The Empire of Signs. Semiotic Essays on Japanese Culture. Foundations of Semiotics 9027232784, 9789027232786

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THE EMPIRE OF SIGNS

FOUNDATIONS OF SEMIOTICS General Editor ACHIM ESCHBACH (University of Essen)

Advisory Editorial Board Herbert E. Brekle (Regensburg); Geoffrey L. Bursill-Hall (Burnaby, B.C.) Eugenio Coseriu (Tübingen); Marcelo Dascal (Tel-Aviv) Lambertus M. de Rijk (Leiden); Max H. Fisch (Indianapolis) Rudolf Haller (Graz); Robert E. Innis (Lowell, Mass.) Norman Kretzmann (Ithaca, N.Y.); W. Keith Percival (Lawrence, Kansas) Jan Sulowski (Warszawa); Jürgen Trabant (Berlin)

Volume 8

Yoshihiko Ikegami (ed.) The Empire of Signs

THE EMPIRE OF SIGNS SEMIOTIC ESSAYS ON JAPANESE CULTURE edited by

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI University of Tokyo

JOHN BENJAMINS PUBLISHING COMPANY AMSTERDAM/PHILADELPHIA 1991

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The Empire of signs / edited by Yoshihiko Ikegami. p. cm. -- (Foundations of semiotics, ISSN 0168-2555; v. 8) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Japan - Civilization. 2. Culture ~ Semiotic models. I. Ikegami, Yoshihiko, 1934. II. Series. DS821.E54 1991 306'.0952 - dc20 90-43668 ISBN 90 272 3278 4 (alk. paper) CIP © Copyright 1991 - John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher.

For Ikuko and Fumihiko

Contents

Introduction: Semiotics and Culture Yoshihiko Ikegami

1

The Notion of the Sign in Japanese Tradition Tomonori Toyama

25

Creative Interpretation of the Text and the Japanese Mentality Michiko Arima

33

Characters that Represent, Reflect, and Translate Culture — in the Context of the Revolution in Modern Art Shutaro Mukai The Images of Japanese Landscapes: A Typological Approach Tadahiko Higuchi Semiosis in Architecture: A Systemic Analysis of the Traditional Towntextures in Japan Teruyuki Monnai

57

85

101

Intertextuality in Japanese Traditional Music Yoshihiko Tokumaru

139

The "Forbidden Chamber" Motif in a Japanese Fairy Tale Hayao Kawai

157

Aspects of Japanese Nonverbal Behavior in Relation to Traditional Culture Yasuko Tohyama

181

viii

CONTENTS

Cosmological Dimension of the Japanese Theater Masao Yamaguchi

219

Literary Semiotics of Suburban Houses Toshihiko Kawasaki

241

The Ghost Trio: Beckett, Yeats, and Noh Yasunari Takahashi

257

A Semiotic Approach to the Role of Paritta in the Buddhist Ritual Tamotsu Aoki

269

'Do-language' and 'Become-language': Two Contrasting Types of Linguistic Representation Yoshihiko Ikegami

285

Index

327

Contributors

AOKI, Tamotsu: Professor, Faculty of Human Sciences, University of Osaka. A cultural anthropologist with special focus on the Buddhist cul­ ture in Southeast Asia. He is also widely interested in the problem of intercultural communication and interpretation. Visiting a Culture of Silence (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1976), Interpretation of Culture (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1978), The Symbolic in the Ritual (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1984). ARIMA, Michiko: Professor, Department of English, Koka Women's Col­ lege. Originally an English linguistics major, now her research interest concerns, above all, the creative aspects of human semiosis. "Abduction in Performance" (in Japanese, Studia Semiotica 2,1982), "Schizophrenia as Semiotic Disintegration" {Code 8, 1986), Spellbound by Signs (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1986). HIGUCHI, Tadahiko: Professor, Faculty of Engineering, University of Niigata. As an environmental engineer, he is specially interested in the spatial structure and significances of the culturally defined landscape types. The Structure of the Landscape (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1974), Pro­ totypical Landscape Types of Japan (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1981), The Vis­ ual and Spatial Structure of Landscape (Cambridge, MA, 1983). IKEGAMI, Yoshihiko: Professor, College of Arts and Sciences, University of Tokyo. Educated in English linguistics and philology. His research interest centers on the problem of meaning, as discussed in semantics, semiotics, and poetics. The Semological Structure of the English Verbs of Motion (Tokyo, 1970), Semantics (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1975), Poetics and Cultural Semiotics (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1983).

X

CONTRIBUTORS

KAWAI, Hayao: Professor, Faculty of Education, University of Kyoto. A Jungian psychoanalyst, who writes extensively on a wide variety of cul­ tural topics, such as folklore, history, education and children. Introduc­ tion to Jungian Psychology (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1967), Phenomenology of the Shadow (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1976), Folktales and the Japanese Mind (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1982). tKAWASAKI, Toshihiko: Professor, Faculty of Letters, University of Nagoya. Starting from the English major with an emphasis on literary criticism, he extends his interest to comparative literature and semiotics of culture. Mannerism of the Mirror (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1978), The Garden and England (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1983), The Paradise and the Garden (in Japanese, Nagoya, 1984). MUKAI, Shutaro: Professor, Musashino Art University. As well as his research and practice in design (especially, industrial design), he is also a well-known practitioner of concrete poetry. The Origin of Design (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1978), 'Zwischen Universalität und Individualität — Meine Stellungnahme als Dichter der konkreten Poesie' (Semiosis 13, 1979), Semiosis of Form (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1986). MONNAI, Teruyuki: Associate Professor, School of Science and Engineering, Waseda University. His specialities are architecture and urban planning. He is also interested in a semiotic approach to these problems. "The Semiotic Analysis of Town Texture (1) - (19)" (in Japanese: Architectural Institute of Japan, Tokyo, 1981-88), "Perfor­ mance in Architecture" ( in Japanese: in S. Kawamoto et al., eds.: Artas Sign, Tokyo, 1982), Design Methodology (Tokyo, 1982). TAKAHASHI, Yasunari: Professor, College of Arts and Sciences, Univer­ sity of Tokyo. A scholar on English literature. His interest extends to such topics as performing art, the theater of absurdity, word play, and nonsense poetry. Genealogy of Ecstasy (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1966), Lit­ erature of the Clown (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1977), Summa Nonsensica (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1977), Ouroboros (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1981). TOHYAMA, Yasuko: Lecturer, Department of Foreign Languages, Meikai University. She writes extensively on nonverbal behaviors, espe-

CONTRIBUTORS

xi

cially, from a contrastive point of view. "An Analysis of the Turn-Tak­ ing System in English Dyadic Conversation" (MA Thesis, Japan Women's University), "A Semiotic Analysis of Meeting and Parting Rituals in Japanese and English" (Proceedings of the 13th International Congress of Linguists, Tokyo, 1983), "Research in Nonverbal Behavior: A Consideration of Methodology" (in Japanese, Studia Semiotica 4, 1984). TOKUMARU, Yoshihiko: Professor, Faculty of Letters and Education, Ochanomizu University. A musicologist with special emphasis on Asian and Japanese music. Reintroduction to Music for Parents and Children (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1979), Musical Voices of Asia (joint editor, Tokyo, 1980), "L'aspect mélodique de la musique de syamisen" (Ph.D. disserta­ tion, Laval, 1981). TOYAMA, Tomonori: Associate Professor, Faculty of Education, Univer­ sity of Shizuoka. His research interest is architecture from a semiotic point of view, especially the problem of designing the living space. "As­ pects of Design Semiotics" (Semiosis 6, 1977), The Housing in Relation to the Family (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1985), "Semiotics in Japan" (in The Semiotic Sphere, ed. by T. A. Sebeok and J. Umiker-Sebeok, New York, 1986). YAMAGUCHI, Masao: Professor, Institute of Asian and African Studies, Tokyo University of Foreign Affairs. An anthropologist — one, how­ ever, whose interest extends interdisciplinarily and internationally to vir­ tually all fields of human cultural activity. Culture and Ambivalence (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1975), Poetics of Culture (2 vols., in Japanese, Tokyo, 1983), Folklore of the Clown (in Japanese, Tokyo, 1985).

Introduction: Semiotics and Culture Yoshihiko Ikegami

The task of an editor is to mediate between what he proposes to present and its potential readership. Some words in this connection will certainly be in order in presenting this collection of essays entitled, The Empire of Signs: Semiotic Essays on Japanese Culture. Like Roland Barthes' well-known book, L'empire des signes, from which its title is taken, the present volume contains essays dealing with cer­ tain aspects of Japanese culture. Also like those contained in Barthes' book, the essays in the present volume are generally characterized by a mildly semiotic orientation, which means that while the authors may or may not be explicitly conscious of semiotic formulation, they are all (at least in the editor's view) interested in, and concerned with signifying (or meaninggenerating) activity (whether based on a covert code, or directed toward changing the established code, or in fact, introducing a new code) observa­ ble in the specific cultural spheres they are dealing with. It thus seems to the editor of the present volume that there are (at least) three points which he as mediator should say something about in this introducing chapter, namely, 'Semiotics,' 'Culture' (in relation to 'semio­ tics'), and 'Roland Barthes' (in relation to his L'empire des signes). 1.

Semiotics

Semiotics is interested in the human activity of generating meaning. Thus it is concerned with any phenomenon in which (to use a classical characteriza­ tion) "aliquid stat pro aliquo" ("something stands for something else"). A technical term applied to such a phenomen is 'semiosis' (or 'semiotic pro­ cess,' as it is sometimes called). Characteristic of today's semiotics is its focus on that aspect of semiosis in which man is actively involved in his

2

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

capacity of 'homo significans,' that is, of a being whose distinguished prop­ ensity it is to evaluate and assign significances and values to things and phenomena around him in relation to himself, thus creating his own Umwelt (or environmental world filled with all kinds of significances). Semiotics is thus concerned with the very basis of existence of man both as an animal being, on a level with other living beings, and as a typically human being, as distinguished from other living beings, with its uniquely eminent capacity of creating a world of significances of his own called 'culture.' It will not be difficult to imagine that semiotics, thus characterized, will involve an immense variety of areas. It will naturally be concerned with all aspects of culture in so far as they are understood to involve the creation of eminently human values. In its most widely stretched sense, it may even cover such cases of information transmission as on the basis of the genetic code at the biological level, as through signalling behaviors dictated by the innately programmed code at the animal level, and as in the automatic operation of machines according to the prescribed rules — cases where human involvement can be talked about only in a very indirect and remotely related sense. Given this diversity of areas with which semiotics is to concern itself, on the one hand, and the current, still uncertain methodological state of the art, on the other, the most realistic approach that can be taken at the pre­ sent stage is to postulate and concentrate on a certain more or less specific area as manifesting 'prototypical' semiosis, build a model for it, and apply the model to other areas, modifying it, when necessary, as the base of refer­ ence to be further elaborated. The view I would like to propose in this connection is that such 'pro­ totypical' semiosis, as the central concern for semiotics, is, above all, to be sought in the semiotic activities involving human beings, that is, the semiosis in which a person interprets something as standing for something else, and more specifically, that particular kind of human semiotic activity involving the manipulation of language. The claim of prototypicality for human semiosis, and above all, for lin­ guistic semiosis, is by no means self-evident. I am fully aware of the criti­ cisms that have been directed to such orientations in terms of 'anthropocentrism' and 'logocentrism.' The central theme of these criticisms is that such orientations result in imposing one particular model on those semiotic phenomena for which there is no guarantee that the model is really conge­ nial. It is, therefore, necessary here both to justify and defend my claim by

INTRODUCTION

3

showing that these criticisms do not apply to the way in which I conceive of human and, above all, linguistic semiosis as prototypical. One point to be particularly emphasized is that the human semiotic activities are not so monolithic as the term 'anthroposemiosis' may suggest. In fact, one of the distinctive characteristics of human semiotic activities is its variety: it covers a very wide range of divergent kinds of semiosis, rang­ ing from strictly rule-governed semiosis comparable either to instinct-moti­ vated semiosis in animals or to code-controlled semiosis in machines, on the one hand, and to wildly rule-breaking and rule-changing semiosis as seen in certain creative acts in art and other spheres, on the other. Anthroposemiosis is thus very likely able to lend itself as a model to any kind of semiosis. If anthroposemiosis is likely to serve as a model for the conceivably widest variety of semiosis, linguistic semiosis is then likely to serve as a model for the conceivably widest variety of anthroposemiosis. Linguistic semiosis also ranges from the strictly rule-governed type as seen in the man­ ipulation of scientific and technical vocabulary to the wildly rule-breaking and rule-changing type as seen in certain experimental poetry. Notice that linguistics deals with only a portion of this whole gamut of linguistic semiosis: it confines itself to more or less rule-governed types of linguistic semiosis and thus it is clearly inadequate as a model for human semiosis as a whole. 1 While linguistic semiosis does certainly cover a wide range of varieties, a question can relevantly be asked what varieties of linguistic semiotics are most typical of man. It seems to me that there are not many different answers to this question. We agree that man is capable of the greatest var­ ieties of semiosis. We can therefore proceed to eliminate those varieties which are also observable outside anthroposemiosis. We can most certainly eliminate first of all those varieties which are characterized by strictly rulegoverned behaviors — such as the ones seen in the biologically embedded behaviors at the animal level and the code-controlled operations of machines. What will remain, as most distinctly characteristic of human semiosis, will be those types of semiosis in which rule-changing, or even better, rule-creating behaviors are involved. The conclusion is not surpris­ ing at all; it is after all what has often been said of human beings in terms of 'homo significans' or 'structuring animals.' If we further ask ourselves what are then the varieties of linguistic semiosis most typically charac­ terized by rule-changing or rule-creating behaviors, the answer again will not be very difficult to find — namely, poetic language.

