Excerpt from Introduction for Into the Field
INTRODUCTION
Men of One Age
In 1950, Richard K. Beardsley (1918–1978), an assistant professor of anthropology at the University of Michigan, launched a landmark field study of Japan. Beardsley had become interested in the country during his four years as a U.S. Navy officer in the Pacific theater in World War II. Selected for strategic training in Japanese, he spent much of his service learning and teaching the language. Now, together with several colleagues and graduate students, he collaborated with Japanese scholars—including veterans of the former enemy forces—to assess political, economic, and social changes in village life in the five years since the end of the war.1
During the eighteen months he spent among Japanese academics, Beardsley noticed a remarkable pattern:
The senior leaders in each field were men of one age. They had been college students in Tokyo during the effervescent 1920s, and all had broken away from the then prevailing teaching to move in the direction of empirical research. . . . For some years, as these young scholars pursued their new gospel, they enjoyed an ecumenical colleagueship that led them to read the same books, talk together, and write for each others’ journals while each pursued his particular interests and inclinations. These men, the first professionals in their respective fields, were still vigorous and active in the postwar years.2
Like Beardsley himself, the “men of one age” were born in the first two decades of the twentieth century. Coming to maturity at the height of Japanese empire building, they secured the resources of the state and the ear of the masses by producing knowledge that supported imperial sovereignty over Asia and Oceania and rule by a divine emperor. Japan’s defeat in 1945 and subsequent occupation by the Allied powers delegitimized these orthodoxies and left the nation groping for a new identity. Old enough to be held accountable for their jingoism—and worse—the men of one age sought to elide individual culpability and regain professional credibility by propounding a new image of Japan. In a postimperial, Cold War world, they aligned the nation with the putative values of the U.S. bloc: democracy, capitalism, and peace. As spokesmen of these ideals, they exercised intellectual hegemony through the late 1960s. Although subsequent generations have challenged and refined their legacy, it remains potent even today.
The mostly untested but formidable construct of generation captures the evolution of ideology in twentieth-century Japan. In 1927 Hungarian sociologist Karl Mannheim formulated generation as a category of analysis within the sociology of knowledge, or the study of the social origins and impact of thought. To Mannheim, generations were an abstract phenomenon based upon but not solely determined by the biological rhythms of human existence. As he observed, mere chronological contemporaneity is an imperfect basis for group coalescence. Instead, Mannheim called attention to shared cognitive frameworks, predispositions, and limitations as the foundation of a generation. He attributed such mental structures to common experiences at similar moments in the life course. Mannheim also highlighted the importance of interpersonal relationships to establishing individual and collective identity, interpreting mutually significant occurrences, and providing emotional support.3 By applying his concept of generation, historians have illuminated patterns in reactions to specific historical events, outlined relational networks, and tracked the process of social change.
The use of generational theory to understand ideological shifts in Japan is suggested by its application to the case of its wartime ally, Germany. Virtually from the moment of the defeat of the Third Reich, scholars deployed generation to explore the process of reconciliation, repentance, and reconstruction. As they argue, the “1945 generation” (generally identified as the cohort born from 1915 to 1925) assumed the reins of power after World War II and set about the urgent task of rebuilding, while largely failing to address mass guilt for Nazi atrocities. Two decades later, members of the “1968 generation,” who reached maturity at a moment of near-global revolution, rejected this pragmatic accommodation and broadly (though nonetheless incompletely) denounced the beliefs and behaviors of their parents and grandparents.4
In contrast to the German “45ers,” who mostly came to power after the defeat of Hitler, the “vigorous and active” Japanese leaders described by Beardsley were in exactly the right time of life to steer the nation before, during, and after World War II. They tended to remember 1945 as “zero hour”: a tabula rasa for all that came after. Their students generally upheld this myth, celebrating their forebears’ academic achievements while declining to scrutinize unsavory wartime episodes. Only with the passing of the longest-lived men of one age in the 1990s were some younger colleagues freed to critique their methods, actions, and legacies. A new influx of Japanese scholars, together with counterparts in East Asia and beyond, devoted themselves to unpacking earlier intellectual subterfuge and dishonesty. Their analyses tend to terminate with 1945, implicitly upholding the fiction of a blank slate.5 Upon Japan’s defeat, they imply, a nation of unreflective “chameleons” opportunistically rejected the prevailing ideologies of militarism, empire, and war in favor of new values including democracy, capitalism, and peace.
