Another word for “I”?

You look at “己” and immediately feel that this is an unusual kanji. The line does not go straight—it returns. It curls, as if the hand, at the last moment, remembered with ambition that the hardest thing is not “to move forward,” but to be able to turn back: toward oneself, toward the source of intention, toward the place where a decision is born. That single, peculiar bend of the brush looks like a small definition of the human being: a creature capable of standing before itself, as if it had stepped out of its own skin for a moment and looked from the side. And you sense at once that this 己, this “I,” will not be something simple or uniform here—rather, it will be a movement of consciousness that sometimes draws gently near, and sometimes retreats with an unsettling distance.

Because “I” in Japanese wears many masks and garments: “watashi,” “boku,” “ore,” sometimes the cool “watakushi,” sometimes the archaic “ware.” Each of them is like a different coat, a different distance, a different tone toward the world. But 己 (“onore,” Polish: “siebie,” “oneself”) occupies a deeper and very particular place here, independent of honorific forms. 己 (onore) is an “I” that criticizes itself and is, at the same time, precisely that “self.” 己 is criticized—but who is doing the criticizing? The same curl of “己” returns once as an act of self-knowledge, once as violence.

Why, in the 21st century, do I propose again an attempt to understand an ancient sign? Because I believe that analyzing the sign 己 (onore) is not merely an aesthetic toy, but a mirror in which one can see the mechanism of everyday psychology. Japanese words for “self” (self) show that reflexivity is not only a grammatical “oneself,” but an ethical and psychological tool: we can “pull ourselves outward” and set ourselves before ourselves like a judge—in order to assess, admonish, punish, correct. Sometimes it saves: it allows us to reframe, regain distance, interrupt an impulse. Sometimes it destroys: it turns self-knowledge into self-flagellation, observation into a verdict, discipline into shame (Japanese culture knows both extremes all too well). The difference can be as small as a single brush-bend: from “I am like this” you move to “something is happening in me.” From “I am bad” to “something (what?) in me is boiling,” from “I am hopeless” to “something (what?) in me is weakening.” It is a trifle, but it makes a difference: you move from a sentence to a description of a phenomenon. A phenomenon can be observed and conclusions can be drawn. A sentence is only carried out. Today’s text is precisely about that: how, from one curled sign, to arrive at a sensitive, mature way of looking at oneself—without naïveté or indulgence—but also without contempt.

The mysterious “己” (onore)

“己”—an intriguing, very old kanji. There is neither a cross nor a simple “spine” in it, as in many basic signs. Instead there is a curl: a line that seems to return, to hold itself back, to make a hook, a bend, a loop. In handwriting this gesture becomes even more visible: “己” can look like a single quick brushstroke in which the hand turns back instead of going forward.

This curl has a very specific “biography” in the history of writing. In old records and manuscripts, characters lived in variants: they were shortened, fused, grew similar to their neighbors. “己” is one of the most famous examples of such neighborhood, because it stands in a triad of characters that people still confuse today (and not only foreigners): 己 / 已 / 巳. They differ by a tiny detail of opening and closing, by the direction of the curl, by the “breath” of the stroke. This is not merely a school problem in a kanji notebook. In Chinese tradition there is an old anecdote about a reading error that arose precisely from the similarity of these signs: someone reads a record of a military event and encounters the absurd phrase “three pigs crossed the river.” A scholar corrects him: not “three pigs,” but a date in the cycle of heavenly stems—己亥 (ji-hai)—because signs and numerals in ancient writing could resemble each other so closely that a single tilt of the brush turned a date into an animal. It is a splendid cold shower: the shape of a sign matters, but in itself it is not yet proof of meaning.

And yet that same fact—that “己” is easy to confuse, susceptible to variants—is also interesting. Because on the semantic level “己” touches what is most unstable: one’s “own person,” “oneself.” In the Chinese graphic tradition “己” also functions as an element of the system that orders time (one of the ten “heavenly stems”), and thus as a sign that can be a “bare symbol” in the writing of dates.

Even this already shows an ambiguity: the same graph can be a marker within a calendrical mechanism and, at the same time, a carrier of the meaning “I/self.” A sign that can serve for counting also serves to point to what is most “uncountable” in a human being.