4

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

Positing poetic language as characteristic of human semiosis may be rather shocking to those traditional linguists who view poetic language as something special and consider it to be excluded from their data. But this is exactly the difference between linguistics and semiotics. Linguistics deals with language, as far as it can go, as a set of rule-governed behaviors and this is a natural consequence of the essentially 'scientific' orientation of the discipline, as well as of the fact that language, as a social convention, must necessarily be more or less rule-governed in nature. But if we, in semiotics, come to deal not just with the particular type of human semiosis called lan­ guage but with the other immense varieties of human semiosis, we will immediately be encountered not only with a number of cases of semiosis in which human beings go beyond the prescribed semiotic conventions but also with a perhaps even greater number of cases in which there is no such convention at all and hence the human semiotic activity counts as some­ thing comparable to the divine creation of language. And where, within the whole range of manifold human linguistic activities, do we find this creative aspect more apparently than in poetic language, covering not only the lan­ guage of poetry in the strict sense of the word, but also any variety of lan­ guage use involving this creative aspect, for example the language of adver­ tising ('poetry with a sponsor'), of children, and various kinds of language play? This consideration leads to the following important point. If poetic lan­ guage represents the most characteristic aspect of human semiosis involving language, then it is poetics, and not linguistics, as is often suggested, that will qualify as the ultimate theoretical model for semiotics.2 Poetics, however, is as yet far from a firmly defined and established discipline. Until now it has been developed depending heavily on linguis­ tics. We can now conceive of relating poetics not just to linguistics (whose primary data are rule-governed semiotic behaviors), but to semiotics instead (whose primary data must necessarily involve a huge portion of rule-changing or rule-creating semiotic behaviors). But then the relation­ ship between poetics and semiotics will be a rather different one from the one between poetics and linguistics. Both poetics and semiotics are, as we are all aware, subjects still in need of elaboration, and therefore there can­ not be a simple one-way application of one as a model for the other. They are to be developed interactionally; the development in one offering new insights in the other. Thus the relationship between the two is itself a semiot­ ic process — either of them being engaged, interactionally referring to the

INTRODUCTION

5

other, in creating a model for rule-changing and rule-creating semiotic behaviors. These considerations should make it clear that semiotics does not consist in simply applying an already fixed model to the yet unexplored area, thereby arriving at a semiotic model. The application of any already more or less defined model in semiotics, if made at all, must be regarded as no more than 'heuristic,' that is, it serves only as a first approximation, to be maintained, modified or thrown away, depending on whether it may or may not give some new insights. By now it will thus be sufficiently clear that although I posit linguistic semiosis as prototypical subject areas for semiotic study, I am far from suggesting and advocating the application of linguistic methodology, as pro­ viding us with a set of discovery procedures leading to sure and unmistaka­ ble answer. Both the scope of linguistics and its essential methodological orientation as an academic discipline disqualify it as anything like an almighty model with full promise of really significant results in semiotic research. A possible danger, if any, lies not so much in positing linguistic semiosis as prototypical subject areas for semiotic studies but rather in readily identifying the semiosis based on certain particular types of lan­ guage as prototypical. There is especially a strong tendency of regarding those languages as more or less prototypical which function on a more explicitly stipulating code — more concretely, those languages which approximate to the representation in 'logic,' and these languages are often, rather tautologically in fact, identified with 'Standard Average European.' What is problematic about such a tendency will be quite clear from the pre­ ceding discussion. We have argued that what is essentially distinctive about human semiotic activities lies not so much in their rule-governed aspects as in their rule-changing and rule-creating aspects, that is, in those aspects in which human beings act on their own as interpreting (and not merely decoding) subjects. This leads us to a conclusion — apparently paradoxical enough to the traditional notion — that prototypical semiosis in the linguis­ tic behavior of human beings is to found in the heavily context-dependent languages (which, because of their correlative lesser explicitness, have often been derogatorily, but misleadingly, characterized as 'alogical' or even 'illogical') rather than in ideally context-independent languages (to which 'Standard Average European' is sometimes approximated). Notice that there is a close correlation between the type of language with strong context-dependent orientation, on the one hand, and poetic language, on

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the other, whose important implications for semiotic studies were emphasized in one of the preceding paragraphs. Poetic language is also a kind of language characterized by relatively heavy dependence on context because of its minimally code-controlled character; hence it is associated with relatively heavy involvement of the human subject as interpreter. (The contrastive counterpart of poetic language is ideally scientific language with its maximally code-controlled character and hence the role of the human subject is expected to be that of a decoder rather than an interpreter.) This consideration places a language like Japanese in a peculiarly interesting position. Anyone who has heard or read something about Japanese must have been told that, on the one hand, the 'omission' of the grammatical subject is quite common in this language; that there is no dis­ tinction between singular and plural for nouns; no comparison for adjec­ tives; no distinction as to grammatical person for verbs; and so forth — fea­ tures which cause the language to be necessarily and heavily dependent on context in fulfilling its communicative function. The same person may also have been told at the same time that, on the other hand, the language has at its disposal dozens of pronouns to choose from, and an intricate honorific system of saying things differently to persons of different rank — features also characterizing the language as extremely sensitive to context. Faced with all these (apparent) complexities, an early Christian missionary from the West is said to have called the language despairingly a 'devil's lan­ guage.' The alleged 'complexities' are in fact only apparent, because com­ plexities are relative to the kind of function on which each language chooses particularly to focus. Thus (to borrow Halliday's terminology 3 ), the West­ ern languages relatively focus on the ideational function, while Japanese relatively focuses on the interpersonal function. But whether or not Japanese is really and truly a 'devil's language,' those very traits, on the basis of which it is characterized as such, qualify it as a particularly interesting semiotic object, not only in the sense of man­ ifesting an alternative way in which the communicative function of language can be fulfilled, but also of being a locus of a typically human mode of semiosis in which a higher degree of the speaker's involvement is a pre­ requisite. The semiotic enterprise cannot possibly disregard it. To slightly modify the words of B.L. Whorf: "To exclude the evidence which [a lan­ guage like this] offers as to what the human mind can do is like expecting botanists to study nothing but food plants and hothouse roses and then tell us what the plant world is like!" (Whorf 1950).4

INTRODUCTION

2.

7

Culture in relation to semiotics

There is a branch of semiotics which specifically addresses itself to the prob­ lem of culture. This branch is called 'semiotics of culture' or 'cultural semio­ tics.' The characterization of cultural semiotics, as a subfield of semiotics, follows naturally from the discussion of the notion of semiotics in the pre­ ceding section. We have argued that the semiotic activities by man should constitute the central concern of semiotics. Since culture is something that is created, maintained and further modified and developed by human semiotic activities, it constitutes the most characteristically human part of anthroposemiosis. Hence cultural semiotics can be considered as constitut­ ing the integral part of semiotics. Our discussion in the preceding section also defines the procedures and organization of cultural semiotics. We have argued that the human semiotic activities in terms of language constitute the prototype of anthroposemiosis in the sense that they represent the whole range of varieties of semiosis in which human beings are conceivably involved. Language is thus held to occupy a special position in culture: it is itself a semiotic system, but it is at the same time a metasemiotic system in terms of which other semiotic sys­ tems in culture are interpreted. We may perhaps go still a step further and claim that it is also a metasemiotic system in the sense that, thanks to the wide variety of semiosis it is capable of, it lends itself as a model for all the other semiotic systems in culture. The resulting picture is something very close to the Tartu-school notion of language as a 'primary modeling sys­ tem,' and other cultural semiotic systems as 'secondary,' also with modeling functions of their own and with structures describably analogous to lan­ guage. 5 Let me add at once, however, that I subscribe to the view not as an a priori justified model, but as one to be heuristically tested — i.e., it is to be justified solely on the grounds of its capability to help us to obtain new insights into the nature of semiotic process. But it seems to me that this whole picture counts as 'the best guess' at the present stage of theoretical development. Cultural semiotics, then, approaches culture with a view toward estab­ lishing a model of how culture is created, maintained and developed in terms of the characteristically human ever-renewing practice of giving sig­ nificances to everything in which man is involved. It is the emphasis on this last-mentioned orientation which provides cultural semiotics with its characteristically wide perspective and thus distinguishes it from other dis-

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ciplines dealing similarly with culture. Stated in somewhat more concrete terms, this orientation of cultural semiotics will be manifested in the follow­ ing way. Thus, when it is concerned with a particular area of a particular culture, cultural semiotics will be interested in seeing if the semiotic mechanism working there is not essentially the same as those working in the other areas of the same culture — the whole culture being characterized and integrated by a dominant semiotic orientation. When it is concerned with a whole culture, cultural semiotics will be interested in locating the characteristic semiotic orientation of a particular culture within the whole spectrum of possible different orientations of human semiosis. In this orientation of cultural semiotics, two important operational notions will occupy the central position — namely, the notion of homology and that of typology of human semiosis. 'Homology' is defined, in the most general way, as "having the same or a similar relation; corresponding, as in relative position, structure, etc." {Random House Dictionary). It is originally a term in zoology and botany and is used with an implication of genetic relationship, thus, "Having the same relation to an original or fundamental structure (but not necessarily in function)" {Oxford English Dictionary). A quotation cited from the year 1896 is very instructive: Tarts which correspond in their real nature (their origin and development) are termed "homologous"; those which agree merely in appearance or office are said to be "analogous".' Thus the dog's forelegs and the grasshopper's wings are homologous, while the grasshop­ per's wings and the eagles's wings are analogous. As a term in semiotics, 'homology' may be used primarily as a struc­ tural term without an implication of genetic relationship, thus, Relation der 'Aquivalenz zwischen (mindestens) zwei (mindestens) zweistelligen Relationen, die jeweils beliebige Terme derselben oder verschiedener Klassen verknüpfen. [...] In einem Objektbereich A verhält sich also ein Term a zu einem Term b wie in einem Bereich B ein Term c zu einem d. [...] Von der Analogie unterscheidet sich die Homologie dadurch, daβ die Terme a und c einerseits, b und d andererseits untereinander keine gemeinsamen Merkmale haben müssen, wenngleich die solche natürlich haben können (Titzmann 1977:152).

There is good reason, however, for reintroducing the notion of genetic relationship advantageously when we apply 'homology' as a term in cultural semiotics. This is because culture seems to be based on an integrated semio­ tic activity of man and not just a conglomerate of the products of divergent kinds of semiotic enterprises in diverse facets of culture, disjointed from

INTRODUCTION

9

each other. 6 Thus to admit the essential unity of man is to posit a common anthroposemiotic root that has produced an integrated semiotic whole cal­ led culture. This anthroposemiotic root is just another name for the human mind and if we further assume, as we have already argued, that the way the human mind functions is best represented by language (because the mind functions semiotically, that is, in terms of the sign in the maximally wide sense, and language offers the mind a conceivably maximal range of signs with which the mind operates), we again arrive at the same methodological possibility that we discussed before. An important scale along which the different semiotic orientations of different cultures are located will be a scale with one pole representing the maximally code-independent (or the minimally context-dependent) semiosis, and the other pole representing the minimally code-dependent (or the maximally context-dependent) semiosis. It is particularly important to note that nothing like a value judgement should be read into the scale. In the past, it has been quite customary to assume that the maximally codedependent (and minimally context-dependent) semiosis is to be sought for as the ideal type of human semiosis (presumably because it is taken to rep­ resent the most rational aspect of the working of the human mind). Such a view, which often ends up with regarding one language 'logical' and another 'illogical,' clearly misses the creative aspect of the human semiotic activities associated with rule-changing and rule-proposing practices. We have already argued that this latter aspect is in fact what distinctively characterizes human semiosis.7 The same point should help us to avoid falling into the trap of too eas­ ily being prejudiced against a culture whose dominant type of semiosis is not quite the same from that of our own. If, for example, one culture is characterized by the assertion of self (correlated with a general semiotic tendency of making relatively clear articulation), and another by the sup­ pression of self (correlated with a general semiotic tendency of making rela­ tively unclear articulation — the suppression of self ranging from falling into the state of 'egolessness' [Benedict 1946], to losing oneself in or becoming one with something greater than oneself), this is not something that should be evaluated against the evolutionary scale. A brief reflection will reveal that either tendency does exist in any culture, each distributed in varying degrees among different sections of the culture. This should keep us from the danger of ethnocentrism. Cultural semiotics will hopefully offer a framework in which cultural texts based on mutually different semiotic orientations can be impartially collated with each other.

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3. Roland Barthes and The Empire of Signs L'empire des signes, or The Empire of Signs as its English title goes, is a col­ lection of the author's observations on Japan on the occasion of his visit to the country in 1966. The book can be read, interpreted, and enjoyed in more than one way, depending on where the reader's interest lies. A par­ ticular interest the book offers to the editor of the present volume is that there is one theme in the book which keeps recurring, and this theme recurs in a way which suggests itself as a good example of a homological structure inherent in Japanese culture. The theme in question is 'emptiness.' Tokyo, the capital of Japan, for example, is described in the following way: The city I am talking about offers this precious paradox: it does possess a center, but this center is empty. The city turns around a site both forbid­ den and indifferent, inhabited by an emperor who is never seen, which is to say, literally, by no one who knows (Barthes 1982 [1970]:30).

Tokyo, according to Barthes, is an 'Empty-City,' or a city with an 'empty' center, and this is contrasted with the city in Western countries which Barthes characterizes as 'Center-City': [...] in accord with the very movement of Western metaphysics, for which every center is the site of truth, the center of our cities is always full: a marked site, it is here that the values of civilization are gathered and con­ densed: spirituality, power, money, merchandise, language: to go down or to the center-city is to encounter the social "truth"; to participate in the proud plenitude of "reality" (Barthes 1982 [1970]:30).

Elsewhere in the same book, we find Barthes referring, in the same vein, to the 'haiku' poem (i.e. a short traditional poetic form with three lines con­ sisting of 5 - 7 - 5 syllables each: "the haiku means nothing"), the face of the Bunraku (that is, Japanese traditional puppet show) master ("his face is offered to the spectators to read; but what is carefully, precisely given to be read is that there is nothing there to read"), the Japanese dish ("no Japanese dish is endoweded with a center"), the traditional Japanese architecture ("the center is rejected"), the Japanese garden ("no flower, no step, where is the man?"), and so forth. What is the semiotic function of the 'emptiness,' or the 'empty' center, that Barthes believes he constantly encountered in Japanese culture? On the 'emptiness' of the haiku poem, he has the following account to offer:

INTRODUCTION

11

While being quite intelligible, the haiku means nothing, and it is by this double condition that it seems open to meaning in a particularly available, serviceable way — the way of a polite host who lets you make yourself at home with all your preferences, your values, your symbols intact; the haiku's "absence" suggests subornation, a breach, in short, the major covetousness, that of meaning (Barthes 1982 [1970]:69-70).

In other words, since it is itself 'empty,' the haiku poem invites you, like a polite host, or even entices you, to interpret. But it is exactly at this point that a paradox begins. Since it is 'empty,' the haiku poem is ready to accept any interpretation and in interpreting it, the interpreter loses nothing, with all his preferences, values and symbols intact. But since it is 'empty,' the haiku poem does not really accept anything. There is no guarantee for the interpreter that the interpretation he offers is really an ultimately valid one. No last word will be found in the process of interpretation. The interpreter thus finds himself baffled — baffled at what at first appeared so covetously easy. Any interpretation he may offer with absolute conviction he will find relativized — relativized in the face of 'emptiness.' Bearing in mind what Barthes found as a recurrent theme in Japanese culture, let us turn ourselves to what the Japanese anthropologist, Chie Nakane says about Japanese society. She is discussing the qualification of the leader in Japanese society: In the structure of the group [...] the qualification of the leader rests primarily on his locus within the group, rather than his personal merit; [...] (Nakane 1970:66) [In such a system] it is not essential for the superior, including the man at the top, to be intelligent. In fact, it is better that he is not outstandingly brilliant (Nakane 1970:68). The leader is expected to be thoroughly involved in the group, to the point where he has almost no personal identity (Nakane 1970:72).

In other words, the top of a Japanese group is characteristically 'empty.' What is the function of this 'empty' locus? According to Nakane, More than anything else, the qualification of the leader in Japanese society depends upon his ability to understand and attract his men (Nakane 1970:73).

Notice the word 'attract' in the above quotation. Does this not remind us of the polite host Barthes mentions who 'invites' just anybody? The typical leader of a group in Japanese society is also an 'empty' center, ready, apparently, to receive and accept just anything that might be offered.

12

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

This readiness, however, will by no means result in confusion. Any offer that might produce a conflict or might even result in a contradiction will be relativized by the leader who is the empty center. He may tell those who offer, that each of the offers has something good in its own way, and he will not forget to assure them that although he would prefer one over the others under the present circumstances, he is well aware that there will be circumstances where some other offers would certainly be preferred. In this way, he is at the same time accepting and not accepting, thus succeeding in a masterful adjustment. The success is no doubt due, above all, to his relativizing function. He can relativize just anything, because he is 'empty.' Nevertheless, he remains the man who has the last word. 8 Quite independently from either Barthes or Nakane, Hayao Kawai, a Japanese psychoanalyst (and one of the contributors to the present vol­ ume), has recently pointed out that the theme of the 'empty' center is already recurrent in the myths recorded in the oldest Japanese history books compiled in the early 8th century (Kawai 1982). In those history books, the names of gods are often mentioned in triplets. And what is remarkable is that although these books devote an appropriate amount of space to recounting the deeds and events related to two of the three gods, nothing of the sort is told of the god who is mentioned second in order, that is, the one who stands in the middle. If we may take this as symbolically testifying to the 'empty' center — as does the author, who also compares the situation to the role expected of the ideal father figure in the prewar traditional Japanese family — then the idea of the 'empty' center and its function seems to have existed already in the oldest stratum of Japanese culture. What we have seen above is that the three authors I have referred to, while concerned with different cultural and social aspects from each other, all find in the concept of the 'empty' center a key notion by which Japanese culture can usefully be characterized. In other words, the three authors jointly point to a common structural similarity in different fields of Japanese culture. This is a case of 'homology,' of which mention was already made in the preceding section.

INTRODUCTION

4.