In studying the full careers of the men of one age, certain constants appear across this moment long treated solely as a rupture. During the transwar decades (1930s–1960s), a transnational network of professional intellectuals jointly embraced a set of unchanging assumptions regarding epistemology, or how knowledge is created and why that knowledge is valid. These foundational beliefs grounded and even facilitated what has often been represented as an uncomplicated substitution of values in 1945. The resultant collective mentality both distinguished the men of one age from older and younger citizens who shared their era, and bound them into Mannheim’s idea of a generation.
The ideal of objectivity was the epistemological unconscious that anchored this transwar generation. Objectivity was and is generally understood as the faith in some universally applicable “truth,” pursued through a scientific research method intended to discipline the individual mind of its perspective and bias. First articulated as a scholarly value by European philosophers in the early 1800s, by the end of the century objectivity’s credibility was established throughout the disciplines and well beyond the West.6 In the heyday of imperial expansion, the ability to produce objective research allowed the great powers to formulate knowledge of the world that favored their hegemony. In other words, dominating the production of authoritative “facts” both signified and supported a sense of Euro-American superiority over colonized and quasi-colonial peoples with their own epistemological traditions. Rather than simply accepting this intellectual monopoly, non-Western scholars themselves adopted objectivity to suggest their own enlightenment and to seek parity with the great powers.
Japan, boasting a long history of empiricist scholarship, was among the first non-Western societies to embrace objectivity. The term gakujutsu emerged to denote this concept. Today, gakujutsu is conventionally translated as “academic” or “scientific.” However, during the transwar years it connoted a more specific set of assumptions: the quest for universal laws governing human society and the natural world, the use of a comprehensively delineated method to assure rigor in pursuit of “truth,” and impartiality. Beyond these criteria, gakujutsu remained a strategically vague concept available for manipulation by researchers whose work met few measures of objectivity. The lack of a sophisticated theoretical framing also made the idea of gakujutsu accessible beyond the scholarly world. By the turn of the twentieth century, the term appeared not only in academic books and articles but also in the mass media, imbuing producers of knowledge with authority in the public realm.
Recognition of Japan’s ability to formulate objective knowledge allowed the nation to enter the Euro-American intellectual community, transforming it from a Western into a truly transnational network. Within a few decades of the large-scale introduction of Western learning, Japanese scholars contributed to international academic journals and conferences, visited foreign universities, and hosted researchers from other nations. Shared belief in objectivity enabled multinational thinkers to adjudge, appreciate, and engage with each other’s work, distinguishing and elevating knowledge produced by “professionals” from that of “quacks” and amateurs.
Historians have traced the rise of transnational intellectual circuits in the natural sciences and technology.7 By contrast, they have paid relatively scant attention to the development of such networks in the so-called human sciences. Although practitioners debate the parameters of that term, at their most basic, the human sciences represent an attempt to address the diversity of humankind. In Europe, the human sciences are said to have originated during the sixteenth century, when the discovery and colonization of the Americas inspired (Christian) speculation on the moral condition and proper treatment of its putatively savage residents. During the Enlightenment, philosophers came to study the behavior of such populations for insight into the early history of their own society, producing a binary of “Self” and “Other.” Gradually, the sciences of man, as they were then called, coalesced around the empirical investigation of the beginnings of civilization. By the twentieth century, the human sciences centered on the disciplines most directly connected with this inquiry: anthropology, archaeology, and ethnology. They also engaged many art historians, economists, geographers, historians, folklorists, philosophers, political scientists, sociologists, and religious studies scholars.8
In Japan, the attempt to study Self and Other long predated the advent of Western-style academic disciplines. However, in the modern era the human sciences (jinrui kagaku) acquired new significance in articulating an appropriate position for the nation and empire within the international hierarchy of states. Put simply, exploring Others beyond Japan served to illuminate the essential features of the Japanese themselves. Through the construct of “race” (jinshu), human scientists divided individuals into populations, related populations to each other and to the geopolitical map, and projected their futures in a changing world. Race was a scientific shorthand naturalizing the power structures enacted by the expanding imperium.
