The quiet strength of beauty in Kyoto

I traveled to Kyoto, Japan, late last year. True to its reputation as an “empire of beauty,” the city revealed an abundance of elegance and quiet splendor.

During World War II, Kyoto was once listed as a potential target for an atomic bomb. Its survival, however, owed much to the decisive intervention of Henry L. Stimson, then the U.S. secretary of war. Stimson, who had spent his honeymoon in Kyoto, felt a deep personal attachment to the former imperial capital. He adamantly opposed bombing the city, unwilling to see a cultural and artistic center, home to thousands of temples, shrines and palaces, reduced to ashes.

People often say that beauty can save the world. Kyoto stands as a vivid testament to that idea. Beauty is not only a city’s or a nation’s greatest asset; at times, it can also serve as its most powerful shield.

I took countless photos in Kyoto. If I had to choose just one, this would be it. Set back from the city center along a narrow two-lane road stood Hayakawa Hamonoten, a specialty knife shop. At first glance, it looked little different from a small hardware store. Inside, an elderly man with white hair moved slowly as he attended to customers. They were foreigners, one man and one woman. As our group approached the entrance, they shifted awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable. It appeared they had been waiting in line for quite some time to pay. We decided to wait outside until they finished. At that moment, a single sheet of paper taped to the glass window caught my eye. It was written in neat, carefully printed English. I read it line by line.

“To our customers. I would like to sincerely thank everyone who has traveled from far away to visit my shop. Thank you very much. I was born in 1937 and I run this shop alone. I do not speak English, so I may keep you waiting for a long time and cause inconvenience. I am very sorry. I ask for your kind understanding. I would also like to make an announcement. This shop will close in June 2027. The year 2027 will mark exactly 120 years since my family first opened this shop.”

What struck me most was that the announcement concerned not next year, but the year after. To state it so far in advance felt unmistakably professional. One member of our group, who visits the shop as a ritual whenever he comes to Kyoto to browse new knives, choose gifts for friends and greet the owner, could not hide his disappointment.

Seen through the window, the old man’s movements were calm and deliberate. He bowed to customers in thanks and offered engraving services, carving buyers’ names or business names onto the knives. In one corner lay a guestbook filled with messages left by visitors over the years. How many names and memories must it contain. Time rushes forward for all of us, eventually carrying us to its final stretch. Watching my mother and mother-in-law, both ill in old age, I find myself hoping their last journey will be less painful and less lonely.

A new year has arrived once again. There is a sense of anticipation, but beneath it lingers a deep unease, like a gathering shadow. How much longer will I be able to do this work. How will I spend those long years of old age without it. Will my health endure. How much time remains. The old man must face the same questions. That he could clearly and calmly declare the moment of his retirement struck me as something both beautiful and profoundly admirable.