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The Path Revised, Mezitli (2025)

11/09/2025

“The Amplitude Debate: Which Strike Hits Harder—Long or Short?” (full)
This is not just a casual question for Chinese and Japanese martial arts. The choice between a long strike and a short one shapes how we train—and often determines the outcome of a fight.
Intuitively, it feels obvious: if you want to hit harder, you should take a bigger swing. The longer the path your fist and body travel, the more speed (and energy) you can build up.
Historically, this logic left its mark on martial arts. In Northern Chinese styles—especially those linked to Shaolin—techniques often emphasized wide, circular motions or full-body extensions toward the opponent, with fighters working at mid- to long-range.
There’s also a psychological factor: instinct tells us to keep some distance. The further we stay, the safer we feel from a dangerous counterstrike. You see this especially with beginners, or in matches where the power of the blow isn’t scored. Such fights can resemble fencing duels with rapiers—single lunges, the body stretched forward, trying to “touch” the opponent with the tip of the weapon, or here, the striking surface of the fist.
Physics seems to agree. A longer strike should, in theory, generate more kinetic energy by accelerating mass over greater distance, in line with the familiar formula F = ma.
But real fighting experience tells another story. Paradoxically, it’s often the short, almost invisible strike that produces a knockout—not the big, dramatic swing. Why? Did Newton get something wrong?
Of course not. His formulas are solid. The issue lies not in the math but in the mechanics of the human body. Unlike a single solid object, the body is a chain of joints. Energy leaks away in the course of motion, and even more so upon impact, dissipating the force. That’s why the mighty wind-up punch so often turns into a blow that appears strong but fails to deliver knockout power—not to mention the challenge of aiming precisely from longer distance.
A short strike, on the other hand, plays by different rules. With the body compacted, joints locked, and the point of impact close to the center of gravity, the result can be explosive. Small movements can deliver shocking power. What’s more, these strikes aren’t limited to fists—they can come from an elbow, shoulder, hip, or even the head. At extreme close range, they’re almost impossible to block or evade.
Of course, advanced practitioners learn to project powerful strikes over longer distances too. But never quite as much as the stylized taolu in sports competitions might suggest. In real encounters, masters move with striking economy. They defeat opponents while appearing to do almost nothing. And this holds true across styles.
Modern “hard” schools of self-defense reflect this progression. Training often begins with simple and “compact” forms such as Sanzhan or Sanchin. Later, more elaborate taolu or kata introduce larger, more complex movements for specific scenarios. Yet at higher levels, the movement style once again becomes simple—but razor-efficient. This embodies an old principle: “with small effort, overcome great force.” Today we might phrase it differently: maximizing energy efficiency and performance in the shortest possible time.

