Mark: The phrase "Good luck" might be the worst thing you can say to someone facing a challenge. Michelle: Hold on, what? That's my go-to for everything from a job interview to a first date. What’s wrong with wishing someone luck? Mark: There's a Japanese philosophy that replaces it with something far more powerful: a command to try your absolute best, with the full acceptance that you might fail. It’s about your internal effort, not some external, random chance. Michelle: Okay, I'm intrigued. That feels both harsher and more empowering at the same time. Mark: And that's the central idea in Albert Liebermann's book, The Japanese Art of Always Moving Forward: Ganbatte! Michelle: Right, and Liebermann is an interesting figure to write this. He's a European philosopher who moved to Japan, so he has this outsider-insider perspective on these concepts. Mark: Exactly. He's not just reporting; he's translating a cultural mindset. And it's a mindset that has resonated, though the book has received somewhat mixed reviews. Some readers find it deeply inspiring, while others feel it idealizes Japanese culture a bit. Michelle: Which is what we're here to unpack. Let's start with that core idea you mentioned. Why is 'good luck' the enemy in the world of Ganbatte?

Mark: Because "good luck" suggests the outcome is out of your hands. It depends on fate, or the universe, or just random chance. But when someone in Japan says "Ganbatte!", they're saying, "Tap into your own strength. Do your best. The result depends on the effort you make." It's a call to action, not a passive wish. Michelle: It puts the power back in your hands. I like that. But does it actually work in practice? It sounds like a recipe for immense pressure. Mark: Well, let me tell you a story from the book that gets to the heart of it. The authors, Héctor García and Francesc Miralles, who wrote the foreword, went back to Ōgimi, the famous "village of the centenarians" in Okinawa. They wanted to interview one of the oldest men, a 108-year-old named Ōshiro. Michelle: 108! Okay, I'm listening. I'm expecting a secret diet of seaweed and positive thinking. Mark: They were too. But they get there, and Ōshiro greets them with incredible energy. He's telling them stories, shows them a photo of himself riding a motorbike on his 100th birthday, and even takes them out to his garden to give them some fruit. Finally, they ask him the big question: "What is the secret to your long life?" Michelle: And the answer is...? Mark: He just smiles and says one word: "Ganbatta." It means, "I made an effort and always did the best I could." Then he adds, "Mainichi ganbattemasu"—"I make an effort every day." His secret wasn't a magic pill; it was a daily commitment to effort. Michelle: Wow. So it's not about one heroic achievement, it's about the consistent, daily practice of trying. But I'm still stuck on this: what if you try your best and still fail? That feels... deeply unsatisfying. Mark: That's the most profound part of the philosophy. It redefines what "winning" even means. The book tells this beautiful, almost Zen-like story of an archer who wants to be the best in the world. He goes to a kyūdō grandmaster for guidance. Michelle: And the master gives him some ancient, secret technique, I assume. Mark: The master gives him an impossible task. He points to the sky and says, "Your task is to hit the moon with an arrow." Michelle: Come on. That’s just cruel. Mark: The archer thinks so too, but he's dedicated. He goes back to his village and for years, every single night, he practices. He shoots thousands upon thousands of arrows at the moon. The villagers mock him, but he persists. Finally, exhausted and feeling like a total failure, he goes back to the master. Michelle: To admit defeat. This is a sad story. Mark: He tells the master, "I have failed. I never hit the moon." And the master looks at him and says something incredible: "Who was the target?" The archer is confused, and the master explains, "The archer aims at himself." Michelle: Oh, I think I just got chills. Mark: The goal was never the moon. The goal was the transformation that happened through the relentless effort of aiming for it. In the process of trying to achieve the impossible, he had, without realizing it, become the best archer in the world. The outcome didn't matter; the process was the prize. Michelle: Okay, that reframes everything. The real victory is the skill you build, the person you become. It’s not about hitting an external target, but an internal one. That’s a powerful idea.

