“Five tones of scent, like five footsteps of the enemy.”

I know—if I use the expression “the scent of a warrior,” I risk ridicule and evoking associations with a bad perfume advertisement. So be it—every era has its own symbolic language, and ours happens to use such symbols. But it wasn’t always this way, nor everywhere. There was a time—the time of bloody samurai wars in the Kamakura and Muromachi periods of Japan—when scent was a philosophy: a deep emotion, a sharpening of the senses, a presence in the here and now—in moments that all too often turned out to be the samurai’s last. In feudal Japan, especially during the war-torn Sengoku era, fragrance was neither a luxury nor an accessory—it was a ritual. Something between a prayer and a sword—not less important than the tachi blade a warrior unsheathed at dawn. Let us take a look...

Even before the first light pierces through the morning mists, the samurai sits motionless in seiza position in a cramped room, his yoroi armor laid out carefully by his side: dō, sode, kabuto, kote. He hasn’t spoken a word since waking. Instead of a prayer—incense. In a ceramic vessel, charcoal glows, and on a metal plate a fragment of jinkō (aloeswood) slowly warms. It’s not about the smoke, but the scent. He practices monkō—“listening to fragrance.” The scent unfolds slowly, in layers—first an earthy note, then something like the dryness of an old library, then—unexpectedly—a honeyed softness and a shadow of cinnamon. This is an experience more meditative than sensual. His breath becomes calm, rhythmic. Thoughts sharper, more focused. He knows this may be the last time he will smell sandalwood and the coniferous freshness of hinoki. He meditates not for comfort—but so as not to fear the death that may soon come.

In a samurai’s upbringing, scent was part of discipline. In warrior households, kumikō—fragrance games—were held, not for pleasure, but to train nuance discernment, memory, concentration, and sensitivity to the subtle. It was not aristocratic entertainment—it was a mental sparring. “He who discerns five tones of incense will also recognize five footsteps of the enemy,” was said in martial schools. Fragrant compositions made from jinkō, byakudan, and hinoki were sometimes passed down in certain families like strategic secrets—like the clan katana. Such an aroma was like a signature of the soul—unique, meaningful, tied to the honor of the clan. Fragrance, perhaps even more than the cherry blossom, reflected the essence of a samurai’s life through its evanescence and elusiveness. A samurai trained to live every moment of his life with full, acute awareness that death could arrive today. That whatever he was doing—might be the last time he did it.

The Night Before Battle

Evening slowly descended over the encampment, as the last rays of the sun seeped through the dust-soaked hills of Mino Province. The silence was heavy, scented with death, trembling in the air like the drawn string of a yumi—a samurai bow. In the distance, among the rows of daimyo and commander tents arranged with mathematical precision, the dark silhouette of one of them was visible against the backdrop of a tent wall—belonging to an experienced bushi of the Saitō clan. Inside, beneath canvas soaked with pine oil, a cast-iron koto—a portable charcoal brazier—radiated heat.

On a low, black lacquered wooden table stood a ceramic vessel with burning jinkō (aloeswood), one of the most precious treasures of the Eastern lands. Its scent was not overpowering—but deep, resinous, with notes of old wood and something… ineffable. In Sengoku Japan, torn apart by fratricidal wars, such an evening could very well be—and often was—the last. For the samurai—a warrior who knew death not as an abstraction but as a daily companion—a moment of contemplation over fragrance was not mere escape. It was a return to his center. With the clear awareness that this might be the last time in his life he would smell this scent.

The samurai knelt on tatami—a mat of rice straw, brought specially from his residence in Gifu—and opened his kobako, an ornate box of dark paulownia wood in which he kept his personal mixtures. Inside were small sachets of nerikō—a paste made of cinnamon, cloves, and powdered aloeswood, prepared according to a recipe passed down through generations in his family. Since childhood, he had been taught that fragrance is like a sword—if it is not sharp, it loses its value. If it is not pure, it brings disgrace.

Before donning his dō—the metal torso armor—he slowly wiped its interior with a silk cloth soaked in jinkō. Not to make it fragrant. To make it clean—spiritually and physically. According to superstition, evil spirits cling to places stained with blood, sweat, and fear. The scent of incense repels them. His helmet—kabuto with the clan’s mon (crest) engraved in copper—was also given its share of fragrance before being worn. If he were to die and his head fall into enemy hands, he wanted it to smell not of blood, but of peace, of home, and of honor.