10/09/2025

“The Problematic and Methodology of Studying the Far Eastern Tradition”
In the study of Far Eastern heritage—whether philosophy, spiritual practices, systems of health cultivation, or martial arts—the key lies in defining a methodology. It is this methodology that makes it possible to discern the essential, to separate what is valuable from what is superficial or misleading. This is especially important for those who have already passed through basic training under the guidance of a teacher and who themselves have become mentors. As the East says: “The best teacher is not the one who teaches better than others, but the one who continues to learn himself.”
The challenge with centuries-old tradition is that it contains everything: well-structured ideas, but also errors, misconceptions, and superstitions. It is not like a library where valuable works sit neatly apart from apocrypha; rather, it resembles Damascus steel or a tree trunk cut along the grain, where layers of truth intertwine with layers of fantasy. Without a system of study, one easily drifts into searching for confirmation of the most exotic notions. Distinguishing the “genuine” stratum becomes a creative endeavor—an art in itself. Yet such art demands observation, analysis, synthesis, and systematization—that is, scientific methods—without which no lasting results can be achieved.
Applied to tradition, this means beginning with the search for the fundamental idea: cosmology, or philosophical ontology—the vision of how the world is structured and what laws govern it. Far Eastern thought is holistic: knowledge of the macrocosm is indispensable for understanding the microcosm. Such cosmological models are not myths but working tools for constructing systems of self-cultivation, from spiritual disciplines to martial practice. Theory and practice here continually test each other: the soundness of worldview is revealed in the effectiveness of the system it produces. A vivid example can be found in the works of Sun Lutang, such as “The Study of Xingyi Quan” and “The Study of Bagua Quan.”
The search for truth amidst such a mass of ideas is like moving across a swamp: before stepping onto a patch of ground, one must be sure it can bear weight. Most often, the reliability of a concept is confirmed by its recurrence across schools and traditions widely separated in time and place. In this way, enduring weight is gained by principles such as the strategy of not attacking first, the “descent into the center,” overcoming great resistance with small effort, or the harmony of the hard and the soft.
The task of the researcher is to assemble a coherent system in which ideas interconnect and illuminate one another. Thus, in discussing Daoist Wu-wei (Non-Action), one inevitably touches on Yin-Yang duality, the Absolute of Taiji, and the Infinite Wuji. Moving toward practice leads us to questions of bodily preparation, combat strategy, and Buddhist concepts of inner stillness and awareness.
Modern science, too, can serve as a tool for testing ancient ideas. Western thought, however, has long been inclined to separate tradition and science, thereby cutting off their historical continuity and their capacity to correct and refine. In its eagerness to emphasize differences and erect artificial barriers, it leaves little room for true development.
Finally, the decisive criterion is always practical realization. In martial arts, a system proves itself directly in combat—even in a training bout or competition. In spiritual or health practices, the matter is far more complicated, rife with self-deception and substitution. One may feel “enlightened” or imagine a “flow of Qi,” yet what truly changes health is lifestyle, diet, emotional balance, and consistent training. This is why, in the East, martial arts so often accompany philosophy, medicine, and systems of health cultivation.
Thus, the methodology of studying a millennia-old tradition comes down to identifying the essential, testing ideas, weaving them into a coherent whole, and verifying them in practice. Whether to follow this path or not remains the choice of each individual...

02/09/2025

“Daoist Wu-wei Through the Lens of Martial Arts” (full)
Guided by an excellent mediator for translating Daoist doctrine into practice—the martial system of Wushu or Karate—we can vividly illustrate how the principle of Wu-wei (“non-action” or “effortless action”) manifests itself in combat. And this is not only in the relatively safe context of sportive play, but in encounters where the outcome may well be lethal for one of the participants.
So how does one remain “inactive” and still defeat an opponent? Quite simply—for a master. He waits for, or provokes, the aggressor to act first: to strike, to grab, or to shove. To this, the master responds with a simultaneous evasion off the line of attack and a precise, sensitive thrust—say, to the eyes, the throat, the solar plexus, or the groin. The options are many. The master’s response fully embodies the spirit of Wu-wei, for he is not the one who initiates the action, but merely reacts, flowing with the change in the situation. The enemy moves, and so does he (or she).
The effect of such a precise counter, which leaves the aggressor paralyzed by pain and stripped of his initial fighting spirit, is in fact the result of the aggressor’s own intent. Without the attack, there would be no opportunity for the master to strike so effectively—for during an attack, one naturally loosens control over vulnerable areas, while the attacker’s own momentum doubles the impact of the defender’s well-placed blow.
The further development of the counterattack is also dictated by the assailant: the initial momentum of the attack, the evasive step combined with a paralyzing strike disturbs his balance. This imbalance should by no means be stopped—on the contrary, it should be encouraged. If the opponent “wants” to fall, one should “help” him, applying the minimum effort. Thus an opponent’s limb may fall into a lock, which smoothly transforms into a painful joint hold, simultaneously producing both a throw and a controlling grip over the attacker’s body. What happens next lies squarely on the aggressor’s shoulders: if he persists in his intent to repeat the attack, the consequences for his body are likely to be dire.
As this description shows, the elegant principle of Wu-wei—so often savored in the musings of armchair “philosophers”—has a very concrete application in traditional martial arts (wushu, karate, suchlike). It functions both tactically and strategically. Yet its value for Wushu does not end there: it also shapes the methods of training and the cultivation of both body and mind.
In the East Asian worldview, aggression is largely seen as a violation of cosmic harmony. Thus, the attacker is, in a sense, setting himself against the forces of nature. For the wise practitioner, the task is to maintain his or her connection with these forces, remaining in harmony with them despite the natural stress and tension of conflict. All this may sound lofty—like the endless talk of Wu-wei one finds everywhere—but unless embodied in practice, such talk is empty words.
In martial training, adepts learn to use this “harmony with nature” in literal, physical ways. For instance, through stance training, which develops “rooting”—the ability to draw upon the potential force of the Earth. This rooting becomes the basis for striking, throwing, sudden displacement, and, crucially, for channeling the aggressor’s force into the ground through a well-structured body. In effect, the opponent’s attack meets not only the defender’s body but the full stability of the Earth itself. How much of that force one can summon for defense depends on one’s level of training.
Beyond the “power of Earth” there is also the “power of Heaven,” and here too methods exist for harnessing it, thus uniting the triad of Heaven–Human–Earth. Depending on the task, a whole spectrum of Daoist concepts may be employed, forming a progression of training for body, power, and mind within the frameworks of Neigong (internal work) and Waigong (external work).
From even this brief outline, it becomes clear that what may appear to be abstract philosophizing about detachment—or harmonious participation—in the world’s ongoing process, finds tangible and practical expression in one of its major avenues of realization: East Asian martial arts. Practical methods such as neigong, waigong, contemplative practice, and martial training are not merely applications of Daoist wisdom, but also paths to grasp its very essence—without drifting into sterile intellectual speculation. Doctrine, in Daoism, is both knowledge and method. If one is divorced from the other, the spirit of Daoism vanishes at once.
Another noteworthy point is the value of these “Chinese teachings” for practical combat, whether in traditional Wushu or in Karate. As the description above shows, Daoist thought provides a conceptual foundation that extends all the way to specific methods of training body and mind. This is not a matter of magical faith or secret esotericism granting access to supernatural power. The reality is much simpler and more sober: Daoist cosmology is, above all, a kind of proto-natural philosophy—an ancient, systematic observation of natural processes that yielded many sound insights into how they may be harnessed. This is precisely where its value lies, adding clarity, coherence, and depth to the methods of martial training.

