This isn’t the official announcement, you understand, but the next two Castalia History books are going to be ON WAR by Carl von Clausewitz. And as with THE TALE OF GENJI, thanks to our new translation system we have the option of either utilizing the classic translation or using our own original translation. What we do not have the option of doing is using the existing translations that are still under copyright. So what we ask today is for you to do us the favor of reading three different versions of the same chapter, a chapter that was selected specifically for some of the challenges it poses to the translator, and telling us in the poll at the end which of the three translations you prefer.
If you wish to explain the reasons for your preference in the comments after you vote in the poll, that’s absolutely fine. We would only ask that no one read through the comments until they have a) read each of the translations through in their entirety and b) voted in the poll.
It’s not necessary to read the translations closely, as there is not going to be a test on the details at the end, but please at least skim over each of them from beginning to end in order to get a good sense of which translation you prefer.
TRANSLATION ONE
As long as we have no personal knowledge of War, we cannot conceive where those difficulties lie of which so much is said, and what that genius and those extraordinary mental powers required in a General have really to do. All appears so simple, all the requisite branches of knowledge appear so plain, all the combinations so unimportant, that in comparison with them the easiest problem in higher mathematics impresses us with a certain scientific dignity. But if we have seen War, all becomes intelligible; and still, after all, it is extremely difficult to describe what it is which brings about this change, to specify this invisible and completely efficient factor.
Everything is very simple in War, but the simplest thing is difficult. These difficulties accumulate and produce a friction which no man can imagine exactly who has not seen War, Suppose now a traveller, who towards evening expects to accomplish the two stages at the end of his day’s journey, four or five leagues, with post-horses, on the high road—it is nothing. He arrives now at the last station but one, finds no horses, or very bad ones; then a hilly country, bad roads; it is a dark night, and he is glad when, after a great deal of trouble, he reaches the next station, and finds there some miserable accommodation. So in War, through the influence of an infinity of petty circumstances, which cannot properly be described on paper, things disappoint us, and we fall short of the mark. A powerful iron will overcomes this friction; it crushes the obstacles, but certainly the machine along with them. We shall often meet with this result. Like an obelisk towards which the principal streets of a town converge, the strong will of a proud spirit stands prominent and commanding in the middle of the Art of War.
Friction is the only conception which in a general way corresponds to that which distinguishes real War from War on paper. The military machine, the Army and all belonging to it, is in fact simple, and appears on this account easy to manage. But let us reflect that no part of it is in one piece, that it is composed entirely of individuals, each of which keeps up its own friction in all directions. Theoretically all sounds very well: the commander of a battalion is responsible for the execution of the order given; and as the battalion by its discipline is glued together into one piece, and the chief must be a man of acknowledged zeal, the beam turns on an iron pin with little friction. But it is not so in reality, and all that is exaggerated and false in such a conception manifests itself at once in War. The battalion always remains composed of a number of men, of whom, if chance so wills, the most insignificant is able to occasion delay and even irregularity. The danger which War brings with it, the bodily exertions which it requires, augment this evil so much that they may be regarded as the greatest causes of it.
This enormous friction, which is not concentrated, as in mechanics, at a few points, is therefore everywhere brought into contact with chance, and thus incidents take place upon which it was impossible to calculate, their chief origin being chance. As an instance of one such chance: the weather. Here the fog prevents the enemy from being discovered in time, a battery from firing at the right moment, a report from reaching the General; there the rain prevents a battalion from arriving at the right time, because instead of for three it had to march perhaps eight hours; the cavalry from charging effectively because it is stuck fast in heavy ground.
These are only a few incidents of detail by way of elucidation, that the reader may be able to follow the author, for whole volumes might be written on these difficulties. To avoid this, and still to give a clear conception of the host of small difficulties to be contended with in War, we might go on heaping up illustrations, if we were not afraid of being tiresome. But those who have already comprehended us will permit us to add a few more.