In Japanese, “己” has the Sino-Japanese reading “ki,” and at the native level appears as “おのれ (onore)”—and here the truly interesting things begin. “Onore” belongs to the group of Japanese “self” words (alongside “自分,” “自身,” “自ら,” “我”): words that can function as markers of reflexivity, that is, indicate that an action “curls” back onto the doer. This matters, because Japanese has an exceptionally rich repertoire of such “self-pointing” forms and uses them not only for a simple “self,” but also to regulate perspective, distance, and responsibility.

What is most fascinating about “おのれ / 己” (onore), however, is that in living linguistic intuition this form has two poles that almost contradict each other. On the one hand there are archaic, bookish expressions with a clear ethical and self-disciplining shade—the classic example is “己を知れ / 己を知る” (“know yourself”). This is not an ordinary “understand yourself” in a soft, therapeutic sense. In this formula the “I” becomes an object of inspection: something in me is to look at me, assess me, recognize my measure. On the other hand, exactly the same “onore” can appear as an insult: “おのれ!”—in the simplest reception, something like “you bastard / you trash,” a word thrown with contempt, hard, short, without the protective covers of politeness. One “I/self” turns into a “you” uttered in a way meant to humiliate the addressee.

This is not a stylistic curiosity, but an important clue about the nature of “I” in language and about how Japanese positions the relation between “me” and “myself.” Research on the history of Japanese pronouns and address forms shows that some expressions can shift between persons (from “I” toward “you”), and “onore” is cited as one of the flagship examples of forms that participated in such shifts. In historical texts “onore” is used reflexively, but it can also function as a way of speaking to someone with explicit contempt—as if to say: “you are not a partner in dialogue; you are nothing.” The common denominator of both poles (self-knowledge and insult) is surprisingly the same: objectification. In “know yourself” you objectify yourself in order to correct yourself; in “onore!” you objectify another human being in order to humiliate him.

Here the shape of the sign returns to the game—not as “magic strokes,” but as an apt psycholinguistic observation. “己” looks like a movement that turns back. And “onore” in the language behaves like a movement that can turn back on the speaker (self-criticism, self-supervision, “know yourself”), or turn back on the interlocutor (contempt, attack). The same mechanism of reflexivity that grammar describes as the relation “X did something to himself,” in practice can become a tool of “X did something to someone by reducing him to an object.” That is precisely why, from one strangely curled sign, one can proceed step by step: from shape, through the history of notation and susceptibility to error, to the meanings of “one’s own person”—and from there to linguistic nuances, where “I” turns out to be something that does not always stand straight. If this sounds somewhat enigmatic—soon we will descend deeper into the meanings and explain it all in order.

The history of 己 (onore)

“己” is one of those signs whose history teaches humility: before it became a stable, textbook form, it functioned in a world of writing where variants were the norm and “correctness” in today’s sense was only being born. It is enough to recall the above story about three pigs. This is not a marginal curiosity: it shows how writing “worked” before standardization and why drawing conclusions “from shape” requires a cool and orderly method.

About the origin of the form “己” one can say a few certain things. It is certain that the sign belongs to a group of graphs that underwent a long evolution of shape in the history of writing: in different styles and eras, the line was more open, more closed, more “curled.” It is also certain that in handwritten practice such signs easily enter the zone of resemblance with other graphs (hence the aforementioned mistakes). But what is uncertain—and here fantasizing begins—is the exact “pictographic source” of this curl: whether it is a “twisted rope,” a “knot,” a “rolled-up shape of something material.” One may like these hypotheses because they are suggestive, but we must treat them as working metaphors, not as an etymological certainty.

Let us therefore consider one interpretation, remembering that there is no unambiguous proof that this hypothesis is true. “己” looks like a movement that turns back, but it is language that shows what this movement means for a human being. And language speaks here very precisely: “己” is not “ego” (understood as in the Western tradition—that is, a separate, self-subsistent core of the self), but a sign of “one’s own person”—self / oneself—something that very easily becomes an object of reference. It is an “I” one speaks about, assesses, disciplines, sets before oneself like a mirror.