In the corner of the tent, another piece of kyara—the purest form of aloeswood, more valuable than gold—still burned. Its subtle fragrance rose almost imperceptibly, like fleeting thoughts before meditation. The samurai sat in seiza, upright like bamboo, and listened to the scent—monkō, not “smelling,” but attuning to the spirit of the tree. His zen master had taught him that every scent is a story. That evening was for him like a verse of a waka poem: the weight of steel on his shoulders, the chill of night, and the quiet breath of incense.

It was not a ritual of luxury, but of war. The sense of smell—the most primal, most closely tied to memory—connected him to his ancestors. They too, according to tradition, cleansed their blades with the fragrance of jinkō before great battles—as if transferring into that smoke a prayer for purity of heart and an unwavering hand. Such preparation not only soothed the senses—it had tactical importance. More crucial than the sharpness of a tachi (the long sword, predecessor of the katana) was only one thing—the sharpness of the mind—calm and focus.

When the night had completely enveloped the world, and a younger warrior appeared at the tent's entrance with word of the morning briefing, the samurai extinguished the coals, closed the kobako, and looked through a slit in the canvas at the stars. In silence. For there was nothing left to say. Only the scent remained—like the shadow of a soul. And with the memory of that scent, he would go into battle. And die.

Kōdō – The Way of Fragrance

In the Japanese language, the word kōdō (香道) consists of two characters: kō (香), meaning fragrance, aroma, scent, and dō (道), meaning way, path, method—the same character that appears in budō (“the way of the warrior”), sadō (“the way of tea”), jūdō, aikidō, shodō (calligraphy), and many others (for more on the character dō, see: The Kanji “Path” (道, dō) – On the Road to Mastery, the Message is One: Patience). Thus, kōdō is not merely “the art of incense,” as it is sometimes superficially translated, but “the way of fragrance”—a path of spiritual refinement through the contemplation of scent. It is a practice of profound ritual and aesthetic character, rooted both in Zen Buddhism and the pre-Buddhist, animistic sensitivity of the Japanese, which sees scent as a medium of presence—subtle, immaterial, yet real.

In classical Japanese culture, kōdō belongs to the so-called “three refinements” (三道)—alongside sadō (the way of tea) and kadō (the way of flowers). Each of these ways is not merely an art, but a spiritual discipline. Sadō teaches mindfulness, hospitality, and harmony with the moment; kadō—humility before impermanence and the beauty of nature; kōdō, meanwhile, leads to sharpening the senses and cleansing the mind through the contemplation of scent. While tea and flowers are tangible and more directly accessible to the senses, kōdō operates with what is most fleeting—scent, which has no form, lasts only a moment, and vanishes like breath. It is in this ephemerality that its profound philosophy resides.

In kōdō, one does not “smell” the fragrance. A different verb is used here—monkō (聞香)—which literally means “listening to scent.” It is not about passively receiving the fragrance, but an active act of perception, an attentiveness comparable to listening to the subtle sounds of nature or the silence between musical notes. Listening to fragrance means attuning to its layers, seeking in it structure, mood, emotion. In this sense, kōdō resembles poetry—scent is a metaphor, a story to be read not with the nose, but with one’s entire life.

Such an approach has its roots not only in Zen but also in Japanese animism, present in the practices of shintō. Traditional craftsmen—stonemasons, carpenters, potters—do not say that they “look at” or “touch” the material they work with. They say they “listen to the stone,” “listen to the wood” (more on this here: An Hour of Complete Focus – What Can We Learn from Traditional Japanese Craftsmen, the Shokunin?)—because they believe that matter has its own voice, which speaks to those who know how to become quiet and listen. It is the same in kōdō—the scent of incense is not merely a byproduct of burning wood, but the voice of an ancient forest, the whisper of an old tree, the echo of silence from centuries past.

