revolution

Hierarchy of power is a concept, presuming concept is the correct word, that has always fascinated me. In modern parlance it might be termed as who is hot and who is not; the great and the good reduced to one-sentence summaries in Heat and trash tabloid supplements. At the upper end of the market they might be filed away under lists entitled ‘100 Most Powerful People in the World’ or ‘The Times Rich List’ but it all boils down to the same cataloguing and list-making that may give the featured subjects a boost and the industry minions something to aspire to.

Taken from the list of Quotes That Never Were (But Should’ve Been):

“And why not?” — Barry Norman

It does engage a certain amount of common sense; if an industry, any industry, is going to be judged and lauded over, then why not judge that industry on the achievements of its champions and not its runts? By being constantly reminded about the successes of The Few in computing, in politics, in publishing, in countless other British industries, we give those just starting out a level of prestige to aspire to. I can hardly imagine a young undergrad majoring in Business Management hoping to become the next Robert Maxwell; but in becoming the next Richard Branson, yeah, sure, why not. He may not be the coolest cat on the block, but then again who is?

Power and popularity seem inextricably linked in the sense that the individual personalities succeed, primarily because they know that self promotion adds a lot of potential to their business practice, and they understand that no-one else is going to promote them. This is how the hierarchy of power is fashioned; the determined individuals don’t wait around for opportunity to come knocking and as such they rise to the top. A pyramid of semi-determined, then vaguely-determined, and then don’t-cares develops below. In order for the young undergrad to get to the top, he has to ascend the ranks, slowly; or else create his own pyramid of power and hope the followers fall into place. The former option is the most stable, even though it forces one to ascend in a structured way. You can’t just jump to the top. To do so would be akin to me challenging Richard Charkin, current King of the Publishing Blogs, to an arm-wrestle.

Now there’s an idea.

So yes, Chark, you may get several hundred hits a day for your blog; you may be seated in a prime position in Macmillan at the moment; you may have thirty-plus years experience in the publishing industry on me. But can you swim the English channel in under two hours forty-three minutes, eh? Can you write a novel in less than three weeks whilst holding down a full-time job and then see several publishers bidding furiously on the MS, Chark? Can you drink eight pints in succession and still sing for Sunday Choir?

The fact that I can’t do any of these things is besides the point. Charkin has found a niche and developed it. He’s an all singin’, all dancin’ industry professional who promises secrets and tips for those interested in publishing and, for the most part, doesn’t disappoint. No false prophet, he. The rather difficult task I would face, should I wish to usurp him from his throne, is to come up with another angle on the whole business. A post-modern novelty trick up there with the inspired devices of Tristram Shandy and B.S. Johnson; a weekly controversial rant to spark up attention; a free iPod for every tenth reader of my blog (to come out of Fifth Estate’s marketing budget). I would be in the enviable position of likening my David to Charkin’s Goliath.

But away with such fancies.

A slow-track progress to the top, to gaining that power so precious, keeps some people sane, I think. Chances are we will never get there anyway, but only within reach. Even for those who do make it, what are the available options? It can’t be abused much further than asking someone to make the tea for you, for as we all know abuse of power leads to this:

(Sorry, easy target).

The nice guys succeed at the top of these power hierarchies but so too do the bad ones, who have the habit of usurping any threat to their own elevated status and position. The printed lists of powerful beings keep a check on who is where and as a result may provide a warning check on any evident loonies rising through the ranks, but the obvious side effect is that they also promote competition.

My mission this week is to apply the brakes to this whole crazy power scheme; and not in relation to the lists. It may sound gospelly, but: Let’s all us as individuals stop scurrying for the power, yer hear, can I get a Hail Mary? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to better oneself, to get money and material distractions, but that’s not my point. This is — if we ignore the power lists, if we cease to care about those at the top and care more about those around us, those known to us, then we may find ourselves a tad happier. We need to stop worrying about becoming the next Branson, the next Bill Gates, the next Chark (some would argue that nobody would want to be the next Richard Charkin anyway . . . but they would be unkind people).

Besides, if we ignore the figureheads at the pinnacle of our various industries, they might get worried, and scrabble for our attention. They might slip up, make some colossal failure; and the throne will be ours for the taking. Cover your eyes, England — the new order is about to rise!

