A stolen concept

“Seishin” is one of those Japanese concepts that today are… simply dirty. It began in the age of great samurai wars—bright, clear, clean. But as the years passed and more hands kept touching it—the state and the military, school indoctrination, corporate propaganda—each of these institutions appended its own agenda to it and sold its own values disguised under this slogan. In ordinary speech it can sound like a compliment (“you’ve got spirit”), and in practice like a muzzle (“hold out a little longer”). So today’s article will not be a hymn in praise of “unbreakability”—rather, an attempt at an honest distinction: when seishin is the craft of living, and when it becomes an elegant form of violence.

Let us begin with a simple fact that is already visible in the characters: 精神. 精 (sei/sei) is essence—something that, through work, can be brought to clarity; something sharpened like steel, but not vulgar in its force. 神 (shin/kami), in turn, is the sphere of “spirit”: originally numinous, later also psychological—the same character that appears in words about the sacred and in the language of psychiatry. And it is precisely in this tension—between the shrine and the doctor’s office, between ritual and the nervous system—that the entire history of seishin is hidden: a concept that could mean calm lucidity and inner order, and over time became the perfect material for a slogan. A slogan that can be sung in a classroom, repeated in barracks, written on a headband worn by a kid being sent to his death (kamikaze), and later—inscribed into work culture so that overload and unpaid overtime look like virtue.

We see this with particular sharpness when we set the seishin of samurai war against the seishin of modern war. There, in Kamakura and Sengoku, “spirit” was above all a technique of sobriety: training, discipline, concentration, taming fear—the core that lets you act without panic, not a beautiful legend about dying. In the twentieth century, however, the state learned to pronounce the same word so that spirit became fuel: “mobilization,” “upbringing,” “purification”—so that the young and naïve would smile as they gave up their lives in the name of ideas that the older and cleverer had earlier named “duty.” Today we will try to take one step back: to cut ourselves off from military barracks, imperialist hymns, and the corporate open space; to strip seishin of all accretions and reach its cleaner beginnings—to seishin as clarity, self-development, and stubbornness that serves life, not other people’s interests.

Three worlds — one spirit: seishin

Sengoku

16th century

Dawn has the color of ash. In the war camp we are not awakened by the sun, but by movement: the clank of iron, the crunch of sandals on frozen ground, the hiss of a hearth being coaxed to life with difficulty. Someone tightens a bandage around a forearm; someone checks a bowstring; someone else turns a yari in his hands as if the sheer repetitiveness of the motion could give a man certainty that he will see tomorrow.

The body is “equipment”: aching from armor, from marching, from vigil, from fear that one is not allowed to name. And yet, in the very middle of this chaos, something is born that will later be called seishin—not romantic courage, but the cool ability to hold a line when everything in you screams to run. A “core” built more of solid discipline than of easily ignited heroism: inhale, exhale, step, another step; obedience to signals, rituals, hierarchy, because they save lives.

Only already here the first crack is visible: when spirit becomes not so much strength as compulsion, contempt for weakness appears—other people’s and one’s own. And then seishin begins to resemble cold steel: a tool of survival, but also a tool with which you can cut the human being out of yourself. It is worth remembering this, because even the “samurai ethos” was not an eternal doctrine—rather a later story from times of peace, which likes to smooth over the truly real, very fluid morality of war.

Edo

19th century

Whole generations have passed, but that same “spirit,” seishin, still endures—though it no longer smells of gunpowder and blood, but of wood, rice, soy sauce, the smoke of oil lamps, and hot water in a sentō. The city is dense with signs, voices, imposed roles. In a shop the apprentice (deshi) rises earlier than the customers, because first you must open the doors, sweep the threshold, pour the tea, arrange the goods so that the order is “proper”—aesthetics as discipline.

In the daytime a thousand tiny gestures repeat: a bow a millimeter too deep, a word half a tone too sharp. Here seishin ceases to be the wartime “holding the line” and becomes the bourgeois “holding form”: self-control, patience, the art of surviving in the eyes of others. It is a spirit that can swallow frustration because seken (the world, opinion, people) is watching. It can avoid bringing shame on the household, the workshop, the guild; it can play out the tension between giri (duty) and ninjō (feeling), between what is private and what must remain in shadow.