13

'East' and 'West': Some considerations toward a semiotic typology of culture

The semiotic function of the 'empty' center which Barthes apparently had in mind can be more explicitly formulated in the following way. There are two semiotic operations involved here. Suppose we have two terms, A and B, which apparently contrast with each other. The first operation for resolv­ ing the opposition is to assign to the two terms functions x and y, respec­ tively, in such a way that there will be a parallel relationship, namely, A is to x as B is to y. This is, in a sense, placing A and B in metaphorical relationship to each other, as in the classical formula, T h e ship is to the sea, as the plough is to the field.' The second operation consists in claiming that the assigned functions, x and y, are in fact complementary, being subsumed in a larger framework. The two terms, A and B, are then 'conditional variants' of one and the same entity — which means that they are equivalent. Equivalent but func­ tioning in complementary environments, there is no longer opposition between them. They can now coexist. Let me discuss a concrete example. Suppose the two terms, A and B, are the native Japanese dress ('kimono,' if you like) and the Western dress. The two types of dress come from different traditions and thus have differ­ ent values which may very well be manifested contrastively in their general function as articles of clothing. But they can be saved from clashing with each other by having different functions assigned to them. For example, the native dress will be for ceremonial occasions and the Western one for daily occasions. Notice that the two different types of dress are here placed in metaphoric relationship: that is, the native dress is for ceremonial occasions as the Western dress is for daily occasions. Thus the two types of dress are conditional variants, the choice between them depending on the kind of occasions on which they are worn. Furthermore, the two occasions are complementary. They do not overlap. Thus the two types of dress can now coexist. What happens here is that a contrastive relationship is interpreted as complementary rather than as oppositional. There is no logical trick involved. In fact, if you think of an antonymous pair like 'male' and 'female,' it is clear that the contrast between the two terms can be inter­ preted either in terms of opposition or in terms of complementarity. The difference is simply whether you emphasize the notion of opposition

14

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

straightforwardly, or you try to find out a logic by which you can subsume the two terms in one framework. In this framework, each of them is assigned its own proper place and they can thus coexist. The important point about this process is that the two terms, which contrast or would contrast, are assigned new semiotic functions or values, in terms of which they are reinterpreted — first, as equivalent and then as complementary. The process is in fact quite a common one if you look at the history of language when the borrowing of foreign words takes place. Suppose A is a native word and B is a foreign word of approximately the same meaning. When the word B is borrowed into the language, there will naturally be a conflict, because the two words have overlapping functions. There are two ways in which this conflict can be dissolved — namely, either one of the words ceases to be used, or they become differentiated in their function, semantically or stylistically. What I have discussed in the above is in fact a cultural analogue of this latter linguistic case. Thus the dissolution of a contrast through functional diversification is itself not at all an uncommon phenomenon. What is remarkable about Japanese culture or the Japanese language as well, is that this semiotic mechanism is working quite strongly. It sometimes even seems that this mechanism is being applied almost consciously in order for alien elements to be admitted into the culture. Let's recall that the initial step in this semiotic mechanism is to assign new functions to the contrasting terms. Since the terms in question already have their own values before the assignment of new functions is made, and since the assignment is made primarily with a view to making the two terms functionally equivalent, or complementary as conditional variants, the newly assigned functions are on a different level from the one on which their respective original functions are located. The newly assigned functions can thus be characterized as fundamentally of the nature of 'connotation.' Notice that the further operation is applied at this connotative, rather than denotative, level. Another point that has to be noted is that the relativizing operation is made not on the basis of the values and ideologies on which the terms were originally based, but on the basis of functions — functions, moreover, which are assigned rather arbitrarily (as in most cultural phenomena) primarily with a view to creating a complementary relation­ ship between them. This gives the whole operation a highly pragmatic nuance.

INTRODUCTION

15

What is common to this connotative implication and the pragmatic consideration which characterize the relativizing operation is the compara­ tive disregard of the principles and values on the basis of which each of the contrasting terms was originally created and developed. Disregard of this sort would be impossible if the culture in question organizes itself around a firmly fixed set of values or ideologies, which would certainly work strongly against any relativizing movement. The empty center, however, would have no scruple about it, since it is at least theoretically ready to lend itself to, or even invites, all kinds of possible reorganization based on any standard of values and ideologies. A culture with an empty center would thus tend to work centripetally — it is somewhat like the astronomer's 'black hole,' which draws and absorbs everything into itself — without suffering any change at all. A culture with an empty center can accomodate and keep in it apparently diverse elements, not in a state of conflict, but in a state of harmony with each other. If I may go back once again to the account of the relativizing process associated with the empty center, this function has been accounted for above in terms of a metaphorizing operation followed by a complementizing operation. The important point about these operations is that either operation is an arbitrary one — arbitrary, in the sense that the assigned relationship is not so much something to be sought and discovered in the two terms in question, as something to be imposed on them — imposed, moreover, with a clearly defined view in mind, namely, that the opposition be dissolved. In other words, the dissolution of the opposition is not so much the result as the predetermined goal which should never fail to be reached. This seems to make the use of the word 'metaphoric' improper, as applying to the first operation, because it is not the case that substantive similarity only is being sought for. On the contrary, it is the case that rela­ tional similarity is being imposed. This seems to suggest that 'homologization' would be a better term then 'metaphorization' to describe the first operation. And in fact, the second operation seems to complete the notion of homologization, because it posits a complementary relationship between the two terms and turns them into conditional variants, thus implying that they derive from one and the same source — the implication often accom­ panying the notion of homology. Thus the function of the empty center can now be redefined as homologization. The philosophy of homologization says that anything and everything deserves to be given its own proper place within the whole cultural scheme. The empty center homologizes — and

16

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

homologizes arbitrarily, and since it homologizes arbitrarily, it is capable of relativizing just anything. Barthes described Japan as "the Empire of Signs." It seems to me that the country can better be characterized as 'the Empire of Homologization' with its own strong empty center. In fact, however, the function of the empty center which Barthes beautifully intuited — namely, homologization — is but one form of man­ ifestation of a deep-seated current or 'drift' in Japanese culture, namely, a marked tendency toward semiotically blurred articulation, or in other words, a tendency not to clearly mark off one cultural unit semiotically from others. This tendency can be observed at a number of different levels of cul­ ture. It is observable even at the highest level where culture is contrasted with nature. Contrary to the Western tradition, in which culture is cus­ tomarily defined as something that stands in contrast to nature, something that 'man' produces by acting on (or cultivating) 'nature,' the Japanese tra­ dition leans heavily toward the opposite goal, namely, 'man' being incorpo­ rated into 'nature.' In fact, 'to be at one with nature' has been considered an important aspect of the philosophical, religious and artistic ideals. Or consider the relationship between an individual and the group of which he is a member. The two terms, 'individual' and 'group,' are again in metonymic relationship, just as the two terms, 'text' and 'context,' are, and here again, contrary to the Western type of behavioral pattern in which the individual is expected to act independently on his own free will, the general tendency characteristic of the Japanese behavioral pattern has been, and is still to a considerable extent, to follow and conform to the group, even at the sacrifice of his own will. The individual is submerged in the whole group to which he belongs — a state of affairs which was once commented on by a German professor who visited and taught at Japanese universities in the thirties as 'obedience to that "constant force of direction that is to the soul what gravity is to bodies'" (Singer 1973:62), assuring the cohesion of the group by inclining individual wills in the same direction and creating "an order dictated by impersonal requirement" (Singer 1973:62). One would expect, on the basis of the presumed essentially 'homolog­ ous' structure of culture discussed earlier, that the same tendency is also characteristic of the language. And again this is what one finds in the Japanese language. With its highly context-dependent mode of functioning, correlated with greater freedom in suppressing explicit linguistic expres­ sion, the functioning of the Japanese text in general relies on implicatures

INTRODUCTION

17

to a much greater degree than is the case with the Western text. This, in other words, means that the text of the Japanese language tends to merge very much with the context in which it is used; the 'text' is not clearly articu­ lated in contrast to the 'context.' It is probably a corollary of this that any­ thing like the idea of language as embodying 'logos' or absolute truth has been rather alien in this culture. The three cases just discussed have in common that each of them is characterized by the 'metonymic' (or more precisely, 'synecdochic') relationship (that is, part-to-whole relationship) that exists between the two terms in question, namely, 'man' and 'nature' in the first; 'individual' and 'group' in the second; and 'text' and 'context' in the third case. In each case, the first term (as 'part') tends to be incorporated and eventually merged with the latter (which constitutes the 'whole'). The situation described above may remind one of something which happens at the level of perception, namely, the relationship of the figure to the ground. The two terms are again in metonymic relationship. At one pole of the scale, the figure may clearly stand out from the ground; but at the other pole of the scale, the figure may be dissolved and lost in the ground, thus shifting from a metonymie to a synecdochic relationship and then ultimately to a continuum. If, as is sometimes pointed out, cognition depends on the way in which we perceive things, it will then be no wonder if we observe a homologue of the perceptual figure-ground relationship in the cognitive organization of the world. What we have seen above, then, is the relative lack of autonomy of the figure term in Japanese culture. It is also to be expected that there are other cultures where the opposite is the case, namely, those characterized by the assignment of relatively greater salience to the figure term. The question of the relatively clear or unclear contrast between the fig­ ure term and the ground term can be generalized as the question of the relatively unclear contours marking off one perceptual object from another. Similarly, the metonymie (or synecdochic) orientation in semiotic organiza­ tion we have been talking about can be generalized as the preferred ten­ dency toward relatively unclear semiotic articulation. And at this level of generalization, one could readily refer to still more examples of the rele­ vant kind, such as the relationship between 'man' and 'god'; between 'man' and 'animal'; between 'man' and 'tool'; or between such culturally basic artifacts as 'food,' 'housing,' 'clothing,' on the one hand, and their natural counterparts with which they are contrasted (cf. Barthes, for example, who

18

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

says, "Japanese food is rarely cooked, the food stuffs arrive in their natural state on the tray."). One could further turn to more philosophical and artis­ tic topics and find the blurring of contrast between 'work' and 'play' (which incidentally was one of the points that struck Lévi-Strauss during his first stay in Japan), or between 'mind' and 'body' (of which a lot of talk has been made in relation to Zen); the same idea appears in the notion of the blank space in painting, or the silent interval or rest in the performing arts being as fully significant as the figures actually painted or the performing period filled with sounds or motions. For a detailed discussion of these points, I have to refer to another paper of mine. 9 The reader will also find some of these points discussed in the contributions to the present volume. At this point, one may perhaps pose an interesting question in the light of the evolutionary view of culture, 10 namely, what do the two contrasting semiotic orientations in culture mean — one oriented toward clearer semiotic articulation and the other toward blurred semiotic articulation? From the standpoint in which the essential dichotomy of nature and culture is assumed and posited as a fundamental tenet, there can logically be but one answer: since culture is an order created arbitrarily vis-à-vis nature and maintained as a set of conventions by man, any lack of clear articulation between this order and nature implies a lower stage on the evolutionary scale. Such an interpretation could be justified if we took an essentially evaluative view of evolution. As a matter of fact, however, the notion of evolution is almost always associated with some kind of evaluative judge­ ment; it being invariably assumed that man occupies the highest rung of the evolutionary ladder. But it is also quite clear that the justifiable answer will certainly be a different one, if evolution is evaluated, not in terms of how far man is distanced from nature, but in terms of his essential well-being as one who lives in nature and with nature. Unlike other animals (which have their own respective circumstantial worlds, as described by von Uexküll (1970), according to their kinds), man's circumstantial world is essentially of double structure — one layer defined by his embedded natural instinct and the other layer defined by his own created convention. The latter layer consists of culturally assigned sig­ nificances — it is a world of signs, hence it stands in 'arbitrary' relationship to the 'real' world; it is essentially a 'fictional' world. But a paradoxical sit­ uation with man is, as we are all aware, that this world of fiction tends to be more 'real' than the real world — in other words, man tends to behave in

INTRODUCTION

19

relation to the fictional world of signs just as, or as it happens, more readily than, he will in relation to the 'real' world. An extreme form of such a ten­ dency is 'fetishism.' Man in fact makes fetishes of all kinds of things ranging from religious (or quasi-religious) symbols to consumer goods (or rather what are supposed to be so, but which are in fact not consumed but simply retained and displayed). In spite of their essential fictional nature, signs can act on human beings more potently than real things. For this, 'homo demens' rather than 'homo sapiens' would certainly be a more appropriate characterization for man; man would no doubt look 'crazy' in the eye of other animals who act more sanely with regard to the real world. Being 'homo significans' gives man both his glory and his misery.11 Caution against such a danger is in fact one of the important theses of Zen Buddhism. 'Do not reason with words' is one of its tenets. By this is meant that by relying on language, a prescribed frame of reference, one may well be blinded to the really essential points of what is being talked about. In extreme cases, the caution may take a paradoxical form compara­ ble to the riddle. Thus one koan (that is, a Zen text to be discussed by monks) goes like this: Shuzan held his shippé and said, "You monks! If you call this a shippé, you are wrong. If you don't call it a shippé, you are wrong. Tell me, all of you, what you call it." (Blyth 1966:279).12

The Zen master's question is logically unanswerable. One cannot, of course, at once call something A and also non-A. The point of the question is rather this: there may be cases in the 'real' world in which one is unable to find anything like clearly articulated systematicity, and one is therefore well-prepared to be encountered with situations in which the frame offered by language is of no help, the important thing being that one should always be ready to throw oneself in 'medias res,' and be able to grapple with the reality which may be hidden behind the screen of language. One cannot, of course, take advice like this as an encouragement to go back to animal primitivism. For man, language is a 'fatal Cleopatra' from whom he cannot free himself. Language is fatally there, to be overcome and not just to throw away. In a way, this situation bears some resemblance to the process of 'artistic' creation. In either case, the existing system is overridden by offering the possibility of a new reorganization — by relativization, in short. And in fact, relativization is one of the basic tenets of Zen doctrine. It must be noted, however, that 'overcoming the framework of language' is, strictly speaking, not the right characterization, because this

20

YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

means that one is still caught in the web of words. The ideal state toward which Zen orients itself is the one in which one goes beyond language, leav­ ing it far below oneself — the so-called state of 'satori' (or spiritual enlightenment) in which one is no longer conscious of breaking away from the bond of language, and in which one is in direct touch with nature, and behaves 'according to nature.' This cannot of course be identified with any­ thing like primitivism. It may be interesting to try to locate this state of 'satori' in the light of the Poppian evolutionary epistemology. Taking, in the linguist's vein, into account Leech's modification (Leech 1983:48-56), which posits four, rather than three, worlds, the scheme consists of the first world (or the world of physical objects and states) shifting, through the mediation of the expres­ sive function of language, to the second world (or the world of states of consciousness, or mental states); the second world shifts, through the medi­ ation of the conative (or signalling) function of language, to the third world (or the world of societal objects and states), and the third world shifts, through the mediation of the descriptive function of language, to the fourth world (or the world of objective facts, existing independently of particular minds), which in turn is supported by the argumentative function of lan­ guage. Leech's fourth world corresponds to Popper's third world, but notice that in Popper's definition his third world consists of "objective con­ tents of thought, especially of scientific and poetic thoughts and works of art" (Popper 1972:106). The definition shows that his third world consists of contents of rather promiscuous sorts — 'scientific thoughts,' on the one hand, and 'poetic thoughts and works of art,' on the other. If it is, as is apparently alleged, the argumentative function of language that supports the third (or Leech's fourth) world, then this will apply well to 'scientific thoughts' but not to 'poetic thoughts or works of art.' It is clear that Popper's scheme of evolution is couched in communica­ tive terms. The more effective and efficient the communicative apparatus is functionally, the higher it is ranked. But the notion of communication, with the addresser intending to convey a certain message to the addressee, can hardly apply to 'poetic thoughts or works of art.' Here the focus is not on something that is signified by language, but on language itself13 — on the infinite meaning-generating potentiality of language through focusing upon itself and thereby ever renewing itself. Whether this stage can be placed above Popper's third world (or Leech's Fourth World) on the evolutionary scale, or be located on a dimension to which the notion of evolution is

INTRODUCTION

21

totally irrelevant, depends on what view one takes on the essence of the human nature. In either case, it is undoubtedly a very important stage. The meaning-generating potentiality, which characterized this stage, can at first be grasped in terms of deviations from the currently established code of language. In a more essential way, the same potentiality can be viewed as the ever-repeating effort on the part of man to articulate and assign significances to his environments, and taken in this way, any refer­ ence to the currently available linguistic code will eventually be irrelevant. Freed from reference to language, this potentiality looks very much like something Zen is aiming at. But notice that Zen never asserts. It cautions against, but does not assert. Assertion creates commitment to a dogma and this is quite contrary to its basic orientation to relativize. If one replaces the word 'relativize' here with the word 'criticize,' one will readily see that this orientation is essentially not very far from the Kristevian focus on the very process of meaning production, and on the essential nature of semiotic study as a critique of what it is doing.14 Semiotics thus engages itself with the problem of man's creativity and freedom — the very foundation of human existence. The double nature of semiotics must not be missed here. In his four-world modified version of Popper's evolutionary epistemological scheme, Leech characterized linguistics as providing "World 4 explanations of World 4 phenomena" (Leech 1983:56). Leech's 'World 4,' which corre­ sponds to Popper's 'Third World,' contains 'objective contents of thought.' We have already seen, however, that there can still be another world — whether it be a fifth world or a world belonging to an entirely different order which cannot be measured on the evolutionary scale based on the 'communicative' function of language, and we have posited this world, a world of creative semiosis — as the proper object for semiotic study. The double nature of semiotics is thus clear. Semiotics seems to provide 'semiot­ ic explanations of semiotic phenomena' or, if the term 'World 5' can be employed, it seems to provide 'World 5 explanations of World 5 phenomena.' Semiotics is the most fundamental science concerned with the nature of man, integrating other disciplines similarly concerned in the light of the undeniable identity of man as 'homo significans,' and is at the same time a metascience working self-reflexively on itself and on what it is doing.