Activity in War is movement in a resistant medium. Just as a man immersed in water is unable to perform with ease and regularity the most natural and simplest movement, that of walking, so in War, with ordinary powers, one cannot keep even the line of mediocrity. This is the reason that the correct theorist is like a swimming master, who teaches on dry land movements which are required in the water, which must appear grotesque and ludicrous to those who forget about the water. This is also why theorists, who have never plunged in themselves, or who cannot deduce any generalities from their experience, are unpractical and even absurd, because they only teach what every one knows—how to walk.
Further, every War is rich in particular facts, while at the same time each is an unexplored sea, full of rocks which the General may have a suspicion of, but which he has never seen with his eye, and round which, moreover, he must steer in the night. If a contrary wind also springs up, that is, if any great accidental event declares itself adverse to him, then the most consummate skill, presence of mind, and energy are required, whilst to those who only look on from a distance all seems to proceed with the utmost ease. The knowledge of this friction is a chief part of that so often talked of, experience in War, which is required in a good General. Certainly he is not the best General in whose mind it assumes the greatest dimensions, who is the most over-awed by it (this includes that class of over-anxious Generals, of whom there are so many amongst the experienced); but a General must be aware of it that he may overcome it, where that is possible, and that he may not expect a degree of precision in results which is impossible on account of this very friction. Besides, it can never be learnt theoretically; and if it could, there would still be wanting that experience of judgment which is called tact, and which is always more necessary in a field full of innumerable small and diversified objects than in great and decisive cases, when one’s own judgment may be aided by consultation with others. Just as the man of the world, through tact of judgment which has become habit, speaks, acts, and moves only as suits the occasion, so the officer experienced in War will always, in great and small matters, at every pulsation of War as we may say, decide and determine suitably to the occasion. Through this experience and practice the idea comes to his mind of itself that so and so will not suit. And thus he will not easily place himself in a position by which he is compromised, which, if it often occurs in War, shakes all the foundations of confidence and becomes extremely dangerous.
It is therefore this friction, or what is so termed here, which makes that which appears easy in War difficult in reality. As we proceed, we shall often meet with this subject again, and it will hereafter become plain that besides experience and a strong will, there are still many other rare qualities of the mind required to make a man a consummate General.
TRANSLATION TWO
So long as one does not know war oneself, one cannot comprehend where the difficulties of the matter lie, of which there is always talk, and what the genius and the extraordinary powers of mind demanded of the commander actually have to accomplish. Everything appears so simple, all the necessary knowledge appears so shallow, and all of the combinations so insignificant, that in comparison the simplest problem of higher mathematics impresses us with a certain scientific dignity. But once one has seen war, everything becomes comprehensible, and yet it is extremely difficult to describe what produces this change, to name this invisible and universally operative factor.
Everything in war is very simple, but the simplest thing is difficult. These difficulties accumulate and produce a friction that no one correctly imagines who has not seen war. Imagine a traveler who expects to cover two stages at the end of his day’s journey toward evening, four or five hours with post-horses on the highway; it is nothing. Now he arrives at the second-to-last station, finds no horses or bad ones, then a hilly region with ruined roads; it becomes pitch dark, and he is glad to have reached the next station after many hardships and find a meager lodging there. So in war, through the influence of innumerable small circumstances that can never properly be taken into account on paper, everything falls short, and one remains far behind the aim. A powerful iron will overcomes this friction; it crushes the obstacles, but the machine as well. We shall often return to this result. Like an obelisk toward which the main streets of a town converge, the firm will of a proud spirit stands imperiously prominent at the center of the art of war.
Friction is the only concept that fairly well corresponds to what distinguishes real war from war on paper. The military machine, the army and everything belonging to it, is fundamentally very simple and therefore seems easy to manage. But consider that no part of it is of one piece, that everything is composed of individuals, each of whom retains its own friction in every direction. In theory it sounds perfectly fine: the battalion commander is responsible for the execution of the given order, and since the battalion is glued into one piece by discipline and the commander must be a man of recognized zeal, the beam turns on an iron pin with little friction. But this is not how it is in reality, and everything exaggerated and false in the conception shows itself in war at once. The battalion always remains composed of a number of men, of whom, if chance so wills, the most insignificant is capable of causing a delay or some other irregularity. The dangers that war brings with it, the physical exertions it demands, magnify the evil to such a degree that they must be regarded as its most considerable causes.