And again: this can be beautiful—because in this version seishin is a culture of everyday life, a subtle ethics of coexistence. But it can also be stifling when “spirit” means above all not causing trouble; not showing your feelings outwardly; holding pain under the kimono like a carefully folded letter.

Osaka

21st century

Now spirit wears a different uniform: an ID badge on a lanyard, a suit, headphones in the subway, a konbini with neon on the corner where you buy canned coffee and a “stamina drink,” because it is faster that way. Morning begins not with a military command or a shop ritual, but with a train that arrives punctually to the second, and the absolute silence of elevators in which no one speaks, because everything has its place—even silence.

You work in a team, but rivalry is built into the arrangement: informal, unnamed, “friendly”—until it touches the annual evaluation. Here seishin is loyalty and devotion: you stay at your desk a little longer not because you have to, but so it can be seen that you want to; so that “spirit” is legible. And it is precisely here that the myth becomes most dangerous, because overload can look like virtue.

Someone leaves home at seven in the morning and comes back after eleven at night. And so it goes 6 days a week. 12 months a year. Several decades in a life. This mode of life even has its colloquial name: “Seven-Eleven.”

Someone else works “officially” within the norms, and “unofficially” closes tasks in service overtime—overtime without pay, which does not spoil statistics and does not make noise. At a certain point this is no longer perseverance, but a quiet contract with one’s own nervous system: “one more week, one more project, one more quarterly close.” And the body, as always, is the last one allowed to speak.

And then seishin—once associated with fortitude—begins to resemble slow self-harm. The graph of this active productivity can end in several scenarios: burnout (and alcoholism). Childlessness (and loneliness). Lack of passion (the emptiness of life). Karōshi (death from overwork). “Strength of spirit” thus has a double face: it can keep a person moving and held together—but it can also keep him going for too long.

What are we really fighting for when we say “seishin”?

When the word seishin (精神) appears in a Japanese sentence, the Western reflex is often too quick: “spirit,” “morale,” “psyche,” “willpower.” Meanwhile, seishin is like a railway switch that can shift the track in two directions at once. On one side it leads to genuine work on oneself, to calming the heart in a boundary situation, to the ability to endure pain, fear, and chaos without falling apart inside. On the other, it can be the language of institutions: a beautiful, noble-sounding command meant to make a person “function” even when his body and psyche have long been asking for a break.

In this sense seishin is neither romantic “strength of spirit” nor simply resilience from a psychology textbook. It is rather a binding agent: a bridge between what is internal and what is social—between experience and obligation. And that is why the guiding question of today’s text is, in my view, crucial: where does noble discipline end, and where does self-destruction begin? In Japan this boundary can be “aesthetically blurred,” because the culture has an exceptional talent for giving pressure a beautiful form: ritual, etiquette, silence, a smile, “saving face,” an elevated slogan. Other cultures do this too, of course, and the West of the twenty-first century and Generation Z raised on social media is a particularly vivid example of it. Nevertheless, Japanese culture seems to have an unusually large number of tools for exerting pressure on the individual in this respect.

But first: let us begin, as always, with the characters, because they usually contain the first clues.

Seishin (精神) consists of two kanji: 精 and 神. The first character, 精 (sei/sei), carries the sense of cleansing, refining, condensing what is purest—not “power,” but essence: something separated from cloudy suspension and brought to clarity. In the classical construction of the character we have 米 (rice) as the material that undergoes processing, and a phonetic element indicating the sound (in practice: this character has long revolved around the semantics of “purity/excellence/precision”).

The second character, 神 (shin/kami), is a different atmosphere: the sphere of the sacred—kami, that which is “divine,” “numinous” (primordial, qualitatively distinct from everything else), but also in later epochs: “psychic,” “mental,” “nervous.” As a result, seishin is tension in a capsule: “purified essence” + “that which is divine/psychic.” And this tension—between the shrine and the psychiatrist’s office—is not a translator’s invention, but a real history of meanings, because Japanese uses 精神 (seishin) both in a metaphysical direction and in a modern medical one: 精神科 (psychiatry), 精神病 (mental illness). It is the same root of the word, only a different perspective of the age.

Here it is worth taking a step sideways and seeing what seishin is not—or rather: what it is, but in a different register. Japanese has many words for the “inside,” but each touches a different organ of culture.