With regard to each of the articles contained in the present volume, I am not going to make any particular comment, as they speak for them-

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YOSHIHIKO IKEGAMI

selves. I rather leave them as they are, and will be interested to see what the readers with diverse ideological, professional, and cultural backgrounds will find in them. In Barthes' words, I leave you to "make yourself at home with your preferences, your values, your symbols intact." I cannot conclude this introductory chapter without expressing my sincerest gratitude to Professor Dr. Achim Eschbach, editor of the series 'Foundations of Semiotics' in which the present volume is included, for his constant encouragement and, above all, his patience with the considerable delay in the preparation of the volume. My thanks also go to Ms. Yola de Lusenet, Ms. Anne Porcelijn, and Ms. Bertie Kaal of John Benjamins B.V. who helped me in the production of the volume.

Notes 1.

For a more detailed discussion, see Ikegami (1982).

2.

For a more detailed discussion, see Ikegami (1983).

3.

Cf. Halliday (1970:143): "Language serves for the expression of 'content': that is, of the speaker's experience of the real world, including the inner world of his own consciousness. We may call this the ideational function, ... Language serves to establish and maintain social relations: for the expression of social roles, which include the communication roles created by language itself ... and also for getting things done, by means of the interaction between one person and another. Through this function, which we may refer to as interpersonal, social groups are delimited, and the individual identified and reinforced, ..."

4.

'Science and Linguistics,' Technology Review 42 (1940), in Whorf (1956).

5.

Cf. "A modeling system is a structure of elements and of rules for combining them that is in a state of fixed analogy to the entire sphere of an object of knowledge, insight or regulation. Therefore a modeling system can be regarded as a language. Systems that have natural language as their basis and that acquire supplementary superstructures, thus creating languages of a second level, can appropriately be called secondary modeling system." (Lotman: 'Theses on the Problem "Art in the Series of Modeling Systems'" (1967) quoted in Lucid 1977)

6.

"I would say that between culture and language there cannot be no relations at all, and there cannot be 100 percent correlation either. Both situations are impossible to conceive. If there were no relations at all, that would lead us to assume that the human mind is a kind of jumble — that there is no connection at all between what the mind is doing on one level and what the mind is doing on another level." (Lévi-Strauss 1958)

7.

Cf. Ikegami (1983).

INTRODUCTION

23

8.

A supreme example of this kind of manipulation can be found in the way in which the Emperor system was functioning in former times. See Ikegami (1986a).

9.

Ikegami (1989).

10.

Cf. Koch (1985).

11.

A focus on this point has been one of the features which characterized some of the important publications on semiotics in Japan during the last decade: for example, Takeuchi (1981), Maruyama (1984).

12.

A 'shippé' is "a piece of bamboo about three feet long with wistaria bound round the head of it. Originally it was used as an instrument of punishment, and then an insignia of authority by masters and priests." (Blyth 1966:280)

13.

I have in mind the Jakobsonian notion of the poetic function of language, deriving from Russian formalism: cf. Jakobson (1960): "The set (Einstellung) toward the MESSAGE as such, focus on the message for its own sake, is the POETIC func­ tion of language."

14.

Cf. Kristeva (1969).

References Barthes, Roland. 1970. L'empire des signes. Genève: Éditions d'Art Albert Skira. (Eng­ lish tr.: The Empire of Signs, New York: Hill and Wang, 1982). Benedict, Ruth. 1946. The Chrysanthemum and the Sword. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Blyth, R.H. 1966. Zen and Zen Classics, IV: Mumonkan. Tokyo: Hokuseido. Halliday, M.A.K. 1970. "Language Structure and Language Function." New Horizons in Linguistics ed. by John Lyons. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Ikegami, Yoshihiko. 1982. "Gengogaku to Kigoron" (Linguistics and Semiotics). Kigoron (Semiotics), ed. by Shigeo Kawamoto et al., Vol. 1. Tokyo: Keisoshoho. . 1983. Shigaku to Bunkakigoron (Poetics and Cultural Semiotics). Tokyo: Chikumashoho. (A Korean version in 1984 and a Chinese version expected). . 1984. Kigoron e no Shotai (Invitation to Semiotics). Tokyo: Iwanami. (A Chinese version in 1985 and a German version expected). . 1986a. "Semiotic Function of the Empty Center in Japanese Culture and Soci­ ety." Asian Studies of Association of Australia Review 10:1. . 1986b. "Child Language and Poetic Language." Language Acquisition and Multilingualism: Festschrift für Professor Els Oksaar zum 60. Geburtstag. Ed. by B. Narr and H. Wittje. Tübingen: Gunter Narr. . 1989. "Homology of Language and Culture: A Case Study in Japanese Semiot­ ics." Ed. by Walter A. Koch: The Nature of Culture. Bochum: Brockmeyer. Jakobson, Roman. 1960. "Linguistics and Poetics." Style in Language, ed. by Thomas A. Sebeok. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Kawai, Hayao. 1982. Chuku Kozo: Nohon no Shinso (= Center-Empty Structure: The Deep Structure of Japan). Tokyo: Chuokoronsha. Koch, Walter A. 1985. Evolutionäre Kultursemiotik. Bochum: Brockmeyer.

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Kristeva, Julia. 1969. Semeiotike: Recherches pour une sémanalyse. Paris: Édition du Seuil. Leech, Geoffrey N. 1983. Principles of Pragmatics. London: Longman. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1968 [1958]. Structural Anthropology. London: Plon. Lucid, D.P., ed. 1977. Soviet Semiotics. Baltimore: John Hopkins Univ. Press. Maruyama, Keizaburo. 1984. Bunka no Fetishism (= Fetishism of Culture). Tokyo: Keisoshoho. Nakane, Chie. 1970. Japanese Society. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Popper, Karl R. 1972. Objective Knowledge: An Evolutionary Approach. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Singer, Kurt. 1973. Mirror, Sword and Jewel. London: Croom Helm. Takeuchi, Yoshiro. 1981. Bunka no Riron no tame ni (= Toward a Theory of Culture). Tokyo: Iwanami. Titzmann, Manfred. 1977. Strukturale Textanalyse. München: Wilhelm Fink. Uexkiill, Jakob von. 1970 [1934-40]. Streifzüge durch die Umwelten von Tieren und Menschen; Bedeutungslehre. Frankfurt a.M.: S. Fischer. Whorf, Benjamin Lee. 1956. Language, Thought, and Reality. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.

The Notion of the Sign in Japanese Tradition Tomonori Toyama

The word sign is usually translated as kigo in Japanese. This Japanese word is in fact the technical term for 'sign' in semiotic discussion. As with a greater portion of the technical vocabulary in Japanese, the word kigo was a Chinese borrowing, whose earliest instance in Japanese literature, so far as the author can ascertain, is recorded in the 12th century. There is, on the other hand, a native Japanese word, shirushi (usually translated as mark in English), which was used before the word kigo was introduced. It is, there­ fore, to the word shirushi that we have to turn ourselves first. 1. The word shirushi is found in the oldest Japanese history books, Kojiki and Nihonshoki (compiled in 712 and 720, respectively). From the different Chinese characters used to transcribe the word (as well as from the con­ text), we can see that the word was applied to a variety of situations. In Kojiki, the word shirushi is transcribed by three different Chinese charac­ ters with approximately the following meanings: (1) (2) (3)

'a foreboding, omen, prefigurement' 'an effect (as evidencing something)' 'a good omen'

The corresponding verb form, shirusu, is used in the following senses: (1) (2)

'to record, write down' 'to memorize, commit to memory'

In Nihonshoki, the usage is still more diversified. Shirushi is trans­ cribed by 22 different Chinese characters, which have approximately the following meanings: (1) (2)

'a foreboding, omen, prefigurement' 'a piece of evidence'

26

TOMONORI TOYAMA (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22)

'an effect (as evidencing something)' 'a good omen' 'a foreboding, omen, prefigurement' (approximately synonymous with [1]) 'the element (which generates the world)' 'a piece of evidence' 'a consequence, result' 'a mark' 'a state of things (as signifying something)' 'a signet' 'a sign of commission given to a general' 'a divine command' 'a mark, insignia' 'a sign of commission' 'a contract' 'an effect, use' 'an effect as a result of a granted prayer' 'a correspondent, something corresponding to something else' 'an exponent' 'a judgement' 'an aid, effect'

The verb form, shirusu, is transcribed in six different ways, of which five have related meanings: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

'to 'to 'to 'to 'to 'to

record' record, to note down' note down' write' give title to' evidence'

The first five are applied to the writing of letters and characters. A different word, katachikaku, is found to be applied to drawing. The impression one gets from the lists above is that the word shirushi was apparently highly polysemous. It will be in order to select some con­ crete instances of its use and discuss them in somewhat more detail. (1)

I saw a strange dream. A storm came from Saho and heavy rain poured on my face. At the same time, a multicolored snake wound itself round my neck. A dream like this is certainly a shirushi of something.

The author saw a strange dream and was wondering what the dream sig­ nified. It is to be noted that the word shirushi (here, sense (1) for Kojiki), as applied, in this case, to the particular dream seen by the author, is under­ stood as having a prefigurative connotation rather than simply a referential function.

THE NOTION OF THE SIGN IN JAPANESE TRADITION

27

In the following example, the word shirushi has a sense of 'a piece of evidence, a mark (showing that something is the case)' (cf. sense (9) for Nihonshoki): (2)

I hope to be able to serve the Emperor afterwards. As a shirushi for that, I let my wife stay here.

Shirushi is here applied to a concrete entity, namely, the wife, as a sign evidencing the author's firm determination. Notice that senses like (2), (3), (4) and (7) for Nihonshoki all have a connotation of something serving as a piece of evidence. In the following example, the word is used approximately in the sense of 'a mark, an index': (3)

The bill for the Emperor's use stood here at the gate of Silla as a shirushi for the later world.

A 'shirushi' as a manifestation of something can be taken as a forebod­ ing or an omen. It may sometimes connote the notion of '(divine) message,' as in the following example: (4)

According to the shirushi of the dream, he became the crown prince at the age of twenty-four.

Sense (1) for Kojiki may also have this connotation. Another possible connotation of shirushi as a manifestation of some­ thing is 'an effect, a consequence': (5)

If there is going to be a shirushi answering to my prayer to the supreme god, let fall the herons living on this tree beside the Saginosu pond.

To understand the full implication of the word shirushi in this example, some account of the context in which it was uttered will be necessary. The Emperor Suinin had a son who was born mute. One night, in his dream, the Emperor was told by a god that his son would be freed from muteness if he rebuilt the god's shrine like his own palace. A noble prince was selected to accompany the Emperor's son who was going to offer the prayer at the god's shrine and the words in the quotation above were uttered by this prince as a charm. Thus the word shirushi used in the charm refers to a future event, that is, the wished-for freeing of the crown prince from mute­ ness. What happened in response to the charm is that the herons on the tree all fell and died, and then revived. This served as a 'shirushi' testifying both to the sufficient qualification of the prince for the job he had been selected for, and to the certainty with which the crown prince's muteness would be

28

TOMONORI TOYAMA

cured. Thus we have structurally a double process here. On the one hand, there is the process of the offered prayer leading to the curing of the crown prince's muteness. On the other, there is the process of the uttered charm leading to the fall of the herons from the tree. The former process is the ultimately intended. But instead of going to this process directly, the prince chooses to proceed indirectly — he interposes another process which will serve to tell him whether or not the intended process will really take place. Furthermore, if we take into consideration the fact that the process of the prince uttering the charm was preceded by another process — namely, the selection of this prince as one qualified for the job, we will see that the whole enterprise started at a point twice removed from the ultimately intended process. On the basis of these considerations, we can perhaps reconstruct the fundamental meaning of the word shirushi at the earliest stage in the fol­ lowing way. A shirushi is fundamentally something that functions as a 'manifestation' of something else. A shirushi lets people know of some­ thing. This is also in essence the argument developed by the philosopher Ichiro Yamamoto in his book, Kotoba no Tetsugaku ('Philosophy of Lan­ guage'), Tokyo, 1965. He refers to the following poem in Man'yoshu (the oldest Japanese anthology compiled in 759): (6)

The Okutsu castle, where the ancestor-gods of the Otomo family live, stands shiruku (that is, 'as a shirushi,' 'in a manifest form'), so that all the people may shiru (that is, 'know') what it is.

Here the adverb shiruku is associated in two ways: on the one hand, it is associated with the noun shirushi ('sign') and on the other, with the verb shiru ('to know,' 'to become aware of). The poem symbolically represents what the word shirushi connoted to the speakers of Old Japanese. Before concluding the section, there are two points that I would like to add. Whenever the word shirushi refers to an artifact in the senses of (1) and (3) in Kojiki and of (2), (4), (7) and (11) in Nihonshoki, this artifact, which functions as a shirushi, is usually not something that has been pro­ duced explicitly and intentionally for the semiotic function in question. It may, for example, be a piece of weapon like a sword or a bill. There are, however, some exceptions, too. This applies when the word is used in the senses of (9), (14) and (15) in Nihonshoki. The other point is that through­ out all the instances of the use of the word shirushi, there was apparently no distinction made comparable to the modern one between 'symbol' and other kinds of signs.

THE NOTION OF THE SIGN IN JAPANESE TRADITION

29

2. The earliest use of the word kigo known to the present author is found in Shobogenzo (written between 1231 and 1253), a religious writing by a Buddhist monk Dogen (1200-1253), who is the founder of Zen Buddhism in Japan. Dogen uses the verb kigosuru (kigo 'sign' + sum 'do') in Vol.44 ('The Buddhist Way') and Vol.54 ('Cleansing'). In both cases, the word is used in the sense of 'to put to mind, to memorize.' As a Buddhist term, however, it does not seem to have been considered an important one. In the relevant passage in Vol.54, Dogen illustrates the meaning of the word kigo as follows: (8)

What is meant by kigo is the following: Write down a character on a white sheet of paper, circle it like the ring of the moon, and hang it on a clean bam­ boo stick. It will serve to help you remember the place where you have hung your gown. This is what is called kigo.

