[Super Explanation] Steve Jobs' Lifelong Favorite Book: Zen in the Art of Archery
[Super Translation] The arrow is not aimed at the target, but at the 'wavering self.' When you let go of the aim, the target is pierced naturally.
Hearing only the title 'Zen in the Art of Archery,' one might think it is a 'stoic martial arts philosophy' or a 'collection of quotes from a master,' but it is interesting precisely because it is completely different.
The original trigger was that it was introduced in Shu Yamaguchi's 'Techniques of Self-Learning.' Finding the name of this book in the reading list, I thought, 'Ah, I am going to end up reading this,' which was my first encounter with it.
In conclusion, this is not a book that can be dismissed as just 'one book on a reading list.' It was a reading experience where the 'over-intentional hands' and 'anxious gaze' in my own life and work were exposed one after another.
And what struck my heart the most was one particular sentence.
'The art becomes artless, the obtaining of the bow becomes not shooting with bow and arrow, and not shooting becomes shooting without bow and arrow.'
What on earth does this mean? This book is not about 'technique,' but about clarifying 'what the self is.' If you read this article to the end, you should be able to clearly understand what is intended here.
From technique to art, from art to 'artlessness'
The me who draws the bow, and the bow that draws me
'Zen in the Art of Archery' is not a story about archery, but it is also a story about archery. It is truly a book like a Zen koan. And this is not about the 'acquisition of technique' passed down through the martial art of Kyudo and the master-disciple relationship, but about the 'process in which technique disappears.'
Master Kenzo Awa says:
'The art becomes artless, the obtaining of the bow becomes not shooting with bow and arrow, and not shooting becomes shooting without bow and arrow.'
The technique that one was supposed to have acquired in order to release the arrow becomes a 'hindrance' once a certain point is passed. The more you aim the arrow, the more you miss the target, and the more you try to release it, the more the arrow will not leave. At that moment, the technique collapses, the art disappears, and only the 'act that occurs' remains.
Herrigel writes at one point:
'It was not I who released it. The arrow flew by itself.'
I would like to interpret this change not as 'I was drawing the bow,' but as 'the bow was drawing me.'
Practice is the repetition of contemplation
In other words, what Awa valued was 'practice, the practice of contemplation.'
In these words lies the essence of the Eastern view of discipline. A training that gradually pushes down the 'edge of consciousness' while repeating, without straining or rushing.
Rather than repetition, the expression'sinking'is closer.
Instead of using thought, place yourself in the silence of thought. Instead of 'shooting' outward, 'sink' inward.
This attitude applies not only to martial arts but also to art.
By not trying to draw, the line emerges. By not trying to answer, the words appear.
That is the moment when something beyond technique appears.
When you shed technique, the self also becomes thin.
“Archery is not an external matter involving a bow and arrow, but has a meaning oriented inwardly toward the self.”
Here, Herrigel says that the “object of the act” is not on the outside. The arrow is not aimed at the target, but at the “wavering me.”
Mastering a technique means enhancing your “power to control yourself.” However, when the art transcends the art, even the “self that tries to control the self” slips out of the flow of the act.
The ego falls away from the act.
What is born there is a “transparent shot.”
Shooting without shooting.
Reading this book made me pause at a certain question.
Does the “work” I am doing now have meaning because “I am doing it”? Or does true meaning only emerge when it is “no longer just mine alone”?
For example, when listening to someone’s troubles, the more I think I am “giving” something, the more the conversation spins its wheels.
Just be there. Sink into that place. Then, for some reason, the arrow is released.
In our work and in our daily lives, there may be signs of an “artless art.” It is something that can only be seen when you stop exerting force and sink deeply.
Where is the “immovable center”?
There is a stillness that permeates the technique.
No matter how correctly you trace the form, the arrow misses.
Even though your breathing and timing should be perfect, for some reason, it doesn't hit.
What Herrigel was confronted with by his master, Kenzo Awa, was the fact that “as long as the heart is wavering, the arrow will not fly straight.”