In Japanese, this is best seen in how “己” (or rather the word associated with it: “おのれ” – “onore”) functions against the background of the whole family of “self” expressions. Research on reflexivity emphasizes that Japanese has an entire set of forms corresponding to English “-self”: 自分 (jibun), 自身 (jishin), 自ら (mizukara), おのれ／己 (onore), 我 (ware)—and that they can act as markers of actions directed “at oneself.” What is more, within the same logic, even words meaning body and mind can work this way, such as からだ (karada) or こころ (kokoro), when they describe an action turned toward one’s own person (this is very Japanese: “self” does not have to be a pronoun; sometimes it is “body” or “heart” in a grammatical function).

The most important concrete result of this is the distinction: “the speaking I” and “the I that is spoken about.” Japanese reflexive forms, in many analyses, are described through the prism of a division into “Subject” and “Self”—as if a person had within himself an “agent” and an “object of agency.” When you speak of an action directed toward yourself (“blame yourself,” “control yourself,” “know yourself”), you activate precisely this duality: someone in you acts on someone in you. “己” fits this logic perfectly, because semantically it is a sign of “oneself” as something that can be grasped in reference, not as pure, elusive “subjectivity.”

And here the philosophy of self-supervision begins—not as a slogan, but as a consequence of the structure of language. If “I” is naturally expressed as “self” (an object), it becomes easier to describe inner discipline: self-correction, inhibition, evaluation, shame, control. The “I” becomes something you can set opposite yourself and say: “that is you.” And when we add to this the fact that 己 (onore) can appear both in lofty, archaic formulas of self-knowledge and in aggressive “おのれ!” as a word of contempt—we obtain not a “mysticism of the sign,” but very concrete material: language shows that “self” can be both a tool of knowledge and a tool of violence (including the kind directed inward).

Two mechanisms: what language does with “I”

Japanese has an exceptional number of ways to say “this action returns to me,” but not all of them function in the same way. In some cases, reflexivity is “built into” the word/verb itself—as if language had already decided at the level of form that there are not two persons here, but one person in two roles. In others, reflexivity is “constructed”: only syntax and the choice of “self” elements (jibun, jiko, jishin) add to an event the instruction “agent = object.” Tōru Noguchi (a Japanese linguist at Ochanomizu University in Tokyo) shows this in a very concrete way, breaking Japanese “self” into mechanisms operating in different modules of grammar (for example, in his work “Two Types of Reflexivization in Japanese”).

1) Built-in (lexical) reflexivity: one “I” as agent and object at once

The чистest example is formations with the prefix ji- (自-), which can reflexivize the root already in the lexicon. The classic 自殺する (jisatsu suru – “to commit suicide”) is not the syntactic “kill + oneself”; here reflexivity is inscribed in the predicate itself: the subject argument is simultaneously the doer and the “target” of the act. Noguchi describes this as a situation in which one person is both the agent and the “addressee” of the act: one person carries two semantic functions within a single event.

This carries an important philosophical weight: “I” is not staged here as a dialogue of two parts (someone versus someone), but as a single field of responsibility. Such a record resembles a cool entry in a ledger: there is no theatrical “I against myself”; there is a fact: “I did it, and it affected me.” In the practice of self-cultivation culture (Confucian 修身 shūshin – “cultivating oneself,” the Buddhist discipline of practice, an ethos of self-control), this type of “built-in reflexivity” fits an approach in which one does not negotiate with oneself as with a stranger, but accepts that act and consequence return to the same center.

2) Constructed (syntactic) reflexivity: “I” must be added as a relation

The second type works differently: reflexivity does not consist here in “gluing” roles within a word, but in the fact that elements like jiko (自己-) and jishin (自身) enter the structure of the predicate as modifiers and only at the level of semantic interpretation impose the condition of identity (“it is the same person”). Noguchi illustrates this with pairs where jibun is an anaphor (“self” as reference indication), while jiko / jishin perform a reflexivizing function as part of a complex predicate (e.g., “criticize oneself”).

