, fully armored except for the face and forehead. The eyes are protected by armored goggles. No sort of footwork is allowed- in fact, any flinching or attempt to avoid the opponent’s blade can lead to an immediate disqualification. From a high version of the hanging guard, the students make a rapid series of cuts with their sharp schlaeger blades, attempting to open a bleeding wound in the opponent’s face or head. While the worst that can usually happen is a permanent scar on the face, the students still experience an intense and transformative sense of terror, a rite of passage that must be repeated several times in order to earn lifelong membership in the fraternity. The rule restrictions not only reduce the danger of serious injury, they also increase the psychological pressure, as the most natural of human reactions- flinching away from a sharp blade being swung at your face- is specifically forbidden. As a result, the mensur is perhaps the most psychologically realistic form of modern Western swordsmanship, in the sense of preparing the student mentally for the experience of an actual sword fight and inculcating the self-control he would need in order to survive such an experience. However, in technical terms it is probably the least realistic.

At least one of the classical Japanese sword schools makes use of sharp blades during two-person kata practice. In the Maniwa Nen-ryu, advanced swordsmen practice a special series of live-blade kata:

(R)ather than the clash of weapon upon weapon or upon padded wrist or head, the attacker’s sword stops a fraction of an inch from the other’s sword or flesh. The instructor’s sword misses time and again as the practitioner sidesteps, or moves just out of range, counterattacking as the weapon passes right in front of his eyes.

Sharp-blade practice, whether in kata or in a ritualized combat such as the mensur duel, is obviously not appropriate for most swordsmen in the modern world, however useful it may be at forging swordsmen with the self-control to face a sharp blade in an actual encounter. Even though combat with sharp swords is no longer a reality, it is this ataraxia, or mental tranquility and freedom from external disturbance that has historically been considered one of the primary benefits of sword training. The Japanese call this characteristic heijoshin, or "constantly-stable mind," and have long associated it with the calm self-possession of the trained swordsman. What is less commonly known is that Western swordsmen have been writing about the same concept for centuries. In the words of Elizabethan swordsman George Silver:

Nineteenth-century Highland broadsword master Thomas Mathewson wrote:

So, even though we as modern swordsmen are not training for an actual encounter with sharps, the effects of intense and realistic training are still direct and practical in our daily lives. One cannot expect to forge such a stable and self-controlled personality with either flowery and dance-like kata or frivolous and game-like sparring practice. The transformative nature of hard training would simply not be present. You cannot forge a blade without intense heat. But how can we achieve this sort of training while adhering to responsible standards of safety?

Obviously, it is not acceptable to us for our training partner to "utter a shriek of agony, and fall fainting on the floor". Nor would most of us be willing to endure facial scarring or risk instant death from a sharp blade in our practice, and it would be irresponsible to incorporate such elements arbitrarily as if to prove a point. But we can approach each practice session as if training for a life and death encounter. We can carry out both set play and loose play with the focus and intensity of an actual duel insofar as possible, putting ourselves on the line every time we take up our training weapons. We can make sure our practice is uncomfortable, difficult, frightening- the kind of experience that doesn’t just entertain us, but changes us. This can only be accomplished with responsible training partners who you trust implicitly, and instructors who understand exactly what your limits are- and who will push you just a little bit beyond them without breaking you. If we approach either kata training or free fencing in this way, then the old patterns described in the fencing manuals or enshrined in the kata will not merely be memorized but absorbed, becoming part of us and transforming us in the process.

We have now come full circle, and back to the Go proverb with which this essay began. The Go player who merely memorizes joseki sequences will lose, because his opponent will break the sequence to his own advantage at a crucial moment, or will select joseki that set up the strategic situation he prefers.

However, the essence of Go strategy is still to be found within the traditional sequences, the fruit of thousands of years of high-level play. The player who studies them and understands them will have the freedom to "forget" them, playing freely with a mind that has been trained and disciplined.

The essence of conflict has always been chaos. Trying to impose any artificial order on that chaos would only be futile, and those who approach pattern practice with that goal in mind will always be defeated. But if order cannot be imposed on the chaos of combat, it can be forged within the mind of the combatant, allowing him to move through the flames without being burned. This ability is the essence of the mature swordsman, whether in the East or West, and its benefits can reach into every area of the swordsman’s life. As such, the forging of the mind might be the most practical aspect of modern sword training, from the kenjutsu kata of the Yagyu Shinkage Ryu to the German longsword techniques of Talhoffer.