Unlike the natural sciences, in which trusted quantitative methods were long established, the human sciences struggled to arrange numerical data into consistent racial categories. Partly in response, human scientists shifted to the investigation of minzoku, a vision of human difference incorporating not only physiological characteristics but also learned behaviors. By the 1920s, fieldwork, or intensive empirical research on a bounded population, emerged as the dominant “scientific” approach to minzoku. The Japanese practice of fieldwork grew out of both local precedents and Western influences. The 1922 publication of Polish-born British social anthropologist Bronisław Malinowski’s Argonauts of the Western Pacific is often taken as a convenient global starting point for modern, self-consciously objective fieldwork. The hallmarks of Malinowski’s precise methodological charter still characterize research today: systematic, theoretically informed, holistic data collection; long-term immersion in “native” life; minimal contact with “white” society; and communication with informants in their own language.9
The acceptance of Malinowski’s methods around the world helped to consolidate the disciplines of the human sciences, offering practitioners a new collective identity as “fieldworkers.” It further transformed “the field” into a sanctified space where objectivity was assumed.10 The transwar generation was the field generation, upholding field methodology as the sine qua non of credible professional research.
Widely acknowledged as the leading Japanese fieldworker of the transwar years was Izumi Seiichi (1915–1970). No single individual can represent a generation—just as the ideal type of generation can never resonate with all the cases it purports to include. Yet Izumi was not simply a representative of his cohort, but its linchpin. Trained as an ethnologist, he secured employment as a cultural anthropologist and achieved renown primarily as an archaeologist. He was extraordinary in his thirst for adventure, administrative skill, and ability to connect with different individuals and audiences. He marshaled a stunning range of funding sources for his research: universities, professional societies, the military, domestic and foreign governments, international organizations, corporations, and the media. Izumi’s output ran the gamut of midcentury communications, including academic articles and monographs, autobiographical works, newspaper articles, encyclopedia entries, photo books, writings for children, travel guides and travelogues, radio broadcasts, and film and television documentaries. In addition to his native tongue, he mastered functional Korean, Chinese, English, German, Portuguese, and Spanish, as well as a smattering of other languages. From the most elite and influential academic institutions in Japan, he anchored a network of friends and colleagues spanning upwards of a dozen countries. Fellow scholars kept copies of his works on their desks and in their field kits.11 Among the men of one age, he was the man of the age.
Izumi chose research topics, field sites, and audiences that not only reflected but also advanced his nation’s engagement with and position vis-à-vis the wider world. His outlook was exemplary of his generation, adhering to fieldwork as the defining characteristic of objective knowledge production. In practice, however, conviction in universal, scientific, and unbiased “facts” masked the underlying values imputed to them. Perhaps most engrained among the men of one age was that objectivity, the purported “view from nowhere,” presumed a male observer.12 In the 1980s early feminist historians of science controversially argued that, from the seventeenth century on, objective scientific inquiry privileged stereotypically “masculine” abilities of dominance, detachment, rationality, and transcendence of the body, over intuitive, empathic, and associational modes adjudged as “feminine.” The resulting masculinization of knowledge posed a cognitive barrier to female participation.13 More recent scholarship shifts the focus from cerebral to structural obstacles. By the 1930s, the formative years of the field generation, some elite Japanese women enjoyed opportunities to attend college and pursue vocational training in single-sex institutions. However, Japan’s national universities admitted only men. Women could not attain the qualifications, networks, and knowledges expected of full colleagues in the human sciences. Such research accordingly developed as an almost wholly male enterprise.14
Despite their exclusion from the formal study of diversity, women performed essential roles in the transwar academic world. When Izumi Kimiko (1918–1997) married in 1941, the “good wife, wise mother” (ryōsai kenbō) ideal dictated that women almost singlehandedly supervise the household and educate the children, freeing the attention of the family patriarch for external matters.15 In the nearly thirty years of her union with Izumi Seiichi, she maintained their domestic life in Dairen (now Dalian in the People’s Republic of China), Keijō (Seoul, Republic of Korea), Hakata, Tokyo, and Cambridge, Massachusetts. The couple’s friends fondly recalled her excellent cooking and generous hospitality, even on a limited budget. Amid the poverty of war and its aftermath, she cared for Izumi’s widowed mother, and bore and raised four children. All eventually attended college, and her oldest daughter and son earned graduate degrees. Under the most trying circumstances Izumi Kimiko avoided burdening her husband with domestic affairs. When she contracted tuberculosis in 1953, she refused to summon him home from the field or even notify him of her condition until her life was in peril.16
Yet Izumi Kimiko was more than a good wife and wise mother: she was also an intellectual companion and support to her spouse. Before Izumi found secure university employment in Japan, she worked as a research assistant for his colleagues and drew maps for the U.S. occupation authorities and images for psychologists to present to human subjects for description and interpretation.17 She accompanied her husband to an archaeological dig in Peru and coauthored a work on Inca treasures.18 She also joined him on a research trip to Japan’s northernmost major island, Hokkaido, to facilitate his rapport with female informants. Following Izumi’s death, she appeared at international ceremonies commemorating his legacy and assisted in curating collections of his writings. Within two years she had published a memoir, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni (Together with Izumi Seiichi). Yet, even in her own recollections, Izumi Kimiko is all but invisible, subordinating her contributions and insights to a heroic narrative of her husband’s career. For his part, Izumi scarcely mentioned her in his 1969 autobiography, Yuruyaka na yamayama (Quaking mountains).19 The unreflective gendering of authoritative knowledge production as a masculine domain precluded the very acknowledgement, let alone realization of the full potential, of Izumi Kimiko and many other women scholars of human diversity.