“You must detach yourself from moving between pleasure and displeasure. You must learn to be detached, with a relaxed composure, as if someone other than you had made the shot.”
What is required here is not mere relaxation. Rather, it is having a “core” that is not swallowed by the waves of emotion. That is what Awa calls the “immovable center.”
The core of time called “spiritual presence.”
In this book, Herrigel uses the term “correct spiritual presence.” Not being trapped by the past, not being impatient for the future, but placing the heart in this very moment.
It is a time more deeply focused than the phrase “here and now” implies.
In that moment of releasing the arrow, can you let go and think, 'The result doesn't matter'? At that time, the mind detaches from the wavering of the ego and begins to dissolve into space.
This 'spiritual presence' is an extremely radical question for us in the modern age. This is because our time is always preempted by 'something.' Evaluation, deadlines, attention, approval...
Where is a 'shot' free from all of those possible?
Breathing reconnects a wavering mind
Awa 'clings to custom' for the sake of tranquility.
Observe the etiquette. Maintain the distance. Deepen the breath.
Thanks to this meditative stillness, it is said that one can decisively relax, achieve balance in all forces, and attain concentration and spiritual presence.
Forms and rhythms are footholds for touching 'that which does not move,' and they are not merely tradition, but serve the role of aligning the 'center of gravity of the heart.'
When we think too much, our posture falters. When we are impatient, our voices become shrill. Before we speak, we inadvertently hold our breath.
That is precisely why we return to breathing first. Like the practice of Kyudo, it is a fundamental that applies to all conversation and judgment.
'Having a center' does not mean returning to oneself
What is interesting about 'Zen in the Art of Archery' is that it does not say, 'Return to the center.' Rather, it says to realize that you 'do not have' a center. And, to quietly sink into that absence.
'A kind of awakened state where only the spirit is present'
There is not even a will to 'try to maintain' anything here. Instead, there is an inexplicable certainty of 'being maintained.'
For me, this chapter was not a story about 'reclaiming oneself.' Rather, it was a story about going to a place 'where one is not obsessed with oneself'.
The arrow flies not by my own will. However, it is necessary that I am properly 'present' in that place.
In other words, stillness is not 'disappearing,' but 'sinking.'
The mirror of the master—learning to have one's self read
There is someone who knows you better than you know yourself
There is a passage in 'Zen in the Art of Archery' that stands out in particular.
'Please believe me. The master knows the disciple better than the disciple knows himself. The master reads the soul of the disciple much better than the disciple thinks he does.'
We tend to think of a master as someone who 'teaches.'
However, in this book, the master is rather 'a reader'.
The disciple's stance, the silence, the irregular breathing, a momentary hesitation. Through these, the master reads the 'unspoken ego' within the disciple. And only when necessary, he tosses out enigmatic words.
Those words are not explanations. Nor are they hints.
They are like small stones dropped into a wavering soul.
'Not teaching' is also a form of teaching.
What Awa Kenzo upheld was an educational philosophy of 'not conveying too much through words'. If everything is explained, the disciple's 'intuition' will not grow. Therefore, he intentionally remains silent, maintains distance, and delays the answer.
This approach is also relevant to modern education and management. People are not deeply moved by verbal instructions alone. True learning only permeates to the depths of the body by accepting 'silence that makes no sense' or 'moments of hesitation'.
In other words, 'teaching' is also 'waiting'.
Respect is not obedience, but the strength to endure silence.
Herrigel lists these three things as what is required of a disciple in Japan.
Correct education
Love for the Way
Uncritical respect for the master
Reading just these words now might bring to mind traditional hierarchical relationships. However, Awa's attitude is neither imperative nor controlling.
Rather, 'respect' is not about idolizing the master, but closer to 'believing and waiting while maintaining silence'.
That may be less about trust in the master, and more about 'believing in your own self that is not yet visible'.
Where is your 'master' right now?
While reading this book, we should find ourselves thinking about this many times.
Who is the master to me right now?
Am I acting as a 'master' to someone?
And does that behavior serve to 'read' someone?
'Reading' and 'remaining silent' both only grow within relationships.