This terrible friction, which cannot be concentrated on a few points as in mechanics, is therefore everywhere in contact with chance and then produces phenomena that cannot be calculated at all, precisely because they belong in large part to chance. One such chance occurrence is, for example, the weather. Here the fog prevents the enemy from being discovered in due time, prevents a cannon from firing at the right moment, prevents a report from reaching the commanding officer; there the rain prevents a battalion from arriving, prevents another from coming in time because it had to march perhaps eight hours instead of three, prevents the cavalry from charging effectively because it is bogged down in deep ground, and so on.
These few details are offered only for clarity and so that author and reader remain together on the subject, for otherwise whole volumes of such difficulties could be written. To avoid this and still produce a clear concept of the host of small difficulties one contends with in war, we would exhaust ourselves in images if we did not fear wearying the reader. But even those who have long since understood us will grant us a few more.
Action in war is movement in a resistant medium. Just as one is unable to perform in water the most natural and simple movement, mere walking, with ease and precision, just as little can one in war maintain even the line of the mediocre with ordinary powers. Hence it is that the true theorist appears like a swimming instructor who has movements necessary for the water practiced on dry land, movements that seem grotesque and exaggerated to those who do not think of the water; hence it is also that theorists who have never themselves been submerged, or who do not know how to abstract anything general from their experience, are impractical and even absurd, because they teach only what everyone can do: walk.
Furthermore, every war is rich in individual phenomena; consequently, every war is an uncharted sea full of reefs that the mind of the commander may sense, but that his eye has never seen, and around which he must now navigate in the dark of night. If an adverse wind rises as well, that is to say, if some great chance event declares itself against him, then the highest art, presence of mind, and exertion are required where to the distant observer everything seems to proceed of its own accord. The knowledge of this friction is a chief part of that often-praised experience of war demanded of a good general. To be sure, the best is not the one who has the greatest conception of it, who is most overawed by it, since this produces that class of timid generals so commonly found among the experienced ones, but rather, the general must know it in order to overcome it where possible, and in order not to expect a degree of precision in results that is simply impossible because of this friction.
Moreover, one will never learn it fully in theory, and even if one could, that exercise of judgment would still be lacking which is called tact, and which is always more necessary in a field full of infinitely small and manifold objects than in great decisive cases where one deliberates with oneself and with others. Just as only the tact of judgment, grown nearly to habit, allows the man of the world always to speak, act, and move fittingly, so only the war-experienced officer will always decide and determine fittingly in great and small events, one might say at every pulse-beat of the war. Through this experience and practice the thought comes to him of itself: this will work and that will not. He will therefore not easily find himself in a position to expose a weakness, which in war, if it happens frequently, shakes the very foundation of confidence and is extremely dangerous.
Friction, then, or what is here so called, is what makes the apparently easy difficult. We shall return to this subject often in what follows, and it will then also become clear that besides experience and a strong will, many other rare qualities of mind are required of the outstanding commander.
TRANSLATION THREE
If one has never personally experienced war, one cannot understand in what the difficulties constantly mentioned really consist, nor why a commander should need any brilliance and exceptional ability. Everything looks simple; the knowledge required does not look remarkable, the strategic options are so obvious that by comparison the simplest problem of higher mathematics has an impressive scientific dignity. Once war has actually been seen the difficulties become clear; but it is still extremely hard to describe the unseen, all-pervading element that brings about this change of perspective.