Kokoro (心) is the heart-mind, the center of emotions and intentions, more “human” and intimate; the word used for empathy, shame, gratitude, melancholy, for warm sensitivity. Ki (気) is mood, energy, the “air” of a situation and a relationship—what circulates between people and fills a space, which is why one can “read ki” (空気を読む) (more about this character in a separate article here: The Kanji 気 (Ki) – What Can We Learn from the Japanese Concept of Energy in Human Relationships?). Tamashii (魂) and rei (霊) go closer to “soul” and “spirit” in the religious sense, with the shadow of the world of the dead, ancestors, apparitions, protective forces. Against this background, seishin is more “hard” and abstract: less about a tear in the eye, more about the axis of the spine. And that is precisely why it is so easy to harness for upbringing, training, mobilization. Seishin is not a religious concept; it is more like psychology.

Alongside seishin stand words from the family of endurance: gaman (我慢)—bearing, enduring, often in silence; nintai (忍耐)—patient resilience; konjō (根性)—the “root of character,” stubbornness, sometimes brutal toughness. The difference is subtle but important: gaman and nintai describe an attitude toward difficulty; konjō sounds like a muscle that can be “sculpted”; while seishin is often presented as something you must “forge” in yourself so that it becomes identity—a “core,” not merely behavior.

And here we arrive at a key linguistic observation that in Japan works almost automatically: seishin likes to combine into slogans. Compounds arise that sound pure and noble, and in practice can function like an order. Not “do,” but “be”: train the spirit, cultivate the spirit, mobilize the spirit. In materials about interwar programs of “shaping the human being,” one can see how easily spirit becomes a political and institutional project—and how readily it joins practices of “purification” and “hardening” meant to transform the individual’s identity. In descriptions of the modern revival of misogi (禊)—cold ablutions as “purification of body and mind”—it is clear that from the end of the 1930s the state and patriotic organizations supported campaigns of identity “cultivation,” and misogi could be pulled into training and educational programs.

This is not a trivial detail: in these programs spirit is not private meditation. It is a tool of forming.

In one description of misogi training there appear sets of exercises and practices (the “rowing” movements torifune, “soul trembling” furutama, “male shouts” otakebi, breathing techniques ibuki), recitations of the Great Purification Prayer and—significantly—adding to the practice printed texts with imperial poetry and edicts (e.g., the “Imperial Rescript on Education”), and the whole is to be supported by lectures.

This is no longer “taking care of yourself.” It is “producing a certain type of person.”

In parallel, in modern Japanese education, the same logic can be served in a soft and beautiful form—in songs, in rhythm, in school singing. Analyses of school songbooks show how easily the language of the sacred and loyalty enters a child’s throat: phrases about venerating the emperor “like a god” and “like a parent,” readiness to “forget oneself and one’s family” for his good—dressed in a short, melodic first-person form that naturally builds identification (as was the case with kids sent by the imperial government on a mission to kill themselves, the so-called “kami-kaze” (divine wind)—you will read about it, along with translations of their personal letters, here: Kamikaze – Two Divine Typhoons of Life, One Grim Wind of Death).

At this point “spirit” ceases to be exclusively a personal virtue: it becomes an aesthetics of obedience.

And now a leap to a world where—seemingly—there is no longer either shrine purification or imperial songs in the classroom. There is a company, a subway, email, open space. And suddenly it turns out that the mechanism is surprisingly similar: there is also an idea that a “good person” must demonstrate seishin. Only instead of war and piety—there is productivity, loyalty, and “not burdening the team with one’s imperfections.”

The case of karōshi (過労死)—death from overwork—shows this brutally in numbers. In 1990 the estimated “real” working hours in Japan were 2124 hours per year, clearly more than in many countries of Western Europe.

The author also describes the phenomenon of service overtime—“service” (“gratis”) overtime, unpaid, which lowers official statistics; based on studies and interviews, an average of about 350 hours of such overtime per year is estimated, and for adult men “real” working hours can rise to about 2600 per year. When we move closer to assistant and manager positions—these numbers grow to frankly staggering magnitudes.

The saddest “detail” of contemporary life: the “Seven-Eleven” lifestyle—leaving home at 7:00, returning after 23:00—supported by long commutes in expensive metropolises.