Although the word kigo is intended in this passage in the sense of 'putting to mind, memorizing,' it is only a step from this to the use of the word to refer to the white paper with an encircled character written on it (which serves as a 'sign'). Unlike the word shirushi discussed in the preceding section, which is usually used to refer to an object functioning only secondarily as a sign, the use of the word kigo, as illustrated in (8), already clearly suggests its mod­ ern sense, namely, an artifact made with a specific intention of com­ municating something. 3. A later important reference to the word kigo is found in Morisadamanko (written 1837-53) by a folklorist, Morisada Kitagawa (1810-?). This writing is a faithful record of the popular customs and habits of the day. There is an entry, 'kigo': (9)

KIGO: This refers to what is popularly called 'family heraldry.' The chrysan­ themum with sixteen petals for the imperial family, ... the butterfly for the Taira family are well-known examples. ... Besides 'kigo,' there is in modern times also 'kago,' popularly called 'shirushi.' For example, the Shogun's family heraldry is a ginger flower but it uses the sun, a circle form in scarlet, for its 'shirushi.'

Elsewhere in the same writing, we find accounts like the following: (10)

Family heraldries and 'shirushi' are all 'kigo.' ... the butterfly for the Taira family is an example of the family heraldry. The sun for the Shogun family ... is an example of 'shirushi.'

30

TOMONORI TOYAMA (11)

(Referring to the custom of marking one's family name on the paper umbrella) The mountain form (that is, an inverted V) is added to a character taken from the family name and this is used as 'kigo.' But this 'kigo' is some­ thing different from the family heraldry, and is popularly called 'shirushi.'

(12)

[Referring to the marks used to distinguish different fire brigades] They employ one of the native Japanese syllabary letters as 'kigo.' This is popu­ larly called 'shirushi' for the brigade in question. Calling a 'kigo' a 'shirushi' is not restricted to the fireman; it is popularly quite common.

There is some confusion in the use of the terminology, but what is intended may be summarized as follows. First, the word kigo is used as a cover term for family heraldries, characters, letters, shirushi, etc. Secondly, the word kigo (popularly, shirushi) refers to specially designed marks, letters and characters, used for specific purposes. (In [9], this second sense is referred to as kago as distinguished from kigo.) What strikes us most is that the strong association of the word shirushi with concrete objects (such as pieces of weaponry) as in the much earlier periods has already been lost; instead, the use of the word kigo referring to artificially designed (and therefore, abstract) forms is now well on the way, thus anticipating the present-day usage of the word. 4. The wholesale introduction of the concepts of European science in the final part of the 19th century had an effect of accelerating this process. The word sign as in expressions like mathematical sign and chemical sign was translated as kigo, and the use of this word to refer to signs and marks like + , —, and H 2 0 seems to have spread quickly through its introduction in school textbooks. It was, however, not the case that the word kigo was the unanimously chosen word from the start. Words like fu, go, fugo, shirushi, and hyoshiki were once rivalling candidates. Here are some quotations to illustrate the vacillation of the usage: (13)

At the lower extreme, there is a point marked as zero degree. This is 32 degrees below the freezing point and the shirushi for the lowest possible cold. (1868)

(14)

The first letters of the names for chemical elements are used as fugo as shown to the right. (1871)

(15)

Mathematical kigo: + fu for addition or go for plus in algebra < fu indicating 'less than' (1872)

THE NOTION OF THE SIGN IN JAPANESE TRADITION (16)

31

In Western mathematics, +— x ... are used for the sake of simplicity. These are called 'signs' in the Western language. ... In addition to these, various shirushi are employed for convenience and simplicity. (1873)

(17)

+ is the hyoshiki for addition. (1877)

(18)

Algebra is a branch of mathematics which employs various sorts of kigo to represent quantities and their calculation and relationships. (1879-84)

(19)

Sign: fugo or hyoshiki. Sign of addition: kahyo. (1881)

(20)

Chemical symbol: kagakukigo. (1892)

While there was clearly much confusion as to the choice of the words to translate words like sign and symbol, the Western technique of using and operating in terms of signs must have struck the students at that period as novel, and in fact, as a characteristic feature of the newly introduced sci­ ence. Incidentally, it may be added that Nihonkokugodaijiten, the largest dictionary of the Japanese language, quotes the following example of the use of the word kigo from the novel, Wagahai wa Neko de aru ('I am a Cat') (1905-06) by Soseki Natsume: (21)

Just as quintessential symbolist poetry is unintelligible to the layman, the kigo of anger I show to them elicits no response from them.

At the time when this novel was written, the use of the word must have been much more wide spread than in Morisada's age. In this particular pas­ sage, however, the word kigo seems to have a certain humorous connota­ tion intended for it, especially by being contrasted with 'symbolist poetry.' I may also add in passing that the word syocho, which is usually used to translate the word symbol, was first used, according to the philologist, Izuru Shinmura, by Chomin Nakae in 1884 in his translation of a French book, Esthétique. The word was adopted about ten years later by Ogai Mori, a critic and novelist, who used it in his critical writings and transla­ tions from German esthetics. Under his influence, the word was used by the poet and critic, Bin Ueda, around the turn of the century. From then onward, the word became commonly used. 5. The foregoing discussion can be summarized as follows. When some­ thing was taken as manifesting something else, it was called a 'shirushi.' Thus a 'shirushi' was very often 'something that forebodes, an omen.' At

32

TOMONORI TOYAMA

the same time, it could also mean a mark of something. In the further extension, the meaning of the word could cover such notions as 'command' and 'judgement.' It would perhaps be fair to describe the situation as mul­ tidimensional rather than simply polysemous. When an object was endowed with such multidimensional signification, it was called a 'shirushi.' On the other hand, it was also possible to make use of an object speci­ fically for such a function. Under this perspective, abstractness, conveni­ ence and operationality (rather than multidimensional ambivalence) became the appropriate properties of the signifying object. The tendency was no doubt supported and intensified by the spirits of newly introduced Western science and this notion is still clearly extant in the word kigo, the most widely used term to refer to the notion of the sign. The older word shirushi has also today lost almost completely the notion of dynamic signification with which it was once endowed. It is worth pointing out, however, that it is exactly this aspect of dynamic and mul­ tidimensional signification that modern semiotics is above all concerned with.

Note *

Translated by the editor.

Creative Interpretation of the Text and the Japanese Mentality Michiko A r i m a

The interpretation of just any text in contexts results into two possible types of interpretation, which are always creative. The one is rule-governed creativity and the other is rule-changing creativity. What I call rule here is a conventional (that is, socially habitual) semio­ tic association working in semiotic contiguity and similarity both in the syntagmatic relationship and in the paradigmatic relationship in a particular semiotic society. I will show the function of the rule in a general schema for interpreting a text in contexts. It may be necessary to note that what I call rule here is not in definition the same as what Chomsky (1964) called rule when he tried to distinguish rule-governed creativity from rule-changing creativity in his attempt "to rep­ resent certain aspects of the underlying 'Form of language,' insofar as it encompasses 'rule-governed creativity,' by means of an explicit generative grammar." 1 What I intend here is to utilize these two contrastive terms of rule-governed creativity and rule-changing creativity by redefining the rule in these terms in a way required for the semiotic schema for interpreting any text in contexts. These terms, redefined, seem to be theoretically helpful for my pur­ pose when I try to explain the semiotic traits of traditional Japanese cul­ ture. For it can be demonstrated that all of the significant patterns of Japanese culture are thoroughly and economically explained, if we assume that in principle the Japanese prefer rule-governed creativity to rule-chang­ ing creativity in the semiotic definition of the rule here in a schema for interpreting a text in contexts. My assumption that the Japanese prefer rule-governed creativity, seems strongly supported by Nakai (1982a) and Doi (1985), in their

34

MICHIKO ARIMA

psychiatric studies of the Japanese, though they do not use the term rulegoverned creativity nor do they seem to be aware of a general schema for creative performance of semiotic interpretation of a text in contexts. They, however, demonstrate that the Japanese give much importance to social rules or conventions, and that they always try to integrate their personal views with the rule.2 The object of this paper is to clarify the following three points: (1) Interpreting a text in contexts is a creative performance. (2) In Japanese society, which is assumed to be orientated to rule-governed creativity, a new idea is accepted as a new rule only when general agreement is gradu­ ally reached to place it on the overt level, though a new idea may be accepted immediately if it is introduced as an already established ideal rule in some authorized or privileged way. In either case, however, a new idea will generally be modified by the suggestive general agreement of the people taking part in the interpretation of the idea. (3) The rule-governed creativity tends to produce the semiotic trait of covertness or suggestiveness,3 which is found in every significant pattern of Japanese culture such as uniformity, passivity, sympathy, teamwork, tranquility, simplicity, and strong context-dependency. 1.

The creative performance of interpreting text in contexts

Whatever object we choose to interpret is called a text, and any text in this sense is always in some context. Interpreting the text in context is a creative performance of abduction, which is the inference of a case from a rule and a result (while deduction is the inference of a result from a rule and a case, and induction is the inference of a rule from a case and a result).4 Peirce formulated the idea of abduction, called it by the name of abduction (or sometimes hypothesis, or other names), and explained it by way of several examples, one of which is as follows: Suppose I enter a room and there find a number of bags, containing different kinds of beans. On the table there is a handful of white beans; and, after some searching, I find one of the bags contains white beans only. I at once infer as a probability, or as a fair guess, that this handful was taken out of that bag. This sort of inference is called making an hypothesis. ... We have, then —

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

35

DEDUCTION Rule — All the beans from this bag are white. Case — These beans are from this bag. .*. Result — These beans are white. INDUCTION Case — These beans are from this bag. Result — These beans are white. . . Rule — All the beans from this bag are white. HYPOTHESIS Rule — All the beans from this bag are white. Result — These beans are white. . . Case — These beans are from this bag. (Peirce 1931:2.623)

As can be seen from the above example, abduction (or hypothesis) is distinguished from the other two kinds of inference by the logic of discovery or creation, though it is a weaker kind of argument than the other two. An Abduction is a method of forming a general prediction without any positive assurance that it will succeed either in the special case or usually, its justification being that it is the only possible hope of regulating our future conduct rationally, and that Induction from past experience gives us strong encouragement to hope that it will be successful in the future (Ibid. : 2.270).

This "induction from past experience" is what is codified as the rule in abduction. It is a semiotic association working in semiotic contiguity and similarity both in the syntagmatic relationship and in the paradigmatic relationship, which is habitual to a given society. Then what is result in abduction of the text in context? The result is expressed by items in a text and context that interpreters select for the object of interpretation. This result is arranged according to the above men­ tioned rule so that each rule of the social semiotic association may be rep­ resented on the same level of syntagmatic relationship. Association works in semiotic contiguity and similarity that are socially and personally habitual to a great extent. Social communication is largely supported by the socially habitual aspect of association. Similarities and contiguities are roughly classified into syntactic, semantic, and phonological categories. Even if the association in any of these contiguities and/or simi­ larities is a personal one, deviating from convention, if any contextual sign

36

MICHIKO ARIMA

helps to bridge the gap between the personal and the conventional associa­ tions, it may serve for social communication, for in that case the personal association is to be integrated with the conventional one. In our daily communication, our personal free association is always in some way integrated with and thus adjusted to the conventional one. For example, if one says in English the wind sings it will be taken metaphori­ cally, not literally, because in English the wind, which is not human as a semantic unit is not related in conventional contiguity with another seman­ tic unit, human action sings. We may schematize the wind and sings as items belonging to different levels, each of which corresponds with a con­ ventional syntactic and semantic contiguity. Horizontal arrows ??? signify how conventional syntactic and semantic contiguity works to fill in the blanks, while vertical arrows ↓ ↑ signify how a semantically paradigmatic association, which is either in similarity or contiguity, works to fill in the blanks. A rectangle ? ? ? signifies that the item enclosed is the contextually overt item, while parentheses ( ) signify that the item enclosed is the con­ textually covert one. A line under an item signifies that the item is the ver­ bally overt item, while no line under an item signifies that the item is the verbally covert one. We could give three structures of interpretation to this English text the wind sings as shown in 1, 2, and 3 in Figure 1. In 1, the focus of attention, which is shown as a contextually overt item, is given to the wind, and association works to fill in the rectangle blank. Therefore, blank A is to be filled up so as to satisfy at the same time conventional syn­ tactic and semantic contiguity with the wind and semantic contiguity or sim­ ilarity with sings. As to the rectangle blanks B, C, and D, essentially the

Figure 1. Schematization of the interpretation of the text the wind sings in contexts.

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

37

same dynamic explanation could be given: B is to be filled up so as to satisfy, at the same time, the conventional syntactic and semantic contiguity with sings and semantic contiguity or similarity with the wind; C is to be filled up so as to satisfy, at the same time, semantic contiguity or similarity with the wind and conventional syntactic and semantic contiguity with D; and D is to be filled up so as to satisfy, at the same time, the conventional syntactic and semantic contiguity with C and semantic contiguity or similar­ ity with sings. We might think of a number of possible items which would actually fill in blanks A, B, C, and D according to this schema. Thus the text the wind sings itself is ambiguous in many ways, but a given interpreter in a given context will often almost automatically choose one of the three structures 1,2, and 3 and one of the possible associations to fill in the contextually overt blank. Contextually covert items marked by parentheses will be tacitly filled in in the same way as the overt items, and signify the implicit meaning of the text in a context. We may give one example of interpretation for each of the structures in Figure 1. In 1, as the most conventional syntactic and semantic contiguity with the wind may be blows, and the contextually overt mark is given to this level the wind blows, and as the most conventional syntactic and semantic contiguity with sings may be human, singular a person, the text may be interpreted as the wind blows like someone singing. How the blowing of the wind is like someone singing is further delimited by a particular context. In this case, A is semantically in a similar relationship with sings and this semantic similarity might be found in some iconicity of sings and blows, for example a diagrammatic similarity in some synaesthetic features. In 2, the text might be interpreted as somebody sings like the wind. If we give this interpretation to a person singing on stage, playing the role of the goddess of the wind, B will be semantically in a contiguous relation to the wind. In 3, the text might be interpreted to mean for example 'the goddess of the wind dances just like she sings.' In all of these interpretations, we find a vital difference between the wind sings and the literal expression of its semantic translation such as the wind blows like someone singing, a person playing the part of the goddess of the wind sings, or the goddess of the wind dances just like she sings. The lat­ ter three literal expressions are expressed on one level of conventional con­ tiguity, whereas the wind sings in each of 1, 2, and 3 is expressed on more than two levels of conventional contiguity so that it is necessary to integrate these plural levels by way of association to fill in the contextually overt blanks.

38

MICHIKO ARIMA

The number of arrows and the degree of semantic difference between the levels may signify the degree of effort made in the associative integra­ tion. The number of structures given to a text may signify the degree of the ambiguity of a text itself to which a particular interpreter in a particular context is to give a definite reality. Thus an interpretation of a text signifies the effort made in the associative integration. This effort is a creative effort to give reality to a text in context. The number of structures and the number of levels and arrows in a given structure signify the degree of creativity, in other words, the possible degree of ambiguity of a text. A text only represents possibility. An interpreter gives reality to a text by finding overt items in context to be asociated with blanks in the structure of a text and integrating a text with a context in this way. The text a girl sings may sound conventional in a general context, but if this text is put in a context with an index to a flower trembling in the wind, it will not be conventional but poetic, and we will need more than one level of syntagmatic contiguity, as in Figure 2: (a girl)

(sings)

↓ a flower

trembles in the wind

Figure 2. Schematization of the interpretation of the text a girl sings in a certain context. There is a vital difference also in this case between a girl sings, a flower trembles in the wind like a girl singing, and a flower trembles in the wind. The first text requires the interpreter to find something similar or contigu­ ous between the verbally overt items a girl sings and its context, which is in this case the contextually overt item, a flower trembles in the wind and to integrate the two levels. The second verbalizes both the items a girl singing, a flower trembles in the wind and the relationship between these two classes of items, while less effort is required for its interpretation. The third text is syntactically simpler (less integrated) than the second. It requires the interpreter only to identify the items of a text in context, which is a pre­ requisite of any interpretation. The effort required for interpretation is greatest in the first (two levels and four arrows) and the least in the third (one level and no arrow), so that the first text has to be the most creative

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

39

one and the third the least. However, we should not underestimate the effort required to identify items of a text in context. Without this perfor­ mance, linguistic signs, which are general and highly symbolic, cannot be integrated with a particular figure of the ground which is supposed to be iconically more vaguely characterized, as Berlin and Kay (1969) and Kay (1975) demonstrated in their discussion of color and the saliency of focal colors in the color spectrum. Strictly speaking, the result of this identifica­ tion, which is more exactly to be called integration of icon, index and sym­ bol in a sign, is not the same for every interpreter but is more or less unique to a particular interpreter in a particular context. What has been said above about the semantic items of a natural lan­ guage can be said of any semiotic sign that a given interpreter consciously or unconsciously chooses as the object of interpretation. In social communi­ cation, the conventional associations of any item are observed as rules. On the other hand, we may regard a given text in a particular context as a result, and each interpretation of a text in a context as a case. Thus the interpretation of a text in a context is abduction, inferring a case from rules and a result. The functional essence of this inference is a creative perfor­ mance in dynamic associative integration. If this associative integration should become deficient, we will have various forms of schizophrenic lan­ guage which I deal with in my paper "Schizophrenia as Semiotic Disintegra­ tion" (Kodikas/Code 1985). 2.