30/08/2025

"Breathwork in the Far Eastern Tradition of Self-Cultivation" (full)

Breathing occupies a central place in the Far Eastern worldview. Conceptually, it is linked not only to the mechanical act of inhaling and exhaling but also to the very dual nature of Qi—the universal vital force. For the practitioner of neigong (“inner work”), the breath is accompanied by a special mental image: absorbing the all-pervading energy of the cosmos through the pores of the body. One may smile at these ancient images, yet—provided they are not confused with purely esoteric practices—they serve as important keys to more refined bodily and mental regulation. In fact, they often prove far more effective than a purely “correct” knowledge of the biochemical and physiological processes taking place in our tissues.

In popular branches of qigong one finds a wide range of breathing methods. Martial arts, too, make use of breath control for strength training, drawing largely from the same knowledge that underlies modern qigong. These methods include several distinct breathing patterns, each designed for specific purposes. Since both martial systems and the natural philosophy of the “Three Teachings” (Confucianism, Daoism, Buddhism) share this common source, and since the martial tradition has provided invaluable feedback in testing their effectiveness, we can identify several fundamental types of breathing that appear across diverse schools.

1. Natural breathing. The most basic type: on inhalation the abdomen expands, and on exhalation it contracts.

2. Complete breathing. Similar to natural breathing, but with the added expansion of the chest during inhalation.

3. "Reverse" breathing. The opposite of the first type: the abdomen draws in while the chest expands on inhalation. In martial arts this pattern serves primarily a regulatory function, improving internal organ massage, rather than having a direct “combat” purpose.

4. "Pressurized" breathing (often called ibuki in Japanese, or “bellows breathing”). This method is most often seen in structural kata such as Sanchin (San Zhan in Chinese). It is crucial not only for strengthening the body and developing power, but also for gaining subtle control over that power. Hence it plays an important role in neigong as well, and is directly connected to the demanding practices described in the Chinese classics Yijin Jing (Muscle-Tendon Transformation Classic) and Xisui Jing (Marrow Cleansing Classic). This form of breathing is often neglected in modern qigong because of its difficulty and labor-intensive nature.

5. "Impulsive" breathing. A strength-oriented method characterized by a smooth inhalation, followed by a short, forceful fascial-muscular compression of the torso, and then a brief, effortless exhalation. In martial arts this type of breathing is indispensable: it enables explosive, powerful action by engaging the body’s integrated structure in movement. For the same reason, it is also highly valued in qigong, where—like the previous type—it provides access to the deeper levels of “inner work” described in classical texts.
Additional type -
6. "Embryonic" breathing. Essential for the meditative practice of “Preserving the One,” this method represents a return to natural breathing on a higher level. The breath becomes so fine and subtle that it seems to disappear, experienced instead as if the entire body were breathing through its pores. While it is sometimes trained separately in qigong, in reality this “evolutionary” type develops naturally from long practice with the preceding methods.