The kōdō ceremony is not incense burning in the everyday sense. It is a precise practice, based on meticulously prepared materials—most often a fragment of jinkō (沈香, aloeswood), which is not burned directly, but gently heated over charcoal covered in ash, so that the wood releases its aroma without smoke or scorching. This scent does not strike immediately. It unfolds slowly, in layers—first (I am relying here on the descriptions of masters, not on my own limited perception) an earthy note, then something like the dryness of an old library, then—unexpectedly—a honeyed softness and a hint of cinnamon. This is an experience more meditative than merely sensual. Kōdō resembles watching clouds over mountains—nothing is fixed, but everything carries meaning.

For the samurai, who looked death in the face before battle, contact with scent could be a purification ritual, a form of concentration, a summoning of ancestors and guardian spirits, but also an attempt to become one with the moment. Scent, like life, appears, lingers for a moment, and disappears. And it is in this evanescence that its power lies. It is not an escape from death, but a reconciliation with its inevitability—in a way that is beautiful, focused, and quiet.

The History of Fragrance in Japan – From the Emperor to the Samurai's Armor

In Japan, fragrance is not merely a sensory pleasure—it is a spiritual trace, a symbol of status, a tool for purification, and a path to calming the mind. Its history reaches as far back as the memory of Japanese chronicles, and its beginning—like a myth—was recorded in the year 595, when, according to the Nihon Shoki, the sea washed up a mysterious piece of wood on the shore of Awaji Island. Local fishermen threw it into the fire, expecting ordinary smoke—instead, the air was pierced by a deep, almost mystical aroma. It was jinkō (沈香)—aloeswood, the rarest and most valued fragrant wood in the world. Taking it as a sign from the heavens, the wood was offered to Empress Suiko, beginning Japan’s love for fragrance, which would endure for fifteen centuries up to the present day.

During the Heian period (794–1185), when the aristocracy in Heian-kyō (modern-day Kyoto) spent their days composing poetry and interpreting the meaning of morning mist, incense became one of the key elements of court life. Aristocrats composed their own fragrance blends, called takimono (薫物)—small sachets or pastes made of cinnamon, cloves, jinkō, and other exotic ingredients, which were placed in the sleeves of kimonos or among layers of hair. Garments were infused with scent, letters smelled like gardens, and a person with a subtle, unique fragrance gained admiration and esteem. In The Tale of Genji, the greatest masterpiece of the period (more about it and its author can be found in the book "Strong Japanese Women" in Polish language), scent is as important as words—it is a carrier of emotion, memory, and identity.

Fragrance was not merely an aesthetic—it was a language. In the Muromachi period (1336–1573), when Japan was already under the rule of the samurai, the practice of identifying and classifying scents became systematized. Great credit is given to a master named Shino Sōshin (志野宗信), who, at the request of shōgun Ashikaga Yoshimasa—a patron of the arts and creator of the Higashiyama culture—developed a classification system for fragrant woods known as rikkoku gomi (六国五味), or “six countries, five tastes.” Different types of jinkō were categorized by their place of origin (e.g., Manaban from India or Rakoku from Vietnam) and dominant “taste”—sweet, spicy, bitter, sour, or salty. It sounds like oenology (the study of wine), but it concerned smoke. The Shino-ryū school also emerged, which continues to preserve this knowledge to this day.

At the same time, the word kōdō—“the way of fragrance”—appeared as the name of a ceremonial practice that combined meditation, ritual, and the art of scent recognition. Special vessels (including kōro) were used, the wood was heated indirectly, without burning, and the scent was listened to—monkō—as one listens to a subtle instrument in an empty tea pavilion.

During the Edo period (1603–1868), the era of peace established by the Tokugawa clan (more about how Tokugawa Ieyasu achieved this can be read here: What to Do with a Society of Samurai Who Only Know War and Death in Times of Peace? - The Clever Ideas of the Tokugawa Shoguns), fragrance culture, once limited to court and samurai circles, permeated the merchant and townspeople spheres. In cities like Edo (now Tokyo), Osaka, and Kyoto, specialty incense shops emerged, and kōdō became entertainment, education, and a spiritual practice available to the wealthier townspeople. At home, people organized fragrance games (kumikō), in which participants had to recognize specific blends or types of wood by their scent—as if solving aromatic riddles.