New rules in a Japanese semiotic society

When a given interpretation for a case is accepted, observed as working in most cases and consequently accepted as a new rule replacing the previous one, this interpretation should be called a rule-changing creativity. If we intend our interpretation to be a rule-changing creativity, it will be efficient for our purposes to make the difference between our personal associations and conventional associations of rules as clear as possible. Thus, in a society with a semiotic orientation to rule-changing creativity, we are encouraged to be expressive, that is, semiotically overt in the expression of our personal associations. On the other hand, in a society with a semiotic orientation to rule-gov­ erned creativity, the utmost effort will be made to integrate the personal associations with the rules of social convention. As a result of this, personal associations will be metaphorically integrated with the rules as covert items

40

MICHIKO ARIMA

in the structure of interpretation, and we are encouraged to be as suggestive as possible, that is, semiotically covert in the expression of our personal associations. In such a society as this, good communication requires sensitivity to the contextually covert levels of the structure of interpretation in order to know the personal associations. In such a society one tends to be delicate and sensitive in one's attitude to interpretation. While in a society with a semiotic orientation to rule-changing creativity, one is generally expected to take the overt semiotic items in context literally, for it is in principle the overt items that the encoders of the text intend to convey to us. This is a clear world to interpret, in contrast to the ambiguous world of a rule-gov­ erned society. In a society with a semiotic orientation to rule-governed creativity, it is on the whole very difficult for the overt new rules to appear; the novel new ideas, that is, personal associations different from the conventional associa­ tions, are latent on covert levels integrated with the old rules. It is only when a latent new idea is sensitively accepted by the majority of people and general agreement is gradually reached to bring it to the overt level, that a new idea is accepted as a new rule. So, in this type of society, where it is not strongly advisable to express a personal new idea overtly, it usually takes time for a personal new idea to appear in the form of a new rule. A new personal idea is more or less modified by the interpretation of the majority of people taking part in the general agreement to bring it to the overt level as a new rule, to the extent that the original proposer of the new idea becomes anonymous like the majority of people. There is an apparent exception to this. It is not difficult for a radically new idea to be accepted at once as a new rule, if it is introduced as an already established new rule in some authorized or privileged way. In this case, a new idea is already defined as a rule in a privileged way so that it is not merely a new idea but a ready-made new rule. However, in the process of interpretation according to such a rule in a particular context of a rulegoverned society, the personal associations of the interpreters will be integ­ rated with the rule, and consequently the rule will necessarily turn out to be somewhat different in nuance or implication from what it was when it was originally introduced as a new idea, as a new rule. Then if we assume that the Japanese prefer rule-governed creativity to rule-changing creativity in their interpretation of a text in contexts, the fol­ lowing characteristics of Japanese semiotic aspects can be explained in ref-

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

41

erence to the above mentioned ideas: (1) Basically highly creative work such as invention and discovery in various artistic and scientific fields is not so much expressed as the improvement or application of some new idea. 5 (2) It usually takes time for a new idea of an individual to be recognized as such in Japanese society, while such an idea is often distinctly identified and immediately appreciated in those foreign countries where rule-changing creativity is prevalent. 6 (3) A new rule appears often anonymously covered under the name of some group or society in general. 7 (4) Many cultural pro­ ducts of the West have been introduced and immediately accepted as new rules since the Meiji era, in a cultural context where western culture has been regarded as an authority, an advanced and ideal model, and yet every one of those products of the West has been modified and assimilated to native Japanese culture. 8 3.

The covertness of Japanese culture: uniformity, passivity, sympathy, teamwork, tranquility, simplicity, and strong context-dependency

All of the significant patterns of Japanese culture — uniformity, passivity, sympathy, teamwork, tranquility, simplicity, and strong context-depen­ dency — will be thoroughly and economically explained by the assumption that the Japanese have preferred rule-governed creativity to rule-changing creativity in interpreting any text in contexts. 3.1

Uniformity

It is quite natural and usual for us to have our personal associations, which are distinguished from the conventional associations, codified in semiotic rules for social communication. In rule-governed creativity, we will try to integrate our personal associations firmly with the social rules, putting our personal associations on the covert levels. Then we will have a uniformness of rules on the overt levels in any semiotic interpretation. The assumption that the Japanese prefer rule-governed creativity leads to the inference that this uniformity of rules can be seen in Japanese semiotic aspects in general. This can be proved by the uniformity of rules of specific semiotic expres­ sions in Japanese speech, dress, behavior, life-style, and others. There are many conventional expressions of speech such as yoroshiku, dōmo and chotto which actually lack meaning and yet suggest rich associa­ tions which interpreters regard as appropriate in a given context, so that

42

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these expressions can be used in various different contexts with different appropriate connotations. We may say that such covert associations made by the interpreters are integrated with these overt expressions as rules of social convention. Dressing is also conventional: school uniforms, business uniforms, uniform dark-suits for businessmen and some types of uniform kimono depending on sex, age, and situations are popular, even though some chal­ lenge is made to break the mold of uniformity by westernized youngsters. People usually integrate their personal taste with the conventional by mak­ ing a personal choice of subtle differences in texture, color, design, print­ ing, accessories and the like in dressing. On the whole Japanese do not favor big gestures. They tend suppress to their personal feelings and suggest them slightly through conventional facial expressions and behavior. Some highly formalized masks and dancing in Noh drama may well symbolize this. It is indeed by the slight difference in the movement of a mask and body in timing with a song that each per­ former of Noh drama tries to represent some of his personal interpretation of the role he plays.9 The personal associations of each player in Noh drama are in this way integrated with conventional overt expressions which are represented by definite types of mask, dancing and music. Incidentally it may be well-known that Japanese women tend to hide their facial expression by putting their hand to the mouth when they laugh. This behavior seems to have developed from the act of suppressing their overt expression of personal feelings. We may classify this behavior as a particular pattern requested specifically of young women for politeness as a sub-rule in overt behavior. Concerning conventional life-style, we may point out the rather strict sexual division of work observed in Japanese society: out-of-house work (roughly corresponding to out-of-his-house work) for men and housework for women. This convention seems to me to have been mainly promoted by the fol­ lowing three factors. The first factor is the social convention that young children, old parents and the physically or mentally handicapped should be taken care of at home by housewives, which makes it very difficult for housewives to engage in out of house work. Although facilities for taking care of young children, the old and the handicapped are on the increase, it is not yet usual to take advantage of such facilities; many housewives do not seem to be certain whether it is really worthwhile to choose out of house

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

43

work, leaving their young children, the old and the handicapped to the care of others. The second is the life employment system of Japanese business which tends to develop the loyalty and service of the workers to the com­ pany and encourages hard work. This workload makes it difficult for both husband and wife to engage in business without giving up their own house­ work altogether. The third factor is the frequent moves of businessmen to different branches of their company scattered in far off localities, not infrequently foreign. This makes it difficult to maintain a usual family life with husband, wife and children living together while both husband and wife are engaged in business and each has to move to a different place for the sake of their job. All of the above-mentioned three factors could be regarded as rules which are social conventions. And these overt rules are roughly observed by people in Japanese society integrated with their personal desires in vari­ ous ways. Higher productivity and advancing technology and the applica­ tion of this technology to housework have resulted in much more leisure time not only to businessmen but also to housewives: businessmen today have more holidays than ever before and housewives can do their house­ work in a shorter time. Consequently they have ceased giving up their per­ sonal activities to such an extent that they are trying to integrate their per­ sonal activities with the conventional sexual division of work. Both men and women are enjoying more leisure time and women are trying to partici­ pate in more out of house work activities. It is one of the notable features of today that more and more women tend to have a part-time job, and not necessarily for economic reasons. When this tendency goes on beyond a certain limit, this will lead to a new agreement on covert levels and eventu­ ally may replace a now prevailing overt rule of a rather strict sexual division of work. Uniformity is sometimes mistakenly confounded with conformity. However these two should be carefully distinguished from each other. 10 Uniformity is a superficial similarity on the overt level of social rules which allows a rich personal variety on the covert levels to be integrated with the overt level, while conformity is simply an imitating of another interpreta­ tion which entails giving up one's personal interpretation where the perfor­ mance of the integration of one's personal associations with the social rule has been neglected. It is uniformity not conformity that mainly charac­ terizes Japanese culture. In this connection, it is interesting to note Kawai (1985:107):

44

MICHIKO ARIMA I feel that the true 'strength' of the Japanese lies not in how clearly one can make others understand and act in accordance with one's own theories and beliefs but rather in how many outside elements one can accept without losing one's own identity.

3.2 Passivity and dependency As mentioned above, in the rule-governed creativity of interpretation, one is not encouraged to express oneself (that is, one's personal associations) overtly, but one is expected to follow the rule overtly, putting one's per­ sonal associations on the covert level. The product of this interpretation may appear as mere passivity on conformity but strictly speaking it is not. The more active one's personal associations are, the more actively and dynamically the covert items of one's personal associations are working to be integrated with the rules in such forms as patience, implication, restraint, suppression and control. The Japanese language offers rich expressions, not only in words but also in idiomatic phrases and sentences, for patience, implication, restraint, suppression and control which are all related to this apparent passivity. On the other hand, for those who make little effort to activate their personal associations, the rule-governed interpretation is likely to be used as an easy excuse for their behavior. They follow the rules without making much effort to integrate their personal associations with the rules, and their performance is usually not disapproved of by the people of a society where the expression of personal associations is not encouraged. Personal associa­ tions are often difficult for others to identify and they are largely identified only by those who can afford a deep insight into the interpretation. This literal passivity and simple rule-dependent attitude must have cul­ tivated Amae (dependency) as a kind of conformity in some Japanese. Amae is to give up one's potential effort of interpretation while depending on somebody else's effort and adopting it as a temporary rule. Those who have Amae refuse to accept responsibility for the poor result of their perfor­ mance. They do not regard it as their own real performance but as a false one to be attributed to others on whose effort they have depended, and they do not hesitate to blame the others for the unwelcome result. Both types of passivity may look childish and immature to those people whose interpretation of the text is, in principle, semiotically orientated to rule-changing creativity and who are assumed to be mainly conscious of the

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

45

overt levels. But deep communication will soon tell which type of specific passivity he or she belongs to. The deeply integrated type of passivity is characterized by patience, restraint, responsibility and the like which are in contrast to the impatience and irresponsibility that go along with mere pas­ sivity. The deeply integrated type of passivity is in fact far from immaturity and childishness. 3.3

Sympathy

As we have seen, it is usual under rule-governed creativity to put one's per­ sonal viewpoint and personal associations on covert levels and to put the general social viewpoints for social associations on overt levels in the struc­ ture of interpretation. Such attitude will help to put one's personal view­ point on covert levels in any situation. Thus when two individuals talk, if on equal terms, each of them will make an effort to adopt the other's view­ point for the common ground of communication, putting his or her own viewpoint on the covert level. In Japanese society, which is assumed to be semiotically orientated to rule-governed creativity, this attitude has developed into a pattern of Japanese politeness that is to say it is polite to think and act not from your own point of view but from the others' viewpoints. This is why Japanese people tend to reverse the conventional order of their family name and per­ sonal name in English or other Western languages, because it is a western convention. This may be a possible reason why Japanese people appear to take so much care of others even when not requested to do so, for they tend to put themselves in other people's places and take their points of view. This explains also why the Japanese try to smile in a situation where it is generally expected from them to smile as a conventional pattern of behavior even when they are not in the mood for smiling: they try to adopt the expected viewpoint, putting their personal feelings (or viewpoints) on the covert levels. When the Japanese talk as members of a certain group with members of another group, they usually make an effort to integrate their personal views with the rule that is representative of the group to which they belong, and to suppress those personal views which are different from the represen­ tative view of that group. This attitude might give the impression that they are immature and that they lack their own independent opinions, which is not the case.

46

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This type of sympathy, which is different from, although apparently similar to the western sympathy, is profoundly Japanese, and can be seen at work in the attentive service of Japanese-style hotels and restaurants, in the selfless hospitality to the guests, the religious attitude to nature and so on. 11 3.4

Teamwork

It will not be necessary to explain how this type of sympathy efficiently and economically produces good teamwork which depends on orderly, helpful and thorough cooperation. In Japanese society, great sympathy is generally shown to the rules of social activity, and personal deviations from those rules are suppressed as much as possible and kept on the covert levels in the structure of interpreta­ tion. Thus any social activity is given close unity through the utmost cooper­ ation of each member, because the purpose of the specific social activity is taken for a rule to which every member participating in the activity is com­ mitted, and his or her personal view must be integrated with the rule. It is important to note in this connection that nemawashi (Japanesestyle spadework) plays an important role in making rules in Japanese soci­ ety. The Japanese style of spadework is as follows: Since group decisions are made on the basis of unanimous group con­ sensus, and since direct and open confrontation is avoided whenever possi­ ble in Japan in the interests of harmony and smooth functioning, any plan up for decision needs a great deal of preliminary nemawashi [Japanesestyle spadework or the advance notice of plans pending]. This nemawashi differs from western-style spadework in that it involves the emotions more than the intellect and is performed in terms of sympathetic understanding rather than intellectual agreemant. Personal slights or grudges are smoothed over, and friendly relations are reaffirmed. The plan is adapted and re-adapted to the feelings and attitudes of all concerned, these attitudes being painstakingly elicited during many individual informal con­ versations, so that a group consensus has gradually emerged before the formal decision meeting actually takes place (Naotsuka, Sakamoto, et al. 1981:170-71).

The rule made in this way will ease acceptance by the majority without much personal dissent or resistance and stimulate efficient teamwork. The following description demonstrates this: The big companies in Japan were generally built up through the col­ lective efforts of many men working together [...] rather than through the efforts of any one individual.

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

47

Those qualities most prized among Japanese are the ability to work in harmony with others and to go along with the will of the majority, even though one may disagree (McLean 1984:112).