Objectivity also concealed certain political assumptions. For transwar human scientists it operated less as an actual ideal than as a formula of justification for certain truths held to be self-evident. Prior to 1945 the most salient of these truths was the ascendancy of the legitimate knowledge producers—that is, the colonial powers. Raised in Japanese-occupied Korea, Izumi was both a creator and a creation of imperial epistemology. In the mid-1930s he enrolled at Keijō Imperial University, the first Japanese institution of higher learning established outside the metropole. He became the empire’s first major in ethnology (minzokugaku), an emerging discipline that combined characteristics of anthropology and folklore. As an ethnologist, Izumi studied Others through fieldwork on both physiological characteristics and learned behavior. Japan’s imperial universities, the state, and the military generously sponsored his research in the hope of collecting information to pacify and exploit subjugated populations. Ultimately, the duration of control was too short to apply academic findings to policy in much of the Japanese realm. However, Izumi and his colleagues enjoyed outsize influence in justifying the empire as a hierarchy of confraternal races ruled for their own benefit by the putatively superior Japanese.
Izumi’s maiden field studies, directed research projects among populations in the Japanese puppet state of Manchukuo, reflected this orthodoxy. They represented Japan as an ally of racially related minorities long oppressed by China, the empire’s rival for dominance of the Asian mainland.20 For his senior thesis, Izumi produced a similarly politically inflected ethnography of Jejudo, an island off the coast of southern Korea.21 This project was his first, and, as it turned out, only major independent field study. The outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War in 1937 fatefully constrained the possibilities for such research. The expense, hazards, and logistical challenges of operating alone in an unfamiliar war zone moved Japanese human scientists toward a model of collaborative fieldwork involving multidisciplinary teams tackling short-term survey projects. The men of one age initially doubted the objectivity of group studies, so different from the “lone hero” fieldwork promoted by Malinowski. Ultimately, however, they defended team research as legitimate human science—a stance that enabled them to furnish the government and military with ideological support. Thus validated, group fieldwork survived the war years, and continues to characterize much Japanese scholarship to this day.22
Within weeks of receiving his university degree in spring 1938, Izumi helped to organize a pioneering group survey of the people of Mōkyō, the newly created Japanese puppet state in the Mongol lands. Upon his return from the field, he served three years in the Japanese army. Discharged one day before the imperial assault on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, he went on to coordinate a navy-backed expedition of hundreds to Japanese-occupied New Guinea. On the island, he and his fellow human scientists studied diverse populations for evidence of a racial relationship with the Japanese. They also pursued strategic information: counting heads for labor mobilization, mapping terrain for military maneuvers, and scouting natural resources.
It was in the field that the men of one age came together as a generation. Team expeditions were both a seminal experience and a rite of passage for transwar Japanese human scientists. With the outbreak of hostilities against the Allies, they largely disengaged from the transnational scientific community. Instead, they developed imperial intellectual networks, even opening ranks to select colonial subjects. The hardships and dangers of working among (often hostile and uncommunicative) peoples in extreme environments and on violent frontiers drew the men together in lasting personal relationships. Conversely, they also bonded through the pleasures of the field experience: a sense of shared adventure, the “exoticism” of research subjects, and enjoyment of masculine sociability. Many scholars collaborated repeatedly on joint ventures, as faculty colleagues, and in research institutions and professional societies. At home, they united to present the thrills and threats of studying diverse imperial peoples to a curious public, establishing the value of human science in the popular mind and laying the foundations of their postwar influence over national identity.
