From The Hagakure (the book of the samurai), by Yamamoto Tsunetomo:

Reprimanding people and correcting their faults is important; it is actually an act of charity—the first requirement of a samurai service.

One must take pains to do it in the proper way. It is an easy matter to find strong points and shortcomings in another man’s conduct; it is equally easy to criticize them. Most people seem to believe it is a kindness to tell people things they do not want to hear, and if their criticisms are not taken to heart, well, then nothing more can be done.

Such an approach is totally without merit. It produces results no better than if one had set out willfully to insult and embarrass the man. It is simply a way of getting things off one’s chest.

Criticism must begin after one has discerned whether or not the person will accept it, after one has become his friend, shared his interests, and behaved in such a way as to earn his complete trust so that he will put faith in whatever one says.

And then there is the matter of tact: one must devise the proper way to say it, and the proper moment—perhaps in a letter, perhaps on the way home from a pleasant gathering. One might start by describing one’s own failures, and make him see what one is getting at without a word more than is necessary. First one praises his strengths, taking pains to encourage him and put him in the right mood, make him as receptive to one’s words as a thirsty man is to water. Then correct his faults.

To criticize well is extremely difficult.

This excerpt appears in Yukio Mishima’s Commentary on the Hagakure, translated by Kathryn Sparling. Mishima may have been off his rocker (more on that in a minute), but his insights into the samurai ethos still pack a punch. Here is a free translation of selected passages.

What I love about this passage is how much it clashes with the Western idea of “tough love.” We’ve all heard someone say, “I’m just being honest,” or “Someone had to say it,” as if delivering unsolicited criticism is an act of courage or moral superiority. But Tsunetomo flips that script: criticism, he says, is not for venting or ego — it’s for service. It’s for helping someone grow. That’s the point. And if that isn’t your goal, then shut up.

The idea that “criticism must begin after one has discerned whether or not the person will accept it” is not just kind — it’s strategic. It means knowing your target. It means caring more about their transformation than your expression. Most people skip this part entirely. They shoot first, then get frustrated when the other person doesn’t “take it well.”

Tsunetomo, writing in the early 1700s, understood something that most modern-day Twitter users have not yet grasped: correction without connection is just performance.

And the deeper challenge, according to him, lies in the timing, the tone, the trust. “Perhaps in a letter. Perhaps on the way home from a pleasant gathering.” He’s basically saying: don’t unload your criticism mid-battle. Wait till your friend’s had a drink, is slightly relaxed, and isn’t expecting a sneak attack. Drop it gently, wrapped in vulnerability.

Even better, start with your own failings. Show that you’re not above the fray. Create a shared sense of struggle. Because only then can your words be received as help, not as judgment.

This kind of humility and care is not common in samurai imagery, at least not the pop version we’ve inherited in the West. But it’s not really present in the traditional image in Japan either. The common people didn’t revere the samurai; they resented them. We forget that the samurai were the upper class, often entitled, violent, and corrupt. Before modern films started turning them into tragic heroes or stoic philosophers, they were more likely to be the butt of a joke or the object of scorn.

It wasn’t until Kurosawa and his imitators came along that the samurai started morphing into a kind of warrior-saint archetype: noble, self-sacrificing, impossibly skilled.

But The Hagakure gives us a different image: not a superhero, but a servant. A man bound to duty and refinement, even in something as delicate as pointing out another man’s flaws. The book isn’t about badass sword moves. It’s about service, loyalty, and self-mastery. And Mishima was obsessed with it. He even wrote:

If the Hagakure were reduced to one line, it would be, "Live as though already dead.”[1]

Which is to say, live without fear of shame or consequence. But also, paradoxically, live with the greatest care for the dignity of others. That’s the tension of the samurai code.

Mishima published his Commentary on the Hagakure in 1967, just a few years before his infamous death. If you don’t know the story, here’s the quick version: he formed a right-wing militia, tried to inspire a coup to restore imperial power to the emperor, failed miserably, and then committed ritual suicide by seppuku in front of a crowd of stunned journalists and soldiers[2]. It was dramatic. It was violent. And it was (in his mind) a final attempt to fuse word and action, art and life.

He wrote great novels. The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, Confessions of a Mask, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea; they’re all sharp, twisted, and darkly beautiful. But his commentary on The Hagakure reveals a different side: one that sought discipline, tradition, and honor in a postwar Japan he found hollow.

And that’s where this passage on criticism lands for me. It’s not about avoiding conflict. It’s about committing to it deeply enough to do it right. Not to “win,” but to help the other person become better.

Still as relevant as ever.

❦

David is an American teacher and translator lost in Japan, trying to capture the beauty of this country one photo at a time and searching for the perfect haiku. He blogs here and at laspina.org. Write him on Bluesky. 【Support @dbooster with Hive SBI】