And here the “philosophy of division” begins: constructed reflexivity very easily activates a model in which a person is split into subject and self—“someone in us” (agent, manager) and “something in us” (object of correction, discipline, observation). Yukio Hirose (a linguist at the University of Tsukuba) describes this (for example, in: “Public and private self as two aspects of the speaker”) as a family of conceptual models based on the subject–self distinction: sometimes “self” is a “container” (body/heart), sometimes an “Other” (object), sometimes “contrastive self” (jishin), sometimes “ordinary self” (ware).

This is especially sharp in registers and lexical choices. おのれ (onore), described as an archaic-literary version of jibun, fits perfectly into the model of “self-as-someone-else”: one can “admonish oneself,” “conquer oneself,” “discipline oneself” — onore-o imasimeru, onore-ni katu, onore-de onore-o rissuru. The very construction onore-de onore-o… works like a double amplifier of agency: “I (as agent) with my own hands acts upon myself (as object).”

This is profoundly Japanese in flavor: reflexivity is not merely a “reflex of grammar,” but an ethical and social tool. In the tradition of self-control (from Confucian “correcting oneself” to Buddhist “guarding the mind”), what matters is precisely this ability to set oneself before oneself—as before a mirror or a judge. Language provides ready-made forms that perform this movement automatically: the subject “pulls” the self outward and can evaluate, admonish, punish it.

Consequence: “I” as agent vs. “I” as the object of discipline

Built-in reflexivity (ji-) suggests a coherence of responsibility, without division. Constructed reflexivity suggests “I as an internal relation”: someone in us acts on something in us—and precisely this becomes the groundwork for self-control, self-criticism, and work on oneself. From this perspective “己” ceases to be a “sign of ego” in the Western sense and begins to look like a sign of a mechanism: the curling of action toward oneself, which is sometimes a neutral fact and sometimes a moral movement of correction.

It is worth noticing that Japanese also has ready-made vocabulary for “modern” practices of self-analysis: 自己分析 (jiko-bunseki – self-analysis), 自己批判 (jiko-hihan – self-criticism)—here “self” is literally an intellectual tool, not only a grammatical one.

And when philosophical and psychological literature needs to name “ego” more directly, it even uses a separate term: 自我 (jiga)—a word clearly intended for discourse about “ego” as a construct.

From the point of view of a “philosophy of the self” in Japan, all of this coheres: “I” is less a “substance” and more an operation. Language shows that a person can be simultaneously the doer and the object of action—sometimes fused into one word, sometimes spread across a construction that almost forces an internal separation of roles. And precisely here the “bend” in the shape of “己” stops being decoration: it corresponds to what grammar does with the subject—it makes it turn back toward itself, sometimes impassively, sometimes with ethical pressure.

Lessons of “己”: a philosophy of the self drawn from form and use

We have made our way through some of the more difficult aspects of analyzing the sign 己 (onore), and now we are left to ask—what, from all this, follows for us?

The simplest thing that “己” teaches is profoundly Japanese and entirely non-Western: “I” does not have to be a hard core that “simply is.” In Japanese, “I” often behaves like an action—like a movement of consciousness that turns back and frames itself. Hirose shows that many Japanese “self” forms (jibun, onore, mizukara, ware, and even words like karada “body” and kokoro “heart/mind”) can be understood through the metaphor of a “divided person”: within a human being one can distinguish the subject (the one who acts/chooses) and the “self” (the one on whom the action falls, the one observed, the one led).

This is not pure theory. It explains why “I” in Japanese so easily becomes “self”—an object that can be examined, assessed, corrected.

The self as a turning movement.

In many European intuitions, self-knowledge is often an “insight”: I find some truth inside and draw it out. Japanese linguistic tools suggest something else: self-knowledge is rather a repositioning of perspective. Hirose reminds us that jibun does not begin as a typical “reflexive self”; its basis is logophoric and perspectival usage—it can indicate through whose eyes something is seen, who is the “subject of consciousness.”

From this ability the gesture of objectification is born: a person can “push” the self away from its own consciousness and look at itself as at a figure in a frame. Using jibun instead of a plain “I/you” creates an effect of monologue and distance, as if the speaker wanted to evoke self-reflection in the addressee.