Thirty six years ago, Japan’s best known novelist and dramatist, Yukio Mishima, cut open his own stomach and was then beheaded with an antique sword, in the notorious ritual of hara-kiri, or more correctly, seppuku — a form of suicide traditionally reserved for samurai, Japan’s extinct feudal warrior caste.

The context for this anachronistic act of self-destruction was truly extraordinary. Four years earlier, in 1966, Mishima had formed a militia, naming it the Tate no Kai, or Shield Society, to signal its mission — to provide a shield to protect the Emperor from presumed left wing revolution in the riot torn streets of late 1960s Japan — and it was as commander of this small military band, not as a world famous author, that Mishima sought to fashion his epitaph.

There were never more than one hundred members of the Shield Society and through his political contacts, including the incumbent Prime Minister Eisaku Sato, Mishima gained permission for the student cadets to train with Japan’s army at various military bases in the Tokyo region.

On the 25th November 1970, on a bright sunny morning, dressed in the winter uniforms he had commissioned from Tsukumo Igarashi, a designer who had created uniforms for General de Gaulle, Mishima and four Shield Society cadets drove to the headquarters of the Eastern Army Group on Ichigaya Hill, in central Tokyo, not far from the Imperial Palace. Mishima had an appointment to see General Mashita, the base commanding officer, on the pretext of presenting his cadets whom, he explained, had performed in a commendable manner on a military exercise on Mount Fuji.

Mishima was also wearing a Japanese sword in a leather military scabbard. The sword was legendary, a meito, a famous sword, by the sixteenth century smith, Seki no Magoroku.

After some polite conversation, on a signal from Mishima, the Shield Society cadets seized the general, gagged him and tied him to his office chair. The general’s staff in an adjacent office quickly discovered that instead of a quiet meeting between their commander and the famous author something terrible was occurring. They tried to storm the inner office, but were repeatedly rebuffed.

Twelve officers and soldiers were injured, one suffering the near severing of his left hand at the wrist, slashed by Mishima’s sword. Eventually after shouted negotiations through the thin partitions it was agreed that Mishima would address the assembled base personnel from a large balcony outside the general’s office window which overlooked a courtyard; by such an appeal Mishima hoped he might rouse the listening soldiers to join with him in staging a coup.

To ensure compliance Mishima threatened that any further attempts at rescue would result in the general being killed and Mishima committing seppuku.

Instead of being roused to mutiny the nearly one thousand soldiers gathered beneath the balcony heckled and jeered. The police and media helicopters hovering above made it next to impossible to hear what Mishima was saying. His comments about the need to restore the spirit of the samurai, to revive the real soul of Japan, of his love for the army who were his brothers, had no effect whatsoever.

After just a few minutes of this impotent address and the distribution of leaflets which summarized his gekibun, or last appeal, Mishima returned to General Mashita’s office determined to die.

Mishima had long before written that he had intended to make a poem of his life. The last verse, he had more recently resolved, would be written in blood.

After cutting deeply into his stomach with a yoroidoshi, or armour piercing knife, Mishima signaled to his kaishaku, or second, to end his suffering by beheading him with a single stroke. Unfortunately the young cadet selected to do this, Masakatsu Morita, had insufficient experience and made a hash of the first cut, missed on a second attempt and cut only part of the way through Mishima’s neck on the third swing. Another more expert cadet took the sword and finished the job.

Botched no doubt, but Mishima was dead and had died as he intended, bravely and demonstrating his sincerity and self-mastery.

Thirty years after Mishima’s suicide I went to Japan to see if I could find the sword Mishima had worn to visit the general on his last day alive, the sword which had been used to behead him, the Seki no Magoroku blade. It had been produced in court as evidence in the trial of the surviving Shield Society cadets. (Morita had also killed himself by seppuku, immediately after Mishima.) The three were sent to prison for four years. No one seemed able to confirm what had become of the sword.

In ancient tradition it is though that the spirit of anyone who dies under a Japanese sword is absorbed into the blade. So I went in search of the sword in order to try to rediscover Mishima’s spirit — and to understand more generally the place, if any, in modern Japanese society of such notions as bushido, the way of the Samurai, and makoto, the purity of absolute sincerity of action.

In the event I discovered Mishima had become an almost impenetrable collage of taboos and found myself going in circles as I searched for Mishima’s sword and those who had known the author. But the journey changed me and helped to exorcise an obsession with what Camus called the only philosophical question: why not kill yourself? I was now firmly on the side of life.