Training in these various types of breathing is, by its nature, a long process, full of subtlety and nuance. In the early stages, different patterns are studied separately in a largely introductory fashion. Over time, however, they are integrated organically into practice—merging with stance, movement, and mental intent.

29/08/2025

“The Problem of the Essence and Structure of Daoism” (full version)
Let us turn our attention to one of the pillars of the Far Eastern tradition—a tradition that, among other things, has given us martial arts, systems of health cultivation, and methods for developing strength and consciousness. Today’s subject is Daoism.
I recently came across a post discussing the distinction between the terms Dao-jia and Dao-jiao. The former is usually presented as a philosophy based on the works of the “Old Master” and the sage Zhuang Zhou, while the latter is reduced to ritual religion and everything associated with it. Yet such a division of so multifaceted a tradition appears overly simplistic and schematic.
The notion that Dao-jia is merely “philosophy” is itself problematic. The seeming lack of system, fluidity, and paradoxical style of the early texts certainly encourages that interpretation. But it is worth remembering that this perspective emerged largely from the way external observers—often scholars—approached the tradition, shaping a rather distorted view.
Most discussions rely on the “programmatic” texts: the Dao De Jing and the Zhuangzi. But have you noticed how profoundly they differ in structure and intent? At first glance, both seem to speak of the universal Way, of change and impermanence, using allusions and deliberate ambiguity that open the door to a wide range of interpretations—even diametrically opposed ones.
The version of the Dao De Jing that has reached us, upon closer reading, appears concise yet surprisingly systematic despite its brevity. Its very construction makes one doubt the skeptical dismissal of the traditional legend—that it was written “on the spur of the moment” at the request of a border guard. Rather, it feels as if the Old Master deliberately sought to distill a universal wisdom into the shortest possible form, applicable everywhere—from personal cultivation to the ordering of society and governance.
The Zhuangzi, by contrast, is more literary, more than ten times the length of Laozi’s work, and composed as a collection of parables. Some of these stories—such as the famous “dream of the butterfly”—carry a distinctly metaphysical tone, something not characteristic of early Daoism until its encounter with Buddhism in the first centuries CE.
As for the “religious” branch of Daoism, many researchers rather carelessly assign to it virtually all practices of those who “follow the Way.” Under this umbrella fall external and internal alchemy, the “nurturing of vitality,” the “cultivation of spirit,” magical rituals, and even modern qigong. It seems at times that anything strange or inexplicable has been hastily classified as religion.
And yet, more serious scholars argue that religious Daoism is only one mode of applying the teachings, which are far too rich and multidimensional to be reduced to a faith-based cult. As the Russian sinologist Evgeny Torchinov once suggested, Daoism is more aptly described as a kind of “natural philosophy”—a term that captures its essence with precision.
The core argument for this view lies in the fact that Daoist masters were above all concerned with understanding the laws of nature, humanity’s place within them, and the art of living in harmony with a world often experienced as hostile. Knowledge of the Dao (read: the laws of nature, or of the cosmos itself) was pursued for eminently practical purposes: staying healthy and active into old age, achieving prosperity, using the rhythms of natural cycles, arranging one’s home, community, and even state in accordance with cosmic order.
In truth, such concerns were common to many early religious traditions before they ossified into institutions of power, where political and economic interests began to conflict with the pursuit of knowledge—producing the well-known divide between “religion” and “science.” Daoism, however, never formed a strict centralized church: its schools remained regional, diverse, and often at odds with the state. This very lack of institutionalization highlights the essence of the tradition: creative experimentation, openness to change, and adaptation to accumulated experience.
It should hardly surprise us, then, that Daoism deeply influenced the development of Chinese science. While “scholars” in the official sense were usually Confucians, Daoists contributed no less significantly. The intellectual foundations of Confucianism and Daoism were in fact closely related—the Book of Changes, for example, was a shared “manual” for both, as were concepts such as Wu-zi, Tai-zi, the cosmic qi, the Five Phases, and the Eight Trigrams. This shared ground allowed Daoism to act as a kind of proto-science, giving rise to numerous discoveries and inventions—from the compass and gunpowder to advances in geography, astronomy, chemistry, and medicine.
Yet life under conditions of “Oriental despotism” and the limited reach of technology did not encourage outward scientific expansion. Instead, Daoism directed much of its energy inward, into individual practice. Its most prominent and enduring achievement remains the system of “inner alchemy,” which not only shaped modern qigong but also laid the foundation for methods of energy and consciousness training in martial arts such as wushu and karate.
Thus the provisional structure of Daoist teaching might be outlined as follows:
• Natural-philosophical foundations (far broader than the two canonical texts usually cited);
• Practical application, encompassing external and internal alchemy (neigong), ritual practices, and a wide spectrum of methods ranging from the seemingly “magical” to the rigorously systematized.
These aspects often intertwined in ways that defy neat categorization—but that, perhaps, is a story for another time..