There are no official government statistics on karōshi, and the term functions widely in part thanks to a network of lawyers (“Karoshi Hotline Network”). Their estimates speak of about 10,000 victims per year, and consultation data show that cases concern various professions—from drivers and laborers to civil servants, teachers, bankers, managers.

This is the moment when seishin—understood as “endure no matter what”—reveals its shadow: virtue begins to resemble slow self-destruction, only socially rewarded.

Therefore, at the very heart of our definition, the paradox must fit: seishin is simultaneously the language of self-improvement and the language of disciplining. It is a core that can be salvation—and a core that can be a mechanism of violence when someone (the state, the school, the company, and sometimes one’s own internal “supervisor’s voice”) makes it the only measure of a person’s value.

And finally—one more perspective, more philosophical, yet very Japanese in spirit: in reflections on the “Japanese spirit” (Nihon seishin), Watsuji Tetsurō (a Japanese philosopher of ethics and the history of ideas of the twentieth century) advances the thought of the layeredness of culture (重層性)—that old layers live in new ones even when they are “negated,” and that Japan has a special ability to assimilate the new without completely expelling the old.

This may be our key to the “aesthetic blurring” of the boundary: a modern company does not have to speak the language of shrine or barracks to inherit their logic. It is enough that it takes over the structure: the ideal of a person who surpasses himself, and a community that rewards that ideal—until the moment when it begins to destroy those who try to live up to it.

So if we ask: “what is seishin?”, the most honest answer is: it is not one concept, but a field of forces. A space where ascetic purification and modern psychiatry meet, samurai calm in the face of death and the corporate smile after the fourth sleepless night, private discipline and public compulsion.

The history of seishin

“Seishin” is not born in Japan as a slogan. First it is a philosophical conception that arrived from the continent: 精 as “purified essence,” 神 as “that which animates, divine, psychic”—and together as something that can be cultivated, strengthened, but also… worked like metal. In the classical Chinese understanding (read: Jīngshén) medicine and philosophy resonate: work on vitality, clarity of mind, on the “light inside” that is not theatrical courage but the ability to endure soberly. When this word enters Japanese circulation, it long remains polysemous: at times closer to discipline of the heart, at times closer to the religious “core” of the community, and at times—in modernity—to the language of psychology and institutions.

The bridge to modernity is built when “spirit” ceases to be solely a personal trait and begins to mean a social project. In the Meiji era you can see this already in the very slogans to which “spirit” is pinned as part of the modernization program: wakon yōsai (“Japanese spirit, Western technique”) and its older echo wakon kansai (“Japanese spirit, Chinese learning”) show the logic: import tools, but keep the core of identity “at home.”

And here something important begins: “seishin” becomes a currency that the state and elites can mint into their own coin—sometimes as a promise of agency, at other times as a tool for shaping the “proper” person.

For if the human being in Japan is often described as a creature “in-between”—in relationships, obligations, in a network of giri and uchi/soto—then “spirit” is not solitary. The aforementioned philosopher Watsuji, when he writes of the “Japanese spirit,” can shift the weight from the individual to the community in a nearly hypnotic way: he speaks of “national self-awareness” (kokumin jikaku) that hovers above individuals like a general will, and his conceptual apparatus (“aidagara”—“between-people,” fūdo, the social world) is an attempt to grasp ethics as something that happens in the space of relations, not in a vacuum. This can be wise—because it reminds us that character is tempered in the world, not in a solitary tower—but it can also easily tilt in a totalizing direction: the “spirit” of the community begins to demand of the individual more than he can carry.

And it is precisely then that “seishin” can move from training to ideology. In the war years we see this in almost laboratory form: programs of “spiritual training” (rensei/kunren) within the Total National Spiritual Mobilization Movement (Kokumin Seishin Sōdōin Undō)—a campaign meant to sustain support for a long war through training the “spirit,” not only the body. Misogi, waterfall, camp, rhythm, effort: tools that on a micro scale can be a practice of purification and self-knowledge, on a macro scale become a technology of mobilization. Added to this is the school—and here it becomes even subtler, because violence arrives in the guise of melody, ritual, “nice form”: textbooks, guidelines, songs, ceremonies are meant to “support the healthy physical and spiritual development of children” in imperial Japan, but at the same time they systemically shape obedience, emotional unity, and readiness for sacrifice. This is the moment when the boundary begins to be “aesthetically blurred”: you do not shout the command—you sing it.