Mark: Exactly. But this isn't a philosophy of just blindly pushing forward no matter what. That's where it gets really nuanced and, I think, even more useful. The book presents two seemingly contradictory proverbs. Michelle: Let me guess, one is about never giving up and the other is about... knowing when to fold 'em? Mark: You're very close! The first is a famous Japanese proverb: 'Ishi no ue ni mo san nen'. It literally means, "On a rock, for three years." The idea is that if you sit on a cold rock for three years, your persistence will eventually make it warm. It’s about the power of pure, stubborn dedication. Michelle: I love that image. It reminds me of the Daruma dolls from the book. You paint in one eye when you set a goal, and you can't paint the other until you achieve it. It’s this constant, nagging reminder on your desk, staring at you with one eye. Mark: That's the "be the rock" side of the philosophy. But here's the contradiction. The book also talks about the proverb, "A rolling stone gathers no moss." Michelle: Which we usually take to mean that someone who is always moving never settles down or gains responsibilities. Mark: Right, but the book points out it has a double meaning. In Japanese culture, moss, or koke, is beautiful. It symbolizes age, tranquility, and history. So, gathering moss can be a good thing. But sometimes, you get "bad moss"—stagnation, boredom, being trapped. The wisdom is knowing when your stillness is growing beautiful moss and when it's growing ugly moss. When it's the latter, it's time to roll. Michelle: So it’s about being steadfast, but not rigid. How do you know the difference? How do you know when to be the rock and when to be the rolling stone? Mark: The book offers a beautiful story to illustrate this. The author was in Okinawa playing a game of Go with an acquaintance. The author is a skilled player and was winning easily. But he noticed his host, his opponent, was getting more and more tense. The mood in the room was souring. Michelle: Oh, I know that feeling. The awkwardness when a friendly game gets too competitive. Mark: Precisely. And the author had a choice: he could press his advantage and win, satisfying his ego. Or he could do something else. He realized that the friendship and the pleasant evening were a much bigger prize than winning a single game of Go. So, he intentionally made a few bad moves and lost the game. Michelle: And what happened? Mark: The tension immediately vanished. His host laughed, they had a wonderful dinner, and it was the beginning of a long friendship. This is the concept the book calls 'Makeru ga kachi'—losing is winning. He "lost" the game to "win" the relationship. Michelle: That's brilliant. It's not about quitting; it's about choosing a different, better victory. It’s strategic. It reminds me of what the book says about Miyamoto Musashi, the legendary samurai. His philosophy was to "be like water." Water doesn't try to smash through a rock; it flows around it. It adapts. Mark: That's the perfect connection. You persevere like the man on the rock, but you adapt like water. You need both the hardness and the softness.

Michelle: So, it's this dance between persistence and flexibility. It feels like we're building a much bigger picture than just "try hard." Mark: We are. And that's how all these ideas weave together into a full life philosophy. Ganbatte is the engine, but it's guided by other profound Japanese principles. For instance, the book connects it deeply with Kaizen. Michelle: Which is the idea of continuous improvement, right? Famous from Toyota's production system. Small, incremental changes every single day. Mark: Exactly. It's not about one heroic, all-night effort to fix everything. It's about making things 1% better, consistently. This is the practical application of Ōshiro's "effort every day." Ganbatte provides the will, and Kaizen provides the method. Michelle: Okay, that makes sense. But then the book brings in another concept that seems like a total opposite: Wabi Sabi. The beauty of imperfection. How does that fit with the relentless pursuit of improvement? It feels like a direct contradiction to the perfectionism of someone like Jiro Ono, the sushi master also featured in the book. Mark: It’s the perfect balance! That's the genius of it. Jiro dedicates his entire life to perfecting his craft—that's his Ganbatte. He says, "I'll continue to climb, trying to reach the top, but no one knows where the top is." But Wabi Sabi is the wisdom that accepts that nothing is ever truly perfect, nothing is ever complete, and nothing lasts forever. Michelle: Ah, so it’s the principle that saves you from being crushed by your own perfectionism. Mark: Precisely. It allows you to strive relentlessly without being destroyed by the fact that you'll never reach an absolute, final perfection. The great filmmaker Akira Kurosawa is another perfect example from the book. For his film Rashomon, the rain wasn't showing up well on camera, so he had his crew dye the water with black ink to make every drop visible. Michelle: That is an insane level of dedication. That's pure Ganbatte. Mark: It is. But Kurosawa also famously said, "a work of art is never finished, it is only abandoned." He did everything in his power to make it perfect, but at some point, he had to accept its beautiful imperfection and move on. That's Wabi Sabi. Michelle: I love that. So, Ganbatte is the drive to do your best. Kaizen is the method of improving it daily. And Wabi Sabi is the grace to accept the beautifully imperfect result and start again tomorrow. Mark: You've just summarized the entire philosophy. It's a complete system for living and creating.

Michelle: It’s a framework for resilience that feels so much more sustainable than the Western "hustle culture" narrative. It’s not about these explosive, heroic bursts of effort that lead to burnout. It's about consistent, mindful pressure. Mark: And it's deeply practical. The book ends with "The Ten Ganbatte Rules," which are all about turning this philosophy into action. Things like "Fall forwards"—learn from your mistakes—and "Look at your feet and at the horizon at the same time"—balance daily tasks with your long-term vision. Michelle: I think my favorite might be "Rituals are more important than finishing lines." It brings it all back to the idea that the process, the daily effort, is where the real value lies. Mark: Absolutely. And the final rule is the most direct: "Start right now—Ganbatte!" This whole philosophy is about closing the gap between intention and action. Michelle: So, for our listeners, maybe the question to leave with isn't "What's my huge, life-changing goal?" but something much smaller. "What's the one small effort I can make today?" What's the first eye on your own Daruma doll that you can paint, right now? Mark: A perfect way to put it. It’s about taking that first step on the journey, and then the next, and the next. Michelle: This is Aibrary, signing off.