28/08/2025

«Soft and Hard in Wushu and Karate»
The concept of combining softness and hardness in the Eastern tradition reflects the universal Yin–Yang dyad. Martial arts, as part of this tradition, employ the symbolism not only as philosophy but also as a practical guide. It is telling that the names of well-known karate styles such as Gōjū-ryū and Pangainūn-ryū (the old name of Uechi-ryū) directly point to this duality.
The “soft–hard” polarity is manifested in breathing in and out, tension and relaxation, attack and defense. On the surface this seems straightforward, but the picture changes once we consider the cultivation of power and the economy of energy.
At the first stage, training relies on “hardness”: considerable effort is needed to strengthen the body and bring power under control. The result is increased potential and efficiency of techniques—yet also the danger of overstrain and injury. Here “softness” plays a regulating role, reducing the risk of harm and opening up alternative tactical options.
At the next stage, the practitioner increasingly depends on softness and relaxation, while still producing the same level of power at much lower cost. This is reminiscent of the Chinese notion from the so-called “internal” schools: “steel wrapped in cotton”—apparent softness concealing inner hardness. At this point the conceptual line between “internal” and “external” systems becomes blurred.
Closely related to the soft–hard principle is another polarity: slow–fast. Initially, slowness serves to refine correct mechanics; later, it allows energy to flow smoothly and seamlessly. This brings about the unity of body and mind—the ideal of “shingitai.” Speed itself becomes a function of relaxation: the softer the body, the swifter the movement, like “an arrow released from a bow.”
Classical martial arts manuals confirm this logic. According to the “Zhongguo wushu quanxie lu” (“Compendium of Chinese Martial Arts”) the “hard” Arhat Fist first trains firm effort, then soft-elastic effort. The Tiger style instructs: “cultivate hardness, but know softness.” The Dragon style declares: “within hardness, there is always softness.” Even in Taijiquan and Xingyiquan, one must first establish a solid stance, likened to the immobility of a mountain. Likewise, the much-discussed “rooting” is grounded not merely in mental focus but in tangible bodily skill—turning the skeleton into a kind of lightning rod that redirects the opponent’s force into the ground.
Thus, the dualism of soft and hard in wushu and karate is simple only on the surface. A deeper understanding reveals a layered methodology that goes far beyond the clichéd formula: “when you meet hardness—apply softness..”

26/08/2025

“The Magic of Sanchin Kata” (full)
The famous kata that entered Okinawan karate from China still sparks heated debate. Some view it as an almost “magical” source of power, others dismiss it as useless or even harmful. As is often the case, the truth lies somewhere in between.
Sanchin, usually translated as “Three Battles,” traces its roots to Southern Chinese martial arts. In China, the method is known as San Zhan—a broader term that also carries the meaning of “Three Entities.” The Chinese versions differ in form and ex*****on from the Okinawan ones, which gave rise to endless disputes over which is the “correct” variant. Yet such focus on external form often obscures the essence of the method.
That essence is already hinted at in the name: the triad of body, power, and movement. Once a student has learned proper stance (the “structure of the body”), breathing, and the basic strikes and blocks, Sanchin teaches how to unify them into a single, forceful movement. It is not a one-time exercise but a lifelong practice that continues to reveal new layers over the years.
This is why masters in both China and Okinawa considered Sanchin fundamental. It does not so much teach fighting techniques as it provides the key to mastering them. Expecting that merely repeating the form will turn one into a “superhuman” inevitably leads to disappointment. But idolizing its breathing patterns and isometric strain is also misguided: many schools (such as Uechi-ryū) practice Sanchin without the forceful ibuki breathing, using a more dynamic rhythm instead.
It is telling that Chōjun Miyagi, in his 1936 lecture “Karate-dō Kaisetsu,” listed not only Sanchin and Tenshō but also Naihanchi among the “structural kata,” highlighting their role in building the body, harmonizing breath and movement, and cultivating the ability to concentrate energy. He went so far as to say that kata “instill the spirit of budō and provide an understanding of ki.” The remark is especially striking given that many of his followers dismiss all discussion of “life energy” as mere mysticism.
What unites the different versions of Sanchin, then, is not form but principle: a rooted stance, control of the center of gravity, the integration of muscles, tendons, and bones into one structure, the torsional action of the limbs, mindful breathing, mental focus, and willful intent. All of these lead toward the ideal of “motion within stillness, stillness within motion.”
So which Sanchin is the “right” one? The answer lies in how well the practitioner grasps the principle itself. External form is secondary and adapts to the emphasis of each master. Sanchin is less a fixed pattern than a method and an idea. That is where its true magic resides..