Incense also accompanied warriors, especially earlier, in Japan’s war-torn eras. Samurai would perfume their helmets and armor, purify swords with jinkō smoke after battles, and even choose specific scents for farewell rituals or seppuku. The smoke of incense rising over the battlefield was no longer just smoke—it was a sign of spiritual presence, purity of intent, and connection to ancestors. In this way, fragrance ceased to be merely a sensual experience—it became the language of a warrior's soul.

Fragrance in War – Samurai Customs

In a samurai’s life, scent was not a luxury, but a ritual—a silent companion of battle, meditation, and death. In the culture of old Japan, whether Kamakura (1185–1333) or, more broadly, Sengoku (1467–1600), fragrance served not an ornamental function but a purifying, symbolic, and spiritual one. A samurai, as a member of the warrior class (buke), not only fought—he lived in a way meant to express inner order and discipline. In this order, incense was what seppuku was—a conscious choice of purity, even in the face of chaos and suffering (more about seppuku can be read here: Samurai Seppuku: Ritual Suicide in the Name of Honor, or Bloody Belly Cutting and Hours of Agony?).

Purifying Armor and Weapons – The Post-Battle Ritual

After battle, before the samurai set aside his armor (yoroi) and sword (usually tachi, later katana), he was obliged to perform a purification ritual. Victory did not release one from the need for spiritual hygiene—on the contrary, it demanded it. It was believed that blood, sweat, and death brought impurity—not just physical, but also spiritual—kegare. To remove it, the samurai placed glowing charcoal in a ceramic vessel and heated a fragment of jinkō (沈香, aloeswood) or byakudan (白檀, sandalwood) on a metal plate. With the smoke, he gently wafted over the parts of his armor: the breastplate (dō), shoulder guards (sode), helmet (kabuto), and gauntlets (kote), as well as the sword blade—especially the hamon, the temper line. This gesture was not only meant to banish evil spirits—it was also a sign of respect for the weapons, which were treated as living entities, often inherited from ancestors (more about the katana here: Discover the Katana – The Birth, Maturity, Wartime Life, and Noble Old Age of the Samurai Sword and about weapon etiquette here: The Etiquette of Samurai Weaponry – When the Steel of the Katana and a Subtle Gesture Spoke in Silence).

Perfuming the Kabuto – The Scent of Death and Honor

The most eloquent ritual, however, was perfuming the inside of the helmet. Before putting on the kabuto (helmet), the samurai would place a small pouch of incense powder inside, sometimes rubbing the interior with cloth soaked in jinkō. There was a known maxim: “If they take my head—let it smell like home, not like fear.” This was no empty gesture. In the Sengoku period, the severed heads of defeated enemies were presented to the victorious daimyō on shiryōgata—special inspection boards. The head-inspection ceremony (often involving thousands) could last an entire day. A fallen warrior whose head smelled of jinkō left behind a fleeting sign of his dignity—a fragrant trace of courage (granted, this may sound ridiculous today—but imagine how many of our modern customs would sound ridiculous to people of that era).

Incense Before Battle – Meditation Amid Chaos

Preparation for battle did not begin with sharpening the blade—it began with sharpening (quieting) the mind. An experienced samurai, on the evening before a battle, would perform a private ceremony akin to kōdō, though often less formalized. In a tent or residential chamber, he would sit in seiza, light the charcoal, and heat a fragment of jinkō or sandalwood. He did not burn it directly—it was not about the smoke, but the fragrance. He practiced monkō—listening to the scent. This act was a form of meditation: purifying, consolidating thoughts, helping to dispel fear and enter a state of spiritual concentration. Many warriors, especially those who practiced zen, would repeat the words: “Think of death, and you will be free”—and they did so precisely in the presence of the slowly rising aroma.

The Symbolism of Scents – Spirit Within Matter

The samurai did not choose a scent at random. Each ingredient carried symbolic meaning:

□ Jinkō (aloeswood) – a deep, balsamic fragrance with a multilayered structure. It symbolized spiritual depth, gravity, connection with ancestors. It was regarded as the highest class of scent—“history smelled of it.”

□ Byakudan (sandalwood) – a warm, slightly sweet, woody aroma. Associated with courage, inner peace, and stability. Used both by warriors and monks.