3.5 Tranquility and simplicity Where a personal difference from the rule tends to be suppressed, integ­ rated with the rule and implicit in the interpretation, we will find a simplic­ ity of rule implying various personal associations on the covert levels. It is the simplicity of a single rule which dominates such overt levels in context. This simplicity produces the tranquility on the overt level which implies var­ ious personal associations on the covert levels. The rule is in general a conventional semiotic association, and it adopts various forms according to a given context. In the social activity of a par­ ticular group it takes the form of the definite purpose or cause of the activ­ ity; in Japanese poetry such as Haiku (a seventeen-syllable Japanese poem) and Waka (a thirty-one-syllable Japanese poem) it adopts the form of well formulated patterns of rhythm and words; in Japanese dance and drama it takes the form of well formulated pattern of sound and behavior, and so forth. In any traditional Japanese semiotic performance, tranquility and simplicity can be found within a single rule which contains rich and ambigu­ ous implications of various personal associations. 3.6 Strong context-dependency If a personal difference from the rule is suppressed, how then can we be aware of the suppressed personal associations on the covert levels? If per­ sonal associations are completely obliterated and no clue is given to their presence on the covert levels, then there is no way of being conscious of their presence whatever deep insight we might possess. It may be argued that in the case of integration of personal associations with the rule instead of obliteration, some clue is still present on the covert levels. This clue will be found when you eliminate what the rule decrees from the overt sign. Some may doubt if anything is still left there, but there will be some per­ sonal choice left by what the rule decrees. I have been discussing significant patterns of Japanese culture under the assumption that the Japanese prefer rule-governed creativity. Because

48

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the rule is a conventional semiotic association, the characteristics of the rule may depend on a particular semiotic society. Then what is the characteristic of the rule in Japanese semiotic interpretation? With reference to Ikegami (1981, 1984a and b), we point out the strong context-dependency of the rule in general Japanese linguistic interpreta­ tion. This feature seems to be distinct in such typically Japanese linguistic artforms as the Haiku (which is made up of three short phrases of 5, 7, and 5 syllables) and the Waka (which is made up of five phrases of 5, 7, 5, and 7, 7 syllables). The meaning in such poems depends considerably on the silent beat in context: we may say that the (personal) association in the silent beat links the artistically designed semantic discontinuity of each phrase. It is mainly in the context on the overt level that we may detect the personal associations of the interpreters in Japanese linguistic society, for what is underdefined by the rule is to be defined by the associations in con­ text on the overt level. This characteristic of the underdefining rule seems to be well illus­ trated in another typical Japanese art, Noh drama. The following statement will indicate the vital role of context in Noh drama called here the coinci­ dence of the moment as the performance progresses: Let us take a brief look at its [the Noh drama's] musical structure. It is typified by an 8-beat rhythm. This comprises 2 measures of 4-4 time in terms of European musical structure, resulting in a fixed time quantum of 1-2-3-4, 2-2-3-4. But in the Japanese Noh music, these 8 beats become shorter toward the end of the series, making the final 4 beats two clusters of halfbeats, that sounds like this — TON, TON, TON, TON, TON-TON, TON-TON. The reason for this is that it works in accordance with the human breath patterns in which there is a natural lengthening and shorten­ ing of beats. Incidentally, the Chinese character for 'breath' is made up of those for 'self' and 'heart,' indicating that the 'breath' is a conscious expression of the heart of the individual. This is the true nature of Japanese music. In other words, this results in the appearance of a rhythmic pattern that cannot be predicted. [...] It [the art of the Noh drama] is made up of a dancer, singers, and an orchestra with a flute, a shoulder drum, and a knee drum [...] They each produce their own sounds and movements in accordance with their own breath rhythms while taking their cues from the rhythms of the others involved in the performance. This mutual sensing of rhythms is expressed by the term 'Ma o toru' or 'take the silent beat.' Their cues are not taken in accordance with any sort of written notation that has been clearly decided before the performance, rather, it depends, for the most part, upon the coincidence of the moment as the performance progresses (Miyoshi 1985:109-11).

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

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The vital importance of context is found also in Bunraku, a Japanese musical art using puppets. In the seventeenth century, the audio-visual art known as Bunraku was born in Japan. It consists of the stringed instrument known as the shamisen, a narrator, and puppets handled by three puppeteers each. The shamisen player accompanies the narrator in accordance with his own rhythmical timing or Ma. The narrator sets his rhythms in harmony with those of his shamisen accompanist. In other words, the narrator per­ forms in accordance with a coincidental rhythm that occurs as the result of his perception of the timing and rhythm set up by his accompanist on that given occasion. But at the same time, the narrator also has his own style of rhythm and timing which exerts an influence on the rhythm and timing of the shamisen player as the performance progresses. The puppeteers, then, move their puppets in accordance with the complicated rhythms thus created by the shamisen accompanist and the narrator. This means that the movements of the puppets are an inevitable expression of the sounds created by the shamisen player and the narrator. In other words, these three elements of instrumental sound, vocal sound, and spatial movement both exist in an inevitable relationship and are brought to life through a mutual respect for the coincidence of their mutual contact at any given moment in a performance. This gives rise to a mutual breathing rhythm amongst the three performing elements that is quite impossible to measure or delineate. The result is an overall flow that is typified by irregular tempos and a mutually sustained rhythm pattern that is impossible to put down on paper in terms of conventional music notation (Ibid.: 107-09). Traditional Japanese architecture also gives much importance to con­ text: [...] in traditional Japanese dwelling architecture, we find an element called a 'verandah,' which runs along the outside edge of the rooms to form a sort of corridor with no roof over it. This verandah, then, is outside of the house. But, at the same time, since it is separated from the inside by only a glass door, it is also considered a part of the inside of the house (Ibid. :103). This 'verandah' as an ambiguous category space, which is part of the inside as well as the outside of the house, symbolically serves to make nature an indispensable context of traditional Japanese architecture. Japanese architecture is so constructed as to enable the people to enjoy wonderful elements of the outside world inside, such as sunlight, gentle breezes, and natural scenery. Traditional Japanese architecture is not complete by itself; it can be complete depending on the context of nature or the garden.

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Inside the house, as we will see in the following text, we may easily adjust the space of the room depending on the context: Inside the house are the paper or glass doors that are so very light that they can be slid back and forth with a single finger. By closing or opening these light doors, a number of small rooms can be instantaneously converted into a single large room that encompasses the entire house {Ibid. :105).

This context-dependency of the rule is prevalent in everyday semiotic expressions as well as in artistic ones. For example, it will certainly be found in the Japanese preference for occasional silence in conversation and for comparatively bare rooms with as few pieces of furniture as possible. This kind of silence and space should not be equated with emptiness: this apparent emptiness may be filled with personal associations and complete the semiotic performance integrated with the rule. Can we find any correlation between the rule-governed creativity and the strong context-dependency of the rule? Strictly speaking we should say that this is an open question at present lacking enough data to prove it. If we take into account the universal mechanism of the human mind which is biologically determined, it seems unnatural for man to suppress completely all personal associations or not to suggest them on the overt level. Because it results in the eradication of differences between individu­ als unknown to one another and makes communication meaningless, which runs contrary to the nature of man as the most communicative of all living organisms. Therefore it seems natural that what is suppressed should be suggested in some overt way integrated with the rule. Under rule-governed creativity, if the rule is strictly defined in every detail leaving no room for references to the context, it would be impossible for suppressed personal associations to suggest themselves on the overt level, which runs contrary to the above-mentioned semiotic nature of man. Therefore I assume that we are sure to have the underdefining rule, that is, comparatively strong context-dependency of the rule, under rulegoverned creativity. Conclusion I have discussed the assumption that the Japanese prefer rule-governed creativity in their semiotic interpretation of a text in contexts which explains the Japanese cultural characteristics of uniformity, passivity, sym­ pathy, teamwork, tranquility, simplicity, and strong context-dependency.

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

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Had the Japanese been a less homogeneous people and been less observant to fixed rules, their society would not reveal such a noticeable preference for rule-governed creativity, and would not display such cultural charac­ teristics. Japanese culture has been much influenced by foreign cultures these days. As a result rule-changing creativity seems to be at times the choice of the younger generation.

Notes *

The author is much indebted to Professor Dr. Yoshihiko Ikegami, the editor of this volume, for very helpful comments on an earlier draft of this manuscript.

1.

See Chomsky (1964:59). See also Chomsky (1980:222), where he says: It is important to bear in mind the fundamental conceptual dis­ tinction between generation of sentences by the grammar, on the one hand, and production and interpretation of sentences by the speaker, making use of the resources of the grammar and much else, on the other [...] We have some understanding of the principles of gram­ mar, but there is no promising approach to the normal creative use of language, or to other rule-governed human acts that are freely undertaken. The study of grammar raises problems that we have some hope of solving; the creative use of language is a mystery that eludes our intellectual grasp. I do not take this viewpoint in this paper: the creative use of language may possi­ bly be formalized if we elaborate the simple schematization for interpreting a text in contexts which I propose in this paper. My definition of rule as a socially habitual semiotic association will account for the fact that the general semiotic performance of people is different depending on the various contextual differ­ ences such as the difference in culture and age.

2.

Takigawa (1983:169) summarizes appropriately what Nakai (1982a) argues on the relation of social rule to Japanese culture, and refers to the relevant discussion by Nakai (1982b) that schizophrenic patients or those who have a strong tendency to be schizophrenic find it difficult to live in such a society as the Japanese where it is strongly required to integrate personal views (that is, personal association in my definition) to social rule (that is, convention), for such people are observed to be characterized by their poor ability in this kind of integration. It may be necessary to add that both Nakai (1982a) and Doi (1985) discuss this problem in their own specifically unified perspectives.

3.

We can trace the first usage in print of the term covert in a linguistic context to Whorf (1938) written in the year of publication, though he had already used the term in his other writing (1956) estimated to be written in 1936. We may say that

52

4.

5.

MICHIKO ARIMA Whorf entertained some similar idea of covert category in a cultural context when he wrote: "The anthropologist should not be satisfied with such a grammar [phenotypes], any more than with an ethnology that described only positive behavior and ignored the patterning of taboos and avoidances" (Ibid. :72). Speaking of covert culture, Kluckhorn learned the theory of covert culture from Linton, "who has never published the theory of covert culture which he has developed in his lectures" (Kluckhorn 1943:217), and it was Kluckhorn (Ibid.) who used the term covert culture in print for the first time. Incidentally it is interesting to note some relevance of the contrastive concept of covert versus overt to such contrastive concepts as unconscious versus conscious and unmarked versus marked. In this connection see Leach (1964) and Arima (1981). Chomsky (1980:136, 139-40) refers to Peirce's idea of abduction in his discussion of language acquisition; both his method of application and context of application of abduction are quite different from mine here. See Fukui, who received the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1981, (1985:37, 39, 41) in which he says: [...] almost all the advanced technology development that has been carried out in Japan to date has been based upon scientific dis­ coveries made in other countries. The computer is an excellent example of this phenomenon. And there is almost no instance of the opposite situation in which scientific discoveries made in Japan have seen development abroad. [...] the Japanese found it difficult to rid themselves of the delu­ sion that the very passing on of information from foreign countries was the basis of modern learning [...] The promotion of science comes through those who break away from the norm and stand out as an individual moving force.

6.

Take notice of the fact that scientists, artists, and other highly creative workers very often have the uniqueness of their works recognized first abroad and then in their own country, Japan.

7.

For related linguistic considerations of this semiotic aspect from a different view­ point, see Ikegami (1981, 1984a) in which the movement-of-individual-item cen­ tered Do-language and the state-of-whole centered Become-language are typologically studied. For further discussion of context-dependency and the relativity of signification in these two types of languages, see Ikegami (1984b).

8.

For example, see the following: Our [Japanese] form of democracy, originally imposed on us by the Americans after the last war, has undergone many subtle changes until today it functions in a uniquely Japanese way (McLean 1984:56). In the context of religion and ideology, we find that Japan has taken in Buddhism, Confucianism, and Taoism in ancient times and West-

CREATIVE INTERPRETATION AND THE JAPANESE MENTALITY

53

ern scientific ideology in modern times, all without abandoning the unique ancient Japanese Shintoism, and maintains them all in a har­ monious state of mutual existence (Kawai 1985:105). Kawai tries to explain this aspect of assimilation by his Hollow-Center theory which is symbolized in the Japanese myths found in The Record of Ancient Matters (Kojiki) : [...] the hollow center of the Japanese myths found in The Record of Ancient Matters as [is] one of their most significant elements. Rather than place some basic principle or powerful entity in the central posi­ tion as an overall ruling factor, the center is left inactive and empty in order to allow a harmonious balance among the surrounding entities to bring about a sense of organized fulfilment to the whole. In contrast to the more common Central-Power-Ruled Model, I call this the Hollow-Center-Balanced Model (Ibid.: 101) When compared with the mythology of Christianity, the hollow structure of Japanese mythology becomes even more clearly defined. In the context of the single male deity as the central figure in Christ­ ianity, the distinction between good and evil is extremely clearcut. And all elements that are not consistent with the existence of that single central deity are either banished to the periphery or com­ pletely liquidated. Conversely, in the context of the Japanese Hol­ low-Center-Balanced Model, we find the unique feature of allowing the mutual existence of reciprocal elements that maintain a delicate balance among themselves (Ibid. :103). 9.

Noh drama is sometimes roughly defined as "a song and dance drama which might best be described in Western terms as a combination of opera and a ballet." How­ ever both the song and dance in Noh drama are quite different in semiotic interpretation in performance from those in the Western opera and ballet. I will touch on the semiotic interpretation in performance of Noh drama later in another context.

10.

See Doi (1985:43-57).

11.

Historically the Japanese did not see man and nature in a contrastive relationship but looked upon man as integrated with nature. It does not seem strange to the Japanese in general to make an effort to take the viewpoint of nature while put­ ting their own viewpoints on the covert levels. At least one element that has culti­ vated this attitude must be the traditional Japanese rice cultivation in an unsteady climate influenced by the violent rain and wind of the rainy and typhoon seasons.

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References Arima, M. 1981. "Hi-Meijiteki Category to Ryogisei" ("Whorf s 'Covert Category' and Leach's 'Ambiguity'"), Gengo Kenkyu (Journal of the Linguistic Society of Japan) 80:51-68. . 1985. "Schizophrenia as Semiotic Disintegration." Kodikas/Code 8:217-30. Berlin, B. and P. Kay. 1969. Basic Color Terms: Their Universality and Evolution. Berkeley: Univ. of California Press. Chomsky, N. 1964. "Current Issues in Linguistic Theory." The Structure of Language: Readings in the Philosophy of Language 50-118, ed. by J.A. Fodor and J.J. Katz. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. . 1980. Rules and Representations. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Doi, T. 1985. Omote to Ura (Concepts from the Japanese 2-fold Structure of Conscious­ ness). Tokyo: Kobundo. Fukui, K. 1985. "The Japanese and Creativity." Japanese Essences (series Japan as I See It: 3) 31-47, ed. by NHK. Tokyo: Kodansha. Ikegami, Y. 1981. Suru to Naru no Gengogaku (Do-language vs. Become-language). Tokyo: Taishukan. . 1984a. "How Universal is a Localist Hypothesis? A Linguistic Contribution to the Study of 'Semantic Styles' of Language." Language as Social Semiotic (The Semiotics of Culture and Language, Vol. 1), ed. by R.P. Fawcett, M.A.K. Halliday et al. London and Dover, N.H.: Frances Pinter. . 1984b. "Context-Dependency and the Relativity of Signification." Studia Semiotica 4:119-30, ed. by the Japanese Association for Semiotic Studies. Tokyo: Hokuto Shuppan. Kawai, H. 1985. "The Japanese Mind as Found in the Myths of Japan." Japanese Sen­ sitivities (series Japan as I See It: I) 91-109, ed. by NHK. Tokyo: Kodansha. Kay, P. 1975. "Synchronic Variability and Diachronic Change in Basic Color Terms." Language and Society 4:257-70. Kluckhohn, C. 1943. "Covert Culture and Administrative Problems." American Anthropologist 45:213-29. Leach, E. 1964. "Anthropological Aspects of Language: Animal Categories and Verbal Abuse." New Directions in the Study of Language, ed. by E.H. Lenneberg. Cam­ bridge: MIT Press. McLean, P. 1984. Talking about Japan. Tokyo: Asahi Press. Miyoshi, A. 1985. "The Silent Beat of Japanese Music." Japanese Essences (series Japan as I See It: 3) 99-117, ed. by NHK. Tokyo: Kodansha. Nakai, H. 1982a. Bunretsubyo to Jinrui (Schizophrenia and Human Beings). Tokyo: Tokyo Univ. Press. . 1982b. Seishinka Chiryo no Oboegaki (Some Notes on Psychiatry Therapy). Tokyo: Nihon Hyoron-sha. Naotsuka, R., S. Nancy et al. 1981. Mutual Understanding of Different Cultures. Tokyo: Taishukan. Peirce, C.S. 1931. "Elements of Logic." Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, Vol. II, ed. by C. Hartshorne and P. Weiss. Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard Univ. Press.

