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charlatan’s dojo and request “instruction” was an affirmation of my own humility, proof to me that I had reached a level where such trivial matters played no role.
    But I never banished that part of myself which noted with pride that
my
dojo had never been so invaded. Or the hidden pleasure I took from the knowledge that none would so dare.

18
    Once, I had been respected for my ability and teaching skills. But, as time passed, I came to be revered for my “wisdom.” At first—I now acknowledge with a shame too deep to express—this seemed quite justified to me.
    Such perception of wisdom ensured that I would fail its ultimate test. I had never acknowledged what I had
not
learned, nor had I ever pursued it.
    When I crossed that invisible line I do not know. But, perhaps gradually, my advice and counsel came to be prized not because of what I knew, but because of who I was. Did Ifail to notice? Or, more shamefully, did I take such as my due?
    In the eyes of my students, I was a … celebrity of some sort. And I dwelt within a culture in which celebrities are
expected
to pontificate mindlessly on subjects far beyond their own understanding, with every inane babble breathlessly regurgitated by an adoring press. I thrived in a culture in which actual achievements, even actual knowledge, had no real significance. And, thus, no value.
    In reality, it was the demon within me who was thriving, constantly replenished by the harvest of the arrogance I had sown.
    The higher the mountain of “fame” I climbed, the greater the distance I put between myself and a state of worthiness.

19
    In Japan, students had found their way to me because of my reputation. Many times, I had been forced to prove myself worthy of that reputation. Often, challengers were injured. Once, death resulted. As news of such “testing” magnified with each retelling, the motivation for others to train with me grew. I knew this, and regretted it. But since I myself had never issued a challenge, I believed I had retained my humility.
    When I first began teaching, challenges could not be avoided. Typically, they were even announced in advance. I faced each without fear, knowing the outcome was meaningless in the eyes of those who watched solely to judge the character of the combatants.
    But in America, I could not defend against what overtook me by stealth. Although my “wisdom” grew, no alarm sounded within me as students gradually concentrated less on my art than on questions such as have confounded the greatest sages for centuries.
    My degeneration gathered momentum, to the point where my students would have been disappointed if they had actually understood my answers. They believed that such wisdom as I dispensed would take years of study to comprehend fully.
    I had never been trained to deflect such a force. Slowly, my resistance gave way. Or, more likely, I yielded to the siren call of my own egotism.
    My speech itself became so larded with epigrams that it left space for little else. “The wind finds its own way” was a particular favorite of my students. Where once I had conversed, I now proclaimed. The humble man who had refused all titles now watched detached as “teacher” or “sensei” turned into “master.”
    The more I spoke, the less I taught.
    The more time I spent dispensing my hollow wisdom, the less I had for teaching the only truth I knew.

20
    Within my dojo, a laxness crept in. Training, once focused
on
focus, slid to a level of mere competence. Leaving much of the teaching to the most experienced students, I became a “holistic” practitioner of my art, melding the spiritual with the physical as seamlessly as had the rulers of my childhood.
    My rhetoric did not change. I maintained that a true teacher is also a student. By teaching, he also learns. But by then, I was studying to become a master of tautology, spewing meaningless truths as if they were keys to a higher plane of understanding.
    For the first time, I began