“己を知る” (“to know oneself”) in this light stops sounding like a romantic invitation to “authenticity.” It becomes rather a technical instruction: shift the camera. Step out of the role of the one who merely experiences, step into the role of the observer. Turn back.

The self as an instrument of discipline.

When a language has ready mechanisms to turn “I” into “self,” discipline ceases to be something extraordinary; it becomes an ordinary operation performed on one’s own person. Hirose calls one of the basic models “self-as-someone-else” (in Hirose: “Self-as-Other”): the subject acts on its self as if it were someone else—objective, assessable, susceptible to admonition.

Here the sign “己” begins to acquire ethical sharpness. Because “self” can be admonished; it can be “conquered”; it can be “disciplined.” And it is precisely such archaic-literary formulas that Hirose invokes with “onore”: onore-ni katu (“to overcome oneself”), onore-o imasimeru (“to admonish oneself”), onore-de onore-o rissuru (“to discipline oneself by oneself”).

This matters, because it shows a traditional ideal of practice: a person does not so much “discover himself” as lead himself. In Japanese culture (from Confucian work on character to Buddhist vigilance of mind), what can be valued is not spontaneous “expression of ego,” but the ability to establish inner order: to call oneself back to the norm, regain perspective and distance toward one’s own person.

And when this practice enters modern discourse, Sino-Japanese compounds appear—cool, like a tool: 自己分析 (jiko bunseki) – self-analysis, 自己批判 (jiko hihan) – self-criticism. It is still the same movement: “I” becomes the object of work.

The self as a weapon: “onore!” and the mechanism of degradation.

Yet that same mechanism of objectification has a dark side. If language allows one to “pull the self outward” and treat it as an object, one can do this not only to oneself—one can do it to another. Using reflexives toward the addressee (instead of an ordinary “you”) can be rude, hard, degrading: because it suggests that the speaker has the right to objectify the other person and “set their thinking.”

“おのれ!” (“onore!”) operates precisely here: it is not a neutral “you.” It is a “you” uttered as if the interlocutor were to be reduced to something that can be inspected, turned over, analyzed, and subjected to criticism. Interestingly, even on the grammatical-social level, “onore” carries a trace of hierarchy: Hirose notes that onore does not combine with honorification the way jibun does—and connects this to an old shade of “humility” and the higher–lower relation that remains in this word like a shadow.

In practice, “onore!” is therefore violence of perspective: the speaker grants himself the right to look from above, to remove the other from an equal relation and lock him inside a label.

The self as relation: identity as a position in a situation.

In the end, a lesson perhaps most useful in contemporary life remains: the Japanese “I”—seen through “己” (onore) and its linguistic surroundings—is deeply situational. Hirose reminds us of something seemingly banal: Japanese does not have a single fixed equivalent of the English “I” for the “public self.” Instead, there is a whole set of “garments” (boku, watashi, ore, watakushi, titles, kinship terms), chosen according to relation and scene. And the “bare” core, the private “I” as the subject of consciousness, is often modeled precisely by jibun.

This changes the understanding of identity: not as a declaration (“who I am”), but as a position (“how I stand in this situation, in this relation, in this frame”). That is why “己” fits the image of movement so well. The self turns back because the social world forces corrections: sometimes you must return to yourself and restrain yourself; sometimes you must take away your own pride; sometimes you must cut off aggression before it becomes an “onore!” thrown blindly.

In this sense “己” teaches a practical way of looking: not “seek the true ego,” but observe what your self is doing. Does it turn back in order to understand itself—or in order to punish itself? Does it objectify in order to draw conclusions—or in order to trample someone? Japanese gives language for this: dense, precise, sometimes ruthless. One curled sign can become a lesson in ethics.

A practical translation into modern life

“己” (onore) stays in memory not because it is “pretty,” but because it is suspiciously true. It does not promise simplicity. It does not pretend that a human being is a line from point A to point B, or even a single, fixed point. It contains a curl: a movement that returns. In language this curl is even clearer—the self can step away from itself, look at itself from the side, criticize itself sharply, and sometimes—in the worst moment—speak to itself as to an enemy. And that is precisely why this lesson is useful today. It is not about admiration for a sign. It is about practice: recognizing why you turn back to yourself.

