去り際の美学The Aesthetics of Departure

In 2025, Japan will enter the world’s first super-aged society. Amid unprecedented circumstances, with a population of 120 million people, the concept of “end-of-life planning” (終活, shukatsu) has spread significantly, especially among older generations over the past five years. Behind this phenomenon lies the fact that this elderly demographic, having experienced Japan’s rapid economic growth and bubble economy, has lived lives overflowing with material goods and information—essentially, a lifestyle filled with desires. Recognizing that passing all these belongings onto their children and relatives would impose a significant burden, they aim to organize and minimize their possessions as thoroughly as possible before death, positioning this as a new societal trend that emphasizes not causing inconvenience to others after one’s passing.

From the perspective of someone residing in Japan who observes this phenomenon daily, it is profoundly intriguing, as it appears deeply rooted in the traditional Japanese mentality of “contemplating death (死ぬことを考える).” Its origins, I believe, trace back to the concept of “departing kami” (去る神), as discussed in my previous article. This spiritual mindset notably blossomed during the era when such values permeated everyday people’s lives. Therefore, I will explore this in detail under the theme “the aesthetics of departure (去り際の美学).”

Coincidentally, yesterday I revisited the pioneering yakuza film, “Jinsei Gekijo: Hisha-Kaku” (人生劇場 飛車角, 1963), while researching the social conditions surrounding the rise of Toei’s yakuza movies in the 1960s and 1970s. Watching it, I strongly felt that this “aesthetics of departure” was central to the lifestyle of “ninkyo” (任侠, yakuza), which emphasizes honor and chivalry. This principle is not limited to yakuza; it is also a critical element in the aesthetic sensibilities of the samurai and frequently appears in memorable scenes within Japanese cinema.

For instance, in Akira Kurosawa’s masterpiece “Yojimbo” (用心棒, 1961), there is a compelling final scene where the protagonist, Kuwabatake Sanjuro, played by Toshiro Mifune, saves a village from violent yakuza factions and restores peace. Instead of remaining in the village, he turns toward the wilderness, simply uttering ““あばよ”（See ya）before calmly walking away into the distance as the movie ends (this scene’s composition is truly magnificent!). I particularly adore this scene and always find it deeply moving—not merely due to the film’s cinematic brilliance, but primarily because Sanjuro seeks neither fame nor reward, entirely casting aside personal desires and moving forward decisively. In Japan, this attitude has long been revered as “kokoroiki” (心意気), reflecting a certain noble spirit. This concept was later philosophically refined by Kuki Shuzo into the notion of “iki” (粋, stylishness or chic elegance).

Indeed, in Japanese yakuza movies, there’s often a solemn ritual known as “Jingi wo kiru” (仁義を切る, This expression is essentially untranslatable, but it refers to making a formal introduction to show loyalty and respect) that wandering yakuza must perform upon entering another group’s territory. Equally important is the ceremony of “Jingi wo hatasu” (仁義を果たす, This is also essentially untranslatable, but it broadly means fulfilling one’s duty with honor and loyalty, often at personal cost) before cleanly departing. It’s less known that for the yakuza of that era, these entry and exit rituals were matters of life and death. If someone displayed half-hearted resolve or revealed selfish motivations during these rituals, the silent code of the ninkyo world dictated they could be killed on the spot without any complaint. This point is critically important.

Japanese culture possesses a long tradition that regards leaving without lingering attachments—departing decisively—as an admirable virtue. Particularly from the Edo period up through the early postwar era, this aesthetic of cleanly stepping away from situations has been praised across various domains, ranging from commoner culture to bushido (武士道, the way of the samurai). Specifically, in the townspeople’s culture that flourished during the Edo period, showing a clear-cut and graceful withdrawal without clinging to worldly attachments was celebrated as the essence of “iki”.

Edo townspeople, known as “Edokko” (江戸っ子), famously lived by the maxim “never keep money overnight” (宵越しの銭は持たない), embodying the boldness of spending everything they earned within the same day. This mindset stemmed from their view of accumulating wealth as “yabo” (野暮, unsophisticated or tasteless), the opposite of being stylish and chic. Consequently, Edo residents strongly disliked attachment to money or material things. Indeed, “yabo,” the antithesis of “iki,” carried significantly negative connotations such as “being inflexible” or “overly persistent.” Conversely, a person considered “iki” was praised and respected as “stylish, experienced in worldly pleasures, and someone who never left any lingering attachment behind (垢抜けていて、遊び慣れ、後を引かない江戸っ子).” In other words, for Edo townspeople, decisively finishing and completely cutting off ties without leaving residual feelings or regret was the very essence of their refined aesthetic sensibility.