Japan announced its surrender to the Allies on August 15, 1945. With the liberation of the empire, Izumi and his wife and children were forced to leave their home in Korea to “return” to Japan—a country they barely knew. For over six years from 1945 to 1952, the home islands were occupied by the Allied powers under the oversight of the United States. Believing that his academic career had come to an end, Izumi quietly devoted himself to assisting destitute fellow repatriates. However, the occupation was a time of continuity as well as change, opening new avenues to Japanese human scientists. The end of the war did not seriously test faith in objectivity as the defining criterion of legitimate and credible knowledge. Instead, what changed after 1945 were the values understood to constitute objectivity. The United States’s victory validated ideals vaunted as characteristically American: democracy, capitalism, and peace. U.S. human scientists, shocked and horrified by the devastation and atrocities of World War II, asserted a new responsibility to create objective knowledge in the service of these values. Democracy, capitalism, and peace formed the goals of modernization, or the ideology that all nations might, with U.S. assistance, achieve its privileged status as a developed society. The outbreak of the Cold War further solidified modernization as a soft-power strategy in the American rivalry for global dominance with the Soviet Union, correspondingly vilified as authoritarian, communist, and militarist.
Japan, the site of the United States’s longest peacetime postwar occupation to date, offered both “a test case, and indeed a showcase” of modernization.23 Viewing Japanese human scientists as vital partners in the transformation of society, the occupation was generally pedagogical rather than punitive. As in Germany, the Allies largely declined to prosecute Japanese academics for collaboration with the imperial government. Scholars hired to advise war crimes tribunals understood all too well the pressure on human scientists to support the empire in its time of crisis. Moreover, they saw strategic potential in Japan’s studies of East Asia and Oceania. During the Cold War, American scholars collected, excerpted, translated, and republished Japanese imperial fieldwork to advance their nation’s understanding of the Pacific Rim. For their part, transwar Japanese researchers largely upheld the convenient fiction of their reluctant cooperation with and quiet opposition to the former government. For the rest of their lives, they remained mostly silent regarding their collective complicity with and profit from wartime knowledge production.
The large-scale exoneration of Japanese academics set the stage for their cooperation with the U.S. occupation in disseminating the ideals of modernization. The field generation encapsulated democracy, capitalism, and peace in the formula of the “cultural nation” (bunka kokka). Joint pursuit of the cultural nation enabled Japanese and American human scientists to renew relations of “friendship and sympathy” (in Beardsley’s words), to rehabilitate Japan’s scholarly reputation, to position transwar researchers at the pinnacle of postwar academia, and to integrate them into a new transnational intellectual community that both reflected and supported U.S. hegemony. Through imported libraries, courses and lectures, and, most importantly, team fieldwork, American human scientists retrained Japanese colleagues as partners in modernization.
NOTES
1. Edward Norbeck and Harumi Befu, “Richard King Beardsley 1918–1978,” American Anthropologist 81, no. 3 (1979): 636–637.
2. Richard K. Beardsley and Nakano Takashi, Japanese Sociology and Social Anthropology: A Guide to Japanese References and Research Materials (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1970), iii.
3. Karl Mannheim, Essays on the Sociology of Knowledge (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1952), 276–320.
4. Mark Rosman, ed., Generations in Conflict: Youth Revolt and Generation Formation in Germany (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995); A. Dirk Moses, German Intellectuals and the Nazi Past (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Sebastian Conrad, The Quest for the Lost Nation: Writing History in Germany and Japan in the American Century, trans. Alan Nothnagle (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010). For alternative generational explanations of twentieth-century German history, see Mary Fulbrook, Dissonant Lives: Generations and Violence through the German Dictatorships (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); and Noah Benezra Strote, Lions and Lambs: Conflict in Weimar and the Creation of Post-Nazi Germany (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2017).