Everything in war is very simple, but the simplest thing is difficult. The difficulties accumulate and end by producing a kind of friction that is inconceivable unless one has experienced war. Imagine a traveler who late in the day decides to cover two more stages before nightfall. Only four or five hours more, on a paved highway with relays of horses: it should be an easy trip. But at the next station he finds no fresh horses, or only poor ones; the country grows hilly, the road bad, night falls, and finally after many difficulties he is only too glad to reach a resting place with any kind of primitive accommodation. It is much the same in war. Countless minor incidents—the kind you can never really foresee—combine to lower the general level of performance, so that one always falls far short of the intended goal. Iron will-power can overcome this friction; it pulverizes every obstacle, but of course it wears down the machine as well. We shall often return to this point. The proud spirit’s firm will dominates the art of war as an obelisk dominates the town square on which all roads converge.
Friction is the only concept that more or less corresponds to the factors that distinguish real war from war on paper. The military machine—the army and everything related to it—is basically very simple and therefore seems easy to manage. But we should bear in mind that none of its components is of one piece: each part is composed of individuals, every one of whom retains his potential of friction. In theory it sounds reasonable enough: a battalion commander’s duty is to carry out his orders; discipline welds the battalion together, its commander must be a man of tested capacity, and so the great beam turns on its iron pivot with a minimum of friction. In fact, it is different, and every fault and exaggeration of the theory is instantly exposed in war. A battalion is made up of individuals, the least important of whom may chance to delay things or somehow make them go wrong. The dangers inseparable from war and the physical exertions war demands can aggravate the problem to such an extent that they must be ranked among its principal causes.
This tremendous friction, which cannot, as in mechanics, be reduced to a few points, is everywhere in contact with chance, and brings about effects that cannot be measured, just because they are largely due to chance. One, for example, is the weather. Fog can prevent the enemy from being seen in time, a gun from firing when it should, a report from reaching the commanding officer. Rain can prevent a battalion from arriving, make another late by keeping it not three but eight hours on the march, ruin a cavalry charge by bogging the horses down in mud, etc.
We give these examples simply for illustration, to help the reader follow the argument. It would take volumes to cover all difficulties. We could exhaust the reader with illustrations alone if we really tried to deal with the whole range of minor troubles that must be faced in war. The few we have given will be excused by those readers who have long since understood what we are after.
Action in war is like movement in a resistant element. Just as the simplest and most natural of movements, walking, cannot easily be performed in water, so in war it is difficult for normal efforts to achieve even moderate results. A genuine theorist is like a swimming teacher, who makes his pupils practice motions on land that are meant to be performed in water. To those who are not thinking of swimming the motions will appear grotesque and exaggerated. By the same token, theorists who have never swum, or who have not learned to generalize from experience, are impractical and even ridiculous: they teach only what is already common knowledge: how to walk.
Moreover, every war is rich in unique episodes. Each is an uncharted sea, full of reefs. The commander may suspect the reefs’ existence without ever having seen them; now he has to steer past them in the dark. If a contrary wind springs up, if some major mischance appears, he will need the greatest skill and personal exertion, and the utmost presence of mind, though from a distance everything may seem to be proceeding automatically. An understanding of friction is a large part of that much-admired sense of warfare which a good general is supposed to possess. To be sure, the best general is not the one who is most familiar with the idea of friction, and who takes it most to heart (he belongs to the anxious type so common among experienced commanders). The good general must know friction in order to overcome it whenever possible, and in order not to expect a standard of achievement in his operations which this very friction makes impossible. Incidentally, it is a force that theory can never quite define. Even if it could, the development of instinct and tact would still be needed, a form of judgment much more necessary in an area littered by endless minor obstacles than in great, momentous questions, which are settled in solitary deliberation or in discussion with others. As with a man of the world instinct becomes almost habit so that he always acts, speaks, and moves appropriately, so only the experienced officer will make the right decision in major and minor matters—at every pulsebeat of war. Practice and experience dictate the answer: “this is possible, that is not.” So he rarely makes a serious mistake, such as can, in war, shatter confidence and become extremely dangerous if it occurs often.
Friction, as we choose to call it, is the force that makes the apparently easy so difficult. We shall frequently revert to this subject, and it will become evident that an eminent commander needs more than experience and a strong will. He must have other exceptional abilities as well.