Is there someone who is watching your silence intently? Or, are you yourself quietly watching over someone else's silence?
In the exchange of those gazes, 'true learning' begins.
Shooting by not shooting—the intersection of ethics and creation.
Ethics is the courage not to draw the sword.
Awa's philosophy extends beyond just archery. The words of the swordsman Takuan, quoted by Herrigel, are also striking.
“The sword that has become his soul is no longer dull and sheathed. He draws his sword only when it is unavoidable.”
This is the choice not to fight precisely because one has the ability to do so. It is a choice that recognizes the weight of taking responsibility rather than performing bravery.
In modern interpersonal relationships, especially in the context of harassment and conflict, we often “draw our swords to prove we are right.”
However, is it not also a practice of deep ethics to sometimes let that impulse pass and choose to “not release”?
Embedded in the words “to grant an honorable death out of respect for the enemy” is the priority of respecting the relationship over winning.
Creation begins when you shed your intentions
“Zen in the Art of Archery” can be read not only as a book on spiritual discipline but also as a textbook on creation.
“While immersed in such actions without a mind, responding to each moment, one draws what comes to mind in conceptual lines, completing the work as if it were emerging from itself.”
Creation is not self-expression. At the very least, something will not emerge from the attitude of “I am trying to draw something” alone.
Rather, when you wait for “something worthy of being drawn” and accept the state of “just being there,” the work “emerges.”
This is also a matter of sensitivity, like “listening with the eyes and seeing with the ears.” It is a receptive stance, listening to what is offered by the world rather than by will or aim.
Words, too, are released
We think we are “choosing” our words, but perhaps true words are already released before they are “chosen.”
A word spoken reflexively can create an irreparable distance. That is why the skill of choosing “not to shoot” is also relevant to modern communication.
You don't have to force it to pierce.
You don't have to force it to hit.
Just continue to be there.
Both ethics and creation rise up within that “margin.”
The world seen by letting go of the aim
Do you have the courage to miss the target?
After finishing “Zen in the Art of Archery,” I felt as if I had been deeply questioned.
“Where is your arrow headed?”it asked.
We are surrounded every day by things we “want to hit.” We want to produce results. We want to be recognized. We don't want to lose. We want to change something.
However, Herrigel says that as long as you have such an "aim," you will never hit the target. The moment you worry about the result, your hand shakes and your mind wanders.
"Shooting" is not about "aiming." Rather, the arrow only flies straight when you "gently let go of what you were aiming at."
It is about giving up the idea that the act is "yours." At the same time, it is also about letting "all of yourself" seep into that act.
"Beginnings" visit us again and again
There is a passage in "Zen in the Art of Archery" that goes like this:
"The master becomes a disciple again, the end becomes the beginning, and the beginning becomes completion."
This sentiment applies not only to archery but to all human endeavors. When you think you have learned something completely, you encounter a new ignorance. When you think you have finished something, a new, unknown beginning arises.
That cycle is closer to the breathing of the "Tao" as described in Lao-Zhuang philosophy. It is not about moving straight ahead, but rather passing through the same place repeatedly, whilebecominglittle by little, deeper, wider, and softer.
Can we accept this without resistance? At that moment, we begin to live the paradox that "you reach your goal by letting go."
When the "unshot arrow" has meaning
At work, at home, or even within yourself.
When you want to talk back, or when you want to rush the results, the arrow within you is quietly trembling.
But there is also meaning in the arrow that is not shot. That silence can reconnect a relationship. That space can create dialogue. That "power of waiting" can nurture the next action.
What "Zen in the Art of Archery" teaches us is that an action performed without force is by no means powerless. Rather, when you choose "not to shoot,"the action finally leaves your hands and begins to reach someone else.
What I was asked through "Zen in the Art of Archery"
The greatest question I received from this book is this:
"Is the thing you are aiming at right now truly a target that should be pierced through 'intentional effort'?"
Or is it
"something that, if you pause for a moment and lower your arrow, you will find you have naturally pierced through without even realizing it?"
What should we face?
Why not gently place this question into your own daily life?
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