For example, in the Edo period, there was a group known as “hikeshi” (火消し, firefighters), who, after extinguishing a fire, would swiftly reverse their “hanten” (半纏, traditional short coats), revealing the stylish pattern hidden on the lining, and then gracefully depart from the scene. Although these hikeshi are analogous to today’s firefighters, caution is necessary because they are also one of the historical roots of yakuza groups. This elegant gesture dramatized their graceful departure, and it was considered virtuous when people who were saved from fires admired their stylishness. On the other hand, demanding money or material rewards for extinguishing a fire was despised as base and contemptible behavior. Such conduct during farewells or departures clearly demonstrates how deeply rooted in Edo townspeople culture was the virtue of “leaving without creating unsightly lingering attachments (見苦しい余韻を残さず立ち去る.)”

Kuki Shuzo, the philosopher who first systematically inherited this traditional mindset, analyzed Edo’s sophisticated sensibilities in his book “The Structure of ‘Iki’” (「いき」の構造, 1930), where he outlined three core elements shaping this refined aesthetic consciousness.

According to Kuki, the structure of “iki” consists of the following three concepts:

1. Bitai (媚態) – The sensual charm and romantic interplay developed within Edo’s pleasure quarters.
2. Ikiji (意気地) – Pride, determination, and the unwavering spirit associated with bushido.
3. Akirame (諦め) – A mental state akin to Buddhist enlightenment, characterized by understanding truth, renouncing attachment, and letting go gracefully.

Kuki philosophically elaborated on the structure of “iki,” conceptualizing it as “shosha” (瀟洒, elegant simplicity) freed from attachment to personal desires, praising it as a beautiful heart without lingering regrets. Particularly notable is the third element, “akirame,” meaning precisely a graceful non-attachment. In other words, it is exactly because people do not cling to self-interest that genuine elegance and clarity become evident—something that has deeply impressed Japanese sensibilities. This forms the basis of the ineffable emotional impact experienced in Japanese cinema, from pre-war through post-war eras.

Nevertheless, abandoning self-interest and attachment is far from easy, and most people carry these burdens throughout their lives until death. Hence, despite how casually we might speak of an “aesthetics of departure,” actualizing this throughout one’s lifetime is exceedingly difficult, which is precisely why the rare individuals who achieve this are celebrated and passed down through stories. Especially in today’s desire-driven society, it may even be nearly impossible. So, how can one embody this “aesthetics of departure”? This is where the spirit of bushido becomes relevant.

The aesthetic of graceful departure deeply ingrained in the samurai class is symbolically expressed in “Hagakure” (葉隠), written by Yamamoto Tsunetomo (1659-1719), himself a samurai. Tsunetomo famously wrote: “The way of the samurai is found in death (武士道と云ふは死ぬ事と見つけたり),” highlighting the importance for samurai to always be mentally prepared for death. In “Hagakure,” Tsunetomo insists, “Every morning, you should reflect that you have already died today (毎朝欠かさず『自分は今日すでに死んだのだ』と思え),” asserting that only by disregarding life and death can one make righteous decisions. Thus, by maintaining daily readiness to accept death, a samurai could act decisively when needed, dying gracefully without hesitation or disgraceful behavior. This spirit is exceedingly important.

The paradox that thinking constantly about “death” makes “life” more vivid has deep historical roots in Japanese culture. Personally, interpreting this in a modern sense, fearing “death” signifies attachment to “life,” and such attachment arises precisely because one clings to self-centered desires. Simply contemplating “death” is insufficient; confronting “the moment of death” (“the moment of departure”) daily and living accordingly eventually leads to achieving true “iki,” or the “aesthetics of departure.”

Viewed differently, today’s peculiar phenomenon of “shukatsu” (終活, end-of-life planning) represents a self-reflective realization by the affluent post-war generation—who grew up amidst abundant goods and information—that they lost too much as a consequence of their prosperity. It’s through this process that traditional Japanese spirituality, particularly the “aesthetics of departure,” resurfaces, resulting in the phenomenon called “shukatsu.” This is deeply intriguing, and I plan to explore it progressively and in greater depth moving forward.