□ Hinoki (Japanese cypress) – fresh, cool, almost coniferous. Treated as the scent of purity, clarity of thought, and resilience. Often used in purification rituals at temples.

Some samurai created their own compositions, passed down through families like swords. Fragrance became an invisible family crest, and at the same time a silent witness to battle.

All of this shows that for a samurai, fragrance was not an accessory—it was a spiritual act, a personal ritual, a symbolic link between body and heaven. The smoke from the wood, rising upward, was like a prayer—light, immaterial, yet capable of moving unseen things.

Fragrance as Element of Etiquette and Spiritual Weapon

In times when the sword was the soul of the samurai, fragrance was its whisper—something unseen, but capable of deciding first impressions, the ritual of meeting, or the final moments of life. Fragrance was a form of etiquette, as essential as a bow or the proper placement of hands when offering a letter. In letters from samurai of the late Heian and Kamakura periods, we find descriptions of scents that accompanied audiences, war councils, or even private duels.

In the reception rooms of daimyō, where audiences and welcome rituals were held, special kōro (香炉) braziers were lit, in which expensive jinkō wood or nerikō paste (練香), made of cinnamon, cloves, resins, honey, and aromatic herbs, was placed. A samurai entering such a space did not only listen to the scent—he carried it himself: his kimono was often stored in a special incense chest (takimono-bako), and his hair was infused with fragrance by slow drying over embers. This was a sign not only of status, but also of purity of intent—a samurai who smelled of jinkō appeared as a composed man, prepared, ready for death or for conversation.

Kumikō – The Game of Scents

During the Muromachi period and especially in Edo, not only formal kōdō ceremonies spread, but also their more “earthly” form—kumikō (組香), the game of identifying specific scents or blends. Contrary to appearances, this was not entertainment solely for poets and aristocrats—many samurai clans treated it as mental training and memory exercise, a practice in concentration, subtle recognition of details, and… obedience to rules. Participants were judged by their ability to discern the subtlest nuances, not only in fragrance but also in ritual—gestures, breaths, the manner of holding vessels.

In some bushidō schools, kōdō was treated almost as a form of mental exercise, inseparable from the art of the sword. It was no coincidence that people said, “He who discerns five tones of incense will also recognize five steps of the enemy.”

Incense and Seppuku – The Scent of the Final Breath

Though it may sound surprising, fragrance also had its place in the ritual of seppuku—honorable suicide. In many accounts—both from the Azuchi-Momoyama period and late Edo—it is noted that a samurai, before performing seppuku, would purify the room in which he was to die with incense. A kōro was placed in the chamber, and in its center—under the dim light of an oil lamp—the samurai would don a freshly scented kimono, often with a layer of perfumed paper sewn into the sleeves (tatsumi-no-kami). Opening his abdomen with the ritual dagger (tantō), he did so in the presence of a fragrance he knew from meditation—sometimes it was jinkō, other times hinoki or a very light nerikō. The goal was to preserve purity—both literal and spiritual—until the very end.

Everyday Life Scented with Discipline

Not every day in a samurai’s life was battle or death ritual. In daily life too, there was space for fragrance—as an element of order, routine, and focus. In some zen monasteries and sword schools (such as Yagyū Shinkage-ryū, more about which can be found here: Yagyū Munenori: The Kenjutsu Master Who Taught the Shōguns That the Most Perfect Strike Is the One You Do Not Deliver), incense was burned at dawn in the dōjō before training began. Not only to purify the space—but also so that students could enter their training as a ritual, not merely as physical craft.

The Ten Virtues of Fragrance – A Spiritual Code of the Samurai

The medieval Japanese list of kōjuttoku (香十徳), or “ten virtues of incense,” was not merely a poetic catalogue—it served as a spiritual code from which a samurai of the Edo period could draw. These principles originate from the Muromachi era and are traditionally attributed to Shino Sōshin.

Below we present these ten principles—each read through the lens of a warrior’s life, a man who aspired to be more than a fighting machine: who wished to be pure, focused, and ready.

#1. It purifies body and spirit (身心を清浄にする)

The smoke of incense removes impurities—both literal (the scent of sweat, dirt, blood) and spiritual (kegare—the spiritual darkness that follows death). After battle or before meditation, the samurai used fragrance like a ritual bath.