In the background of the same modernity, the “samurai myth” is being written in—and here it is worth being ruthlessly honest, because what pop culture sells as an ancient code is often a product of late modernity. Bushidō as a universal, formalized “code of honor” is, in fact, late—more widely recognized only from the end of the nineteenth century and especially after 1900, and its boom is connected with modernization and the need for a new identity narrative.

Then this language becomes convenient: it gives the state and institutions a ready idiom of loyalty, duty, honor, “beautiful death”; it joins with Yamato-damashii and is sometimes set up as the “natural” inclination of the nation toward sacrifice. And it is not that in Japan’s history there were no real practices of discipline, fear, hierarchy, and taming death—there were, and they could be extraordinarily demanding. The point is that modernity likes to translate these practices into the language of collective virtue: in this way private work on oneself is remade into public obligation, and “spirit”—into an administrative tool.

What follows from this for us, who do not intend (hopefully) to fall into self-destruction in the name of someone else’s agenda? Two things. First: reclaiming “seishin” requires distinguishing the inner core from the communal demand. The core tastes of clarity: the ability to act despite fear, but without contempt for one’s own body; the ability to endure, but without denying limits; discipline that sustains life, rather than sucking it dry. Second: mature “seishin” is not a solitary muscle—it is relational, but not total. If Watsuji teaches that a person happens “in-between,” then let us add the necessary thing: precisely for that reason, the purest form of strength of spirit should be able to say “enough” also in the name of relations—because a destroyed person will sustain no world, even the one that calls him “brave.”

But let us pause here for a moment. Let us try to reclaim the concept of “seishin” in its cleaner form. Let us cut ourselves off, already today, from imperialism and from corporations. Let us go back in time.

Seishin in its original form

Before the state discovered that “spirit” could be turned into a tool of mobilization, seishin was something far more intimate and—paradoxically—less pathetic. It was not about grand slogans, but about an inner quality of a person, one that can be sensed by the way he breathes, by how he bears discomfort, how he returns to difficult things without a theatrical gesture, how he can hold a course when no one is watching. If today the phrase “strength of spirit” is sometimes used like a stick (“hold out a little longer”), then in its cleaner form seishin is rather clarity: a state in which you know what you are doing, why you are doing it, and you can neither flee discomfort nor mistake suffering for virtue.

In this sense, the lineage of seishin is less “martial” than pop-cultural preachers would like, and more philosophical and practical. The same characters (精神) originally carried meanings connected with the vitality of the mind, clarity, and “spirit” as something that can be strong or dimmed—and thus something to be cultivated, ordered, stabilized. On one side a “spiritual-psychic core,” on the other something that can be “worked out” like a form in one’s hands. And here we return to the characters themselves: 精 is not “strength” in the sense of brute power, but “essence”—something purified, brought to clarity; 神 is an animating sphere: divine. Together this yields a concept that from the beginning contains two orders: experience and discipline, an “inner flame” and an “inner order.”

The purest form of seishin, however, grows not from definitions but from practices of self-cultivation: from what in Japan long existed under different names and in different milieus—ascetic, religious, craft, later also educational. Take, for instance, misogi (禊)—a ritual/practice of purification through cold water. Before it became an element of modern programs of “hardening the spirit,” it was simply a method of purifying body and mind: dousing oneself with icy water, entering a river, standing under a waterfall, praying—sometimes in Shintō, sometimes in Buddhism, sometimes in shugendō, and sometimes as a folk practice, without an elaborate doctrine. Importantly: in misogi’s very core there is no single, eternal ideology—there is the idea of purification, and the “meaning” was added depending on the milieu, prayers, and additional exercises.

And this is a great metaphor for “pure seishin”: not a dogma, but a method of ordering oneself. Misogi can have deep meaning even if we remove the entire institutional (religious or state) casing.