5. E.g., Kawamura Minato, “Dai Tōa minzoku” no kyojitsu (Kōdansha, 1996); Nakao Katsumi, Shokuminchi jinruigaku no tenbō (Fūkyōsha, 2000); Nakao Katsumi, Kindai Nihon no jinruigakushi: Teikoku to shokuminchi no kioku (Fūkyōsha, 2016). Unless otherwise specified, all Japanese-language sources were published in Tokyo.
6. On the genealogy of objectivity, see Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Thomas L. Haskell, Objectivity Is Not Neutrality: Explanatory Schemes in History (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998); Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, Objectivity (New York: Zone Books, 2007); Lorraine Daston, “Objectivity and Impartiality: Epistemic Virtues in the Humanities,” in The Modern Humanities, vol. 3 of The Making of the Humanities, ed. Rens Bod, Jaap Maat and Thijs Weststeijn (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014), 27–41; Peter J. Steinberger, The Politics of Objectivity: An Essay on the Foundations of Political Conflict (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015).
7. E.g., James R. Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a Research Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989); Nakayama Shigeru, Science, Technology, and Society in Postwar Japan (New York: Routledge, 1991); John Krige, American Hegemony and the Postwar Reconstruction of Science in Europe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006); John Krige, Sharing Knowledge, Shaping Europe: U.S. Technological Collaboration and Nonproliferation (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2016).
8. Christopher Fox, “Introduction: How to Prepare a Noble Savage: The Spectacle of Human Science,” and Robert Wokler, “Anthropological and Conjectural History in the Enlightenment,” in Christopher Fox, Roy Porter, and Robert Wokler, ed., Inventing Human Science: Eighteenth-Century Domains (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 1–30, 31–52; Roger Smith, The Norton History of the Human Sciences (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997), 3–36.
9. Bronisław Malinowski, Argonauts of the Western Pacific: An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagoes of Melanesian New Guinea (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1922), 1–26.
10. Kristian H. Nielsen, Michael Harbsmeier, and Christopher J. Ries, “Studying Scientists and Scholars in the Field: An Introduction,” in Scientists and Scholars in the Field: Studies in the History of Fieldwork and Expeditions, ed. Kristian H. Nielsen, Michael Harbsmeier, and Christopher J. Ries (Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press, 2012), 9–28.
11. For a recent reinterpretation of Izumi’s career, see “Tanjō hyaku nen kinen Izumi Seiichi ga aruita michi,” Riken minzokugaku 39, no. 4 (2015).
12. Thomas Nagel, The View from Nowhere (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986).
13. Evelyn Fox Keller, Reflections on Gender and Science (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985); Susan Bordo, Flight to Objectivity: Essays on Cartesianism and Culture (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987). For an early critique of this position, see Donna Haraway, “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective,” Feminist Studies 14, no. 3 (1988): 575–599.
14. Edward R. Beauchamp, “The Development of Japanese Educational Policy, 1945–85,” History of Education Quarterly 27, no. 3 (1987): 309.
15. Sharon H. Nolte and Sally Ann Hastings, “The Meiji State’s Policy toward Women, 1890–1910,” in Recreating Japanese Women, 1600–1945, ed. Sharon H. Nolte, Sally Ann Hastings, and Gail Lee Bernstein (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 151–174.
16. Izumi Kimiko, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni (Fuyō Shobō, 1972), 149.
17. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 139, 136. These illustrations appear in Jean Stoetzel, Without the Chrysanthemum and the Sword: A Study of the Attitudes of Youth in Post-War Japan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1955).
18. Izumi Kimiko and Izumi Seiichi, Inka tankenki: Ōgon no hikyō (Tokuma Shoten, 1965).
19. Izumi Seiichi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 7: Bunka jinruigaku no me (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1972), 160–383.
20. Izumi Seiichi, “Dai Kōanrei tōbu Orochon-zoku tōsa hōkoku,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1: Fuīrudowāku no kiroku (1) (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1971), 6–54; Izumi Seiichi and Akamatsu Chijō, “Goruji-zoku tōsa hōkoku,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1, 55–74.
21. Izumi Seiichi, “Saishūtō minzokushi,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1, 107–348.
22. Jan van Bremen, “Travel Ethnography in Japan,” in Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan, ed. Maria Rodríguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann, and Dolores P. Martinez (New York: Routledge, 2007), 151.
23. Sebastian Conrad, “‘The Colonial Ties Are Liquidated’: Modernization Theory, Post-War Japan and the Global Cold War,” Past and Present 216 (2012): 186.