#2. It removes defilements (汚穢を除く)

This is not about visible filth, but the invisible—fears, hatred, mental chaos. Incense had the power to bring stillness, to dispel the emotional “noise” that could obstruct combat or hinder one’s passing.

#3. It dispels drowsiness (睡気を去る)

A subtle aroma—especially from hinoki cypress—would awaken the senses and mind, not aggressively like caffeine, but like the cool air of dawn. Before a night watch or morning training, a samurai would sit in seiza, “listen to the scent,” and enter a state of alert presence.

#4. It calms the mind (心神を安穏にする)

A warrior unable to quiet his mind was unprepared for battle. Monkō—“listening to scent”—was a form of zen for many: inhale fragrance, exhale fear.

#5. It does not tire, even with frequent use (多く用いても厭わず)

Good incense—like a good prayer—does not weary. Jinkō, matured for decades in the soil and waters of the tropics, held a layered depth that the samurai came to know as he did the path of the sword—step by step, day by day.

#6. It produces little smoke (煙少なし)

Incense is not meant to be overpowering—a noble fragrance leaves no soot. This was the virtue of elegance and discretion—a warrior required no displays, only depth.

#7. It acts subtly and endures (久しくしてなお香ばし)

Even after the incense is extinguished, its spirit lingers in the air. Just as a true samurai leaves a mark not through shouting, but through presence—quiet and perceptible.

#8. It causes no harm, even in large amounts (多く焚いても害なし)

Fragrance does not injure—it heals. In times when wounds were daily reality and medicine scarce, the smoke of aloeswood was believed to aid infection recovery and wound care—a pure scent as a form of protection.

#9. It acts in silence (静中に作用す)

The most important virtue. Incense does not work when one is doing something—it works when one is present. In the dōjō, in prayer, in death. Only silence reveals its fullness—just as only silence reveals who a warrior truly is.

#10. It offends neither gods nor people (神仏を敬し人にも妨げず)

The scent of incense was a universal bridge between humanity and the heavens. It offended neither shintō deities nor disturbed Buddhist meditation. That is why the samurai—who lived at the crossroads of these worlds—recognized it as an ally.

For a warrior who had to befriend death, fragrance was something both fleeting and enduring—like the breath of ancestors, still rising above the blade. The ten virtues of incense were his map: not of how to fight, but of how to be present, until the end.

Fragrance as Inheritance – From Warrior to Master of Art

When a samurai left this world, he did not always leave behind only a blade and armor. Sometimes he also left... a scent. Aromatic compositions—intricately arranged blends of jinkō, byakudan, and hinoki—were in some families passed down from generation to generation like a family crest, a style of combat, or the secret of strategy. Such a fragrance was like a signature of the soul—personal, unnamed, expressing the character and spirit of the clan. What was passed down was not just the recipe, but the way to use it: when to ignite the wood, under what circumstances, with what thought. Sometimes aromas even accompanied the ceremonial handing of a sword to a successor—as a form of spiritual initiation into the warrior’s path.

After the fall of the samurai era, the culture of fragrance—like calligraphy, the tea ceremony, or the art of the sword—did not vanish, but transformed. It still lives in schools of kōdō, such as Shino-ryū, which have preserved through the centuries the subtleties of technique, the terminology of compositions, the style of scent-listening (monkō), and the rules of the scent game kumikō. Instead of battlefields, there are now tea pavilions, cultural centers, and the quiet interiors of zen temples. But the spirit remains the same. Gazing into the smoke, focused, serene.

Interestingly, kōdō is no longer confined solely to ritual and the aesthetics of high culture. Its traces can be found in modern Japanese design, in scents created by contemporary perfumers from Kyoto, and even in dōjō—the training halls of martial arts. In some iaidō or kyūdō schools, before important tournaments, the master of ceremony burns a piece of sandalwood—not for the “atmosphere,” but to purify the mind of unnecessary thoughts. What’s more, the popularity of “scent meditation” is growing—a practice involving focused awareness on the subtle aroma of jinkō, as a tool for self-inquiry and mindfulness training.

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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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