Below are three short linguistic exercises. They do not require knowledge of kanji or Japanese, although they come from Japanese self-development books. They may seem too harsh, especially by contemporary Western thought about being only “good” to oneself. And perhaps they are; nevertheless, it is worth looking—perhaps you will find something for yourself.

1) Catch the “onore!” inside you—the moment when you speak to yourself as to someone despised.

In Japanese, “おのれ!” (“onore!”) is an attack: a word that does not converse, but pushes the other into the role of an object. In Polish it has many equivalents, usually brutal and short: “idiot,” “moron,” “you cretin,” “what’s wrong with you,” and many others, more colorful. The most important thing is not what word is used, but what the psychic gesture is. “Onore!” is a gesture of degradation: in an instant you take away your own subjectivity and leave only the “guilty one.”

The exercise is simple: when you catch such a tone, do not try to “rewrite it positively” right away. Take a step earlier and name the movement: “‘onore-subject’ attacks the ‘self-object’.” This works because you do not enter the content of the judgment (“am I really…?”), but recognize the mechanism: in you a part appeared that wants to strike. And when you recognize the movement, you stop being identical with it. That alone can be a relief: aggression loses its absolute power, because it has been noticed. The mere observation of the mechanism makes the observer suddenly stand outside the arrangement, gains a broader perspective and distance—so essential when we demand discipline from ourselves or want to make an important decision.

2) Distinguish “knowing yourself” from “flogging yourself”—because both sound similar, yet lead to different places.

“己を知る” (“to know oneself”) is sometimes confused with self-criticism (indeed, more in Japan than in Europe), because both require looking at oneself from a distance. The problem is that distance can be a tool of clarity or a tool of cruelty.

The difference is practical and very concrete:

Knowing yourself gives information that enables change (“when I am tired, I become violent,” “under tension I flee into control,” “shame triggers an attack in me”).

Flogging yourself gives a verdict that blocks change (“I am hopeless,” “I always ruin things,” “that’s just how I am”).

Exercise: replace “I am…” with “something is happening in me…”. Instead of “I am weak,” try “something (what?) in me is weakening” or “something (what?) in me wants to give up.” Instead of “I am angry”—“something (what?) in me is swelling / tempts me.” It is a trifle, but it makes a difference: you move from a verdict to a description of a phenomenon. A phenomenon can be observed. A verdict is only carried out.

3) Learn distance without contempt: the observer does not have to be a judge.

Japanese words for “self” (self) teach that a person can stand before himself as before an object. This can be a source of self-discipline—but it can also become a factory of shame. The most mature version of distance is neither cold nor moralizing. It is precise.

How can this be used? For example—once a day, name one inner event without evaluation. “Something turns back in me,” something (what?) “stiffens in me,” “wants to flee,” “defends itself,” “observes.” Only that. Without “this is bad,” without “this is good.” This practice is surprisingly demanding, because our “self” likes to attach a label immediately. But it is precisely here that maturity is born: to be able to see what is happening before you issue a verdict. And not to issue that verdict. To leave observation without judgment. Very unintuitive, but sometimes astonishingly liberating.

A final note. Someone may think: “a game of words.” Yes, it is a game of words—but with the awareness that language is one of the most important factors shaping our world (or our seeing of it). 己 (onore) is a shift of perspective that affects what we do afterward: whether we go into self-aggression or correction; whether we degrade ourselves or try to understand; whether shame paralyzes us or informs us.

In the end, 己 (onore) returns as a reminder: not everything must be straightened out. Contemporary culture is obsessed with simple narratives—“be yourself,” “love yourself,” “fix yourself,” “work on yourself.” But a human being is not a project to be polished. He is a living, changeable structure in which, at times, an observer appears; at times, a judge; at times, a defender; at times, an aggressor. Our bent sign 己 (onore) does not say: “straighten up.” Rather: see where you turn back—and why. Because sometimes you turn back to return to yourself. Sometimes to punish yourself. Sometimes to flee responsibility. Sometimes to strike someone, because inside there is fear.

The most important lesson is therefore simple and severe: the “self” is not a thing you possess. The “self” is a movement you perform. And maturity consists in seeing that movement—and gently steering it.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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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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