Psychologically it looks like this: a person stands face to face with a stimulus that is real and extremely unpleasant (cold, muscle pain, fatigue, shame, fear), and learns three things at once. First: regulation—of breath, attention, tension. Second: discrimination—what is the body’s alarm signal and what is ordinary resistance to effort. Third: meaning—because mere toughness means nothing if there is no direction. In this third point lies the essence: seishin is not the art of “suffering for the sake of suffering,” but the ability to remain with one’s choice in the presence of discomfort. And that is why seishin in its pure version can be inspiring: it is a promise that a person can have within himself something more stable than the mood of the day.

This is important because Japan has a special kind of “toughness” that is sometimes mistaken for maturity: gaman (我慢), nintai (忍耐), konjō (根性). These words smell of endurance, gritted teeth, “doing what must be done.” And they have their value—as long as they serve life. But “pure seishin” stands half a step deeper: it does not only say “endure,” it asks: why are you enduring, what are you enduring, and is it truly your choice? It is a subtle difference, and at the same time the boundary between self-development and self-compulsion.

In older practices—before the machinery of the state entered the picture—seishin was therefore something like an inner quality. A craft. An art. A life. The fact that every day you return to form: in archery, in the sword, in calligraphy, in prayer, in work, in mastering language, in service, in relation to others. But you return not in order to serve other people’s values, but to sharpen yourself in what you have consciously recognized as most important for yourself: like steel that must be springy, not brittle. And that is why, in its mature version, seishin also contains something that can be unintuitive for the contemporary “cult of toughness”: the ability to let go in time. Not from laziness. From wisdom. From care for the continuity of the path.

Blade and hammer

When we think of seishin in the world of medieval samurai Japan (Kamakura to Sengoku), it is worth pushing aside the ready-made images from cinema. In those epochs, “seishin” was a technique of survival: the ability to enter action without falling to pieces. It was born from a rhythm that daily honed a person like steel—from the repetitiveness of training with bow, spear, sword; from accustoming the body to pain and discomfort; from being “in form” even when a murderous march lasted whole months full of cold, disease, and hunger.

It was pragmatic: on the battlefield what counted were decisions that were quick and clean, not emotional fireworks. That is why samurai seishin contained coolness: control of expression, brevity, the ability to keep one’s face, because face is not only reputation—it is the stability of the clan, the trust of the troop, predictability in chaos. Here Zen was not what it is in twentieth-century California; it was not romantic “Eastern wisdom,” but a daily exercise in concentration: quiet the mind’s chatter, do not attach emotions to outcomes, return to the moment, to the breath, to the movement. This was a world where there was always a real threat that the present moment was the last one. That certainly changes perspective.

In that older version of seishin there is an important lesson: sobriety of assessment. It is not about “not feeling”—it is about not letting emotion seize the helm. Seishin was therefore something like an inner compass and a brake at the same time: it held direction, but it did not allow panic. At the same time it had its shadow: in conditions of war it is easy to mistake fortitude for cruelty. In a world where death is a daily possibility, discipline can be salvation—but just as easily becomes an excuse for bestiality, for contempt toward weakness, for inner petrification.

When later, in modernity, the state and the imperial army began to speak of seishin as an advantage, a shift occurred—almost unnoticed at the time, yet from the perspective of time obvious and fundamental: spirit ceased to be the practice of an individual and became the doctrine of a collectivity. Where previously it had been about clarity of decision, sober assessment, concentration on a task, and taming fear, modern war began to demand that “spirit” be fuel for the mass—that endurance should know no limit, and sacrifice should sound like a moral obligation.

And here we return to our most important boundary: seishin is mature when it sustains life and meaning; it becomes dangerous when it demands that meaning be replaced by suffering itself. Especially dangerous when the true justification of that suffering is hidden (In the name of what am I bearing this? Who benefits from it? Who “sold” me these values?)

If we want to reclaim something truly valuable from this history, it is not the “myth of unbreakability,” but an old, practical lesson: spirit is meant to be a precise blade of awareness, not a blunt hammer striking blindly.

>> CZYTAJ DALEJ:

Fūryū. Listening to How the World Blows.

Kan’nen – how shockingly foreign to us is the samurai view of life?

How to understand the kanji 縁 (en) — a knot in the thread of fate that connects us, or binds us

Work Culture in Japan - Toxic Relationships, Karoshi, or Death from Overwork, and the 16-Hour Workday

Kajiya – the Life and Work of Rural Blacksmiths in Medieval Japan

"Strong Japanese Women"

see book by the author

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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