25/08/2025

"Far Eastern “Inner Cultivation” and Martial Arts"
Let me begin with some personal experience—how these two seemingly distant domains, “inner cultivation” and martial arts, came to align in both my thinking and in their application to life.
As a teenager I was fascinated by Shaolin martial arts. Much later, for various reasons, Okinawan karate took their place. Daoist mysteries and Buddhist concepts interested me only occasionally; I mostly encountered their terminology and worldview indirectly, while studying history or reading translations of old treatises. At first, it was more than enough to focus on the technical wealth of wushu and karate. My “inner work” was limited to a short mental concentration before and after training, the practice of stance-training (zhan zhuang), and the kata Sanchin.
Yet even these simple methods, as I delved deeper, began to evoke associations with things I had once come across in ancient instructions. At first such “flashbacks” were sporadic and puzzling, but later they pushed me to take those old teachings more seriously. My martial arts experience had already convinced me of one key point: mastering the subtleties of body power depends less on bending ancient words to suit one’s own interpretation, and more on the mind’s ability to “hear” their true meaning. Even the slightest shift in perception changes much in practice. This means one should approach classical texts and philosophical traditions with strong skepticism toward conventional, ready-made interpretations.
Immersion in the practices of neigong (“internal work”) and the Daoist–Buddhist worldview revealed many new things—and at the same time familiar ones—that ultimately deepened my understanding of both wushu and karate. The picture would be incomplete, however, without another sphere of interest: modern science. It keeps the mind sober and offers a way to verify which ideas of the past are still sound. Taken together, this multidirectional, systemic approach proved to be highly productive.
After years of study and testing in practice, I can now state with confidence: the philosophical tradition of the “Three Teachings” (Daoism, Buddhism, Confucianism) constitutes the “technological foundation” of East Asian martial arts. Their value lies not so much in combat effectiveness as in strengthening body and mind, and in making the utilitarian art of fighting a reliable companion for solving broader life tasks. This is how “art” becomes a “path”—not in the superficial sense of comparing a fight to life or forcibly attaching “combat philosophy” to life philosophy, but in a deeper and more practical way. The path I describe is not adorned with lofty slogans, but it resonates more authentically with ancient teachings and feels decidedly more real.
There is another side to this. Martial arts are also a superb tool for “dispelling illusions.” One may talk endlessly about the illusory nature of existence, “immovable prajna,” or serene Zen equanimity, while practicing “spiritual methods.” But the moment you step into combat, the truth of one’s attainment becomes immediately clear. The same applies to those who claim mastery of qi circulation along the meridians—they like to prove how far they have “advanced” in internal power. Yet let them try to defend themselves with it! In that arena, the discussion ends quickly and decisively. Power is power, no matter how you name it – if you really have it, use it! For this reason, martial arts serve spiritual practitioners as a measure of genuine progress and as a way to cut through illusions – a very important Buddhist idea. It is no surprise that martial disciplines were often cultivated within temples and monasteries.
In the end, dear reader and practitioner, it is for you to decide whether “inner cultivation” is necessary in martial arts—or, conversely, whether martial arts should be measured against the uncompromising reality of combat. For me the answer is unequivocal: separating the two would be like removing mathematics from physics and chemistry, and then attempting to study the latter in isolation.

The Path Revised

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