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Takigawa, K. 1983. "Yamai-tono Kyozon" ("Living with Psychosis"). Seishin no Kagaku (Mental Science), Vol. 8. Tokyo: Iwanami-shoten. Whorf, B.L. 1938. "Some Verbal Categories of Hopi." Language 14:275-86. Reprinted in Language, Thought, and Reality (1956), ed. by J.B. Carroll. Cambridge: MIT Press. . 1956. "A Linguistic Consideration of Thinking in Primitive Communities." J.B. Carroll ed. (1956).

Characters that Represent, Reflect, and Translate Culture — in the Context of the Revolution in Modern Art* Shutaro Mukai

Here are two poems about rain: a calligram by Guillaume Apollinaire, "Il pleut," and a work of concrete poetry, "The Rain," by Seiichi Niikuni. Apollinaire's poem was written in 1916, and Niikuni's in 1966. The times the two poems were composed are thus separated by half a century. The two works, however, have much in common: both are optical or graphic poems which use a free arrangement of letters on a two dimensional sur­ face; both belong to the tradition of visual poetry with its emphasis on graphic form. (See Figures A and B) In his work, Apollinaire broke with the western tradition of writing form, namely in straight lines, and let the letters run down the surface of the page diagonally from top to bottom. The subtle differences in the den­ sity, rhythm, and tempo of the separation of the individual letters, which roll down the page in several strands, reinforce the image of interrupted lines, like those of casually dripping drops of water. The poem is thus itself a pictorial representation of a rainy scene. Beyond this, one senses the hid­ den intention of the author to evoke the sound of the drops of rain and the feeling of movement. If one examines these letters intensely and closely, they begin to emit tones which — translated by Daigaku Horiguchi — sound like the following: (See Figure C). 1 Only through contact with the sounds of these letters does this representation of a rainy scene become more than a simple likeness of rain in nature. The year in which this poem was written, 1916, was also the year when the First World War intensified, and it is the year in which Apol­ linaire returned from the front with a head injury. Two years later, at the

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Figure A. Guillaume Apollinaire "Il pleut." 1916. Calligrammes. Éditions Gallimard. Paris. 1966.

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Figure B. Seiichi Niikuni = Ame ("The Rain"). 1966. Japanische kon­ krete und visuelle Poesie. Kunstverein Gelsenkirchen. 1978.

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omoide no naka de saemo

shinde shimatta onnatachi no koe no yona

ame ga futte iru

oo ame no shizuku yo

watashi no issho no tanoshii meguriawase yo

kimira mo futte iru

uma no yoni abare mawaru

ano amagumo ga

hibiki no machi machi no bettechi o inakai dasu

kokai to azakeri ga

mukashi no ongaku o naite iru hima ni

ame ga furu no o kiku ga yoi

ue kara shita kara

omae o sasaeru kizuna no ito ga

ochite kuru no o kiku ga yoi

Figure C. Japanese translation of ApoUinaire's "Il pleut" (D. Horiguchi's Japanese translation in Romanized representation). age of 38, he took his own life. When one takes these facts into considera­ tion, the poem — even though the translation conveys tinges of a sweet song — seems to be the sorrowful cry of the countless nameless dead, vic­ tims of the war, and the vehement cry of the author himself against the be­ trayal of the modern era by cruel, inhuman war — in other words, against the collapse of modern self-confidence. Western languages themselves are seen as the spirit of the modern age. The way in which the horizontal linear lines in ApoUinaire's poem fall to pieces and threaten to plunge into the void seems to symbolize the collapse of the spirit of modern times or the

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collapse of the Ego. The fact that these scattered letters still carry "voices" seems to reflect the passionate, dynamic life-force, determined to prevent the irrevocable disintegration of the words by maintaining their linear form. The graphic form of the "Rain" is reminiscent of the scene of the "force of life" by Bergson: 'I'élan vital.' 2 Formulated in more current terms, this might be described as the lifeforce striving to develop against the current of entropy. And it is only by the very process of disintegration of the spirit, or of words that the internal, natural, life-process that is hidden behind the spirit of the modern age seems to stream forth, as if it were the voice of the nameless who still con­ tinue to spin words. Might it not be possible to say that this poem is a direct expression of the spiritual endangerment of the modern West? Niikuni's poem, 'Rain,' by contrast, is a visual composition using the Chinese character (Kanji) for 'rain' with the repetition of one of its formal components. The character 'rain' (based on the 'six rules of radical-combi­ nation') is a hieroglyphic representation of 'water drops falling from heaven.' The surprising manner in which the author decomposes and then reconstructs this character brilliantly recalls to life its original hieroglyphic nature, nearly forgotten in everyday use. Distributed geographically in the form of a grid, the 'raindrops' are represented as dots; and the only complete character, 'rain,' is located in the middle of the bottom row, thus 'on earth.' The regularly distributed dots vibrate against the empty surface of the background and invite one to imagine endless nature (the universe). The single character for 'rain' is transformed into a microcosm, a small house, in which one lives and silently listens to the rain. The two — the house and nature in the background — seem to melt into one another. The resulting image of a rainy scene corre­ sponds to the world of traditional Japanese poetry, the Haiku. Jasia Reichart, who has also attempted to compare these two poems, wrote that ApoUinaire's "Rain" conveys the mood of an almost enthusiastic explosion of joy; the poem by Niikuni, by contrast, conveys the fairly quiet, soaking continuity of rain. She writes further that the metaphors created by such visual poetry — despite the limitations of the medium used — are astoundingly individual.3 Reichart's interpretation of ApoUinaire's poem "Il pleut" is fundamen­ tally different from mine; but do the two poems differ only with regard to the one aspect described by Reichart? It seems to me that the basic differ­ ence is revealed in the different use of language itself in the two poems. If

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one wanted to follow this line of reasoning, one might ask whether cultural differences and characteristic cultural consciousness might not reflect, instead, the use of letters to represent sounds, as opposed to letters which carry meaning; whether such a difference is not more clearly in the fore­ ground than that which might be ascribed to individuality. This poem by Apollinaire, in my opinion, is the most successful of his calligraphic works in the etymological sense of the word 'calligram,' or 'beautiful letters.' Technical translation difficulties are to a certain extent responsible for the fact that the Japanese translation of "The Poems of Apollinaire" does not always succeed in conveying the beauty of its visual form. As far as I know, this translation by Daigaku Horiguchi is the only one available in Japanese. Even in this one translation of Apollinaire's calligrams, most of the translated poems are given in the normal form, namely in straight lines; the written form as the representation of a rainy scene has not been retained. It might be technically possible to arrange the letters in the translation in such a way as to recreate the image of a rainy scene. The extraordinary tension in the original, however, cannot be reconstructed in written Japanese, a mixture of Kanji and Kana. The individual letters in the original, which are no longer set in a horizontal line from left to right but arranged in uneven strands which fall from the top to the bottom, are freed from the weight of time and threaten to disintegrate into their original nature as signs. Tension results from keeping these almost disintegrated words in continuous lines and from their attempt to call forth the rhythm of life through their reso­ nance. This tension is only possible with syllable letters, alphabets. This shows, in my opinion, the potential for tension inherent in the 26 letters that combine to make various words, the tension that attempts to keep these letters together as words. If the rows of letters depicting rain were to be blown about by an even stronger wind and scattered more widely on the paper, the letters would turn into a constellation of meaningless, anonymous letters. This image is reminiscent of Mallarmé's "Constellations of Words," and above all his poem "Un coup de Dés," his last work and so to speak the crystallization of his entire philosophy: "Un coup de Dés jamais n'abolira le Hasard." Here, Mallarmé attempted to summarize his view of the world in one book, a "venture of the human mind to do away with chance in order to achieve the absolute". When the book is opened, two pages form a canvas on which words of different length, freed from their original lines and in seven differ-

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ent print types, are ingeniously arranged. And it is the same, page after page. These groups of words which resemble constellations — vibrating against the empty white background — evoke diverse visual word associa­ tions in the reader; through their form, sound, and meaning, they allow manifold waves to be created and yet they remain an arrangement of words in space in which nothing dominates, a dynamic field of fluid nothing in which new meanings come to light, in short, a panorama of the creation of a cosmos.4 His constellations do not resemble those of the Futurists or Dadaists, who anonymized words and reduced them to alphabets and num­ bers. Mallarmé's efforts, however, hint at the dawn of this further develop­ ment. Attempts to create graphic pictures with letters, similar to Appollinaire's 'calligrammes,' have been made since the time of the Greeks. Mal­ larmé, however, was the first to call into consciousness the white background, the room to move about between the individual letters or paragraphs. And the appearance of Apollinaire's "Rain," in which words, on the edge of disintegration into single alphabets, allow a life-process to emerge from the subconscious, is nothing other than a modern event of the intellect encountered by western post-Renaissance civilization. The constel­ lations of nothing created by words and their surrounding space evoke an image (a Gestalt) — to which I will return later — which symbolically depicts the essence of the revolution in the modern arts and the cultural trends of the 20th century. The development in western culture described above, however, leads me to ask the following question: would it be possible for us Japanese, who use a mixture of characters which carry meaning (Kanji) and letters which only make up syllables (Kana), to fully understand the true nature of the revolution in the modern western arts? This question occurred to me during my study of concrete poetry and participation in international events in connection with the exchange of writers of concrete poetry. Concrete poetry was proposed in the early 1950s both in Germany and Brazil. It subsequently expanded into an international movement. As experimental poetry, it was part of literary art and sparked an international interplay between the various arts in the early 1960s. The development of concrete poetry was clearly based on new trends in modern art, as well as the new view of language introduced by Mallarmé. The first volumes of the original proponent of concrete poetry, Eugen Gomringer, and the concept of 'constellation,' which he used as the title of his manifesto, are indications

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of this. At the beginning of his manifesto From Verse to Constellation, he quotes Mallarmé: "Nothing can come to exist without a constellation,"5** taking over Mallarme's use of the words 'constellation, and 'nothing.' Con­ crete poetry in the 1950s — also the result of new insights drawn from new sciences such as linguistics, analytic philosophy, information aesthetics or semiotic aesthetics — called attention to the process of the disintegration or disappearance of words as part of the more fundamental process of crea­ tion. In so doing, concrete poetry strengthened its position as experimental poetry, in order to clarify the autonomous 'relations' or 'structure' of lan­ guage. The forms of letters and the graphic surface became increasingly sig­ nificant, and in the process language became materialized, or an object itself. The term 'concrete poetry' is applied to various movements, for exam­ ple, visual poetry with a graphic orientation, phonetic poetry, spheric poetry, conceptually oriented visual poetry, semiotic-iconic poetry, Gestalt poetry, computer poetry, etc., to name a few. The subject of this article is not the content or the ontologicai significance of these different move­ ments. In general, however, it can be said that the type of intellectual work that lies behind the creation of poems of this kind occasionally strains the capacity for thought to an extreme. In the overexaggerated emphasis on methodology, elimination of the significance of words, and impersonalization of the author, one can either see an abyss of triviality or sense an affin­ ity to technology for its own sake. This easily leads to the criticism that such work is fruitless. Yet exhibitions and conferences on the subject of 'con­ crete or visual poetry' are frequently held in Europe and the U.S. In com­ parison to Japan the mass media, too, show a greater interest in these events. What is it that makes this literary genre so topical? And in view of the fact that the works of Japanese poets are held in such esteem and Japanese poets are always invited on these occasions or asked to partici­ pate, I have to ask: why? Many works by Japanese poets, like Niikuni's poem "Rain" shown ear­ lier, are based on Kanji. The attempt to achieve the graphic characteristic of Kanji — whether conscious or unconscious — can be seen in the works of western poets. I was able to substantiate this myself when I attended a conference in 1978 on the subject of 'Japanese concrete poetry' at the center for interdisciplinary research at the University of Bielefeld in the Federal Republic of Germany. Discussion material for the conference was provided by an exhibition of my works and those of other Japanese poets.

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The interest of the Western poets and scholars was focused on the pictorial or graphic aspects of Japanese writing. This was confirmed by the discus­ sion topics proposed by the moderator of the session, Prof. Dr. S. J. Schmidt:6 whether the graphic form of Japanese characters and writing might not be much more closely related to ideational content than European writing systems, whether it might be possible to document the differences between visual poetry and concrete poetry in the West and Japan, analyze them in terms of forms of appearance and explain them in terms of the categories 'graphics-semantics-aesthetics' whether it might be possible to integrate different graphic forms of visual poetry and concrete poetry, for example, by introducing or integrating graphic forms taken from different cultures.7** In view of Western interest in the graphic character of Kanji, the ques­ tion arises whether Japanese concrete poetry, promoted in the mid-1960s by Niikuni and others, really reflects the same western consciousness and methodology as is often assumed. Japanese concrete poetry developed at that time on the basis of western theories, as did pre-war Japanese modern­ istic poetry. The graphic characteristics of Kanji, however, cannot be com­ pletely captured by western theory. This fact is not only a problem inherent in concrete poetry, it is also, in my opinion, an important point of departure for thinking about the process of modernization, about the state of contem­ porary culture and ways of thinking. From the point of view of cultural semiology, 'culture equals language.' The study of concrete poetry, which emphasizes letters as material, leads to the instinctive realization that it could well be based on the special qualities of a culture's writing system and awareness thereof (Cf. Figure E, 1-22). Let us have a closer look at the characteristic qualities of Kanji charac­ ters in the Japanese writing system, something completely different from the writing system of the alphabet. Kanji are characters which have mean­ ing — as is well-known — as opposed to alphabets which only represent sounds. They are thus visual signs that represent concepts. The graphic quality of Kanji enables us to imagine from time to time what a particular Kanji might mean, even if we do not know how to read it. Kanji, however, are not only visual. They comprise various 'sounds' or ways to read: the original sounds derived from Chinese (On-yomi) and the native Japanese reading (Kun-yomi). Depending on the context, a

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decision on one or the other way of reading a Kanji must be made. Taking the Kun-yomi reading of the sign ' ' as an example, one finds a colorful assortment of sounds such as 'ikiru (to live),' 'ikasu (to permit to stay alive),' 'ikeru (to arrange flowers, etc.),' 'umu (to bear [a child]),' 'umareru (to be born),' 'naru (to become),' 'nama (raw),' 'ki (pure),' and others. Associated with the sound 'miru (to see)' one imagines various overlapping Kanji such as ' (to see),' ' (to watch),' ' (to care for someone who is ill),' ' (look at, observe),' ' ([medically] examine),' etc. Further, a Kanji or Kanji-complex is occasionally given a different reading than is normal, indicated by small Kana letters to the right of the Kanji, like the reading 'hito ('she' sing. / the (female) person / girlfriend etc.)' given to the Kanji ' ' {onna = woman), in order to evoke a special tension in meaning. At the same time, Kanji are also associated with the sense of touch or physical sensation. This is evidenced by the fact that in everyday life the Japanese often write characters in the air, using these gestures to recall the exact lines of the Kanji in question. I would like to add my own personal note that Kanji can also be associated with colors or smells. Our writing system with its mixture of Kanji and the syllabic letters of Kana is more varied than alphabetical writing systems. For just this reason, each incorporates a different feeling. Is it not the integration of feelings in Kanji which permits the original form of the cosmos of a language to live on? Kanji — to describe it somewhat roughly — incorporates painting, poetry, music, sculpture and even gesture in their original form in the words. The use of lines in Japanese writing allows one to start at the right and to write vertically from top to bottom or to write horizontally from right to left. In earlier times it was also common to write horizontally from right to left. Even though texts written in Japanese are printed in lines which are closed, the formal limits of the line are always threatened with disintegra­ tion. For the lines consist of a mixture of Kanji and Kana: individual Kanji, in terms of both the strokes of the character and their density, have widely differing graphic appearances. And Kana, too, can be of two different types: Katakana and Hiragana. Hiragana have a somewhat rounder shape, whereas Katakana are more angular. A language based on such a writing system can never be dissolved into a constellation of nothingness like west­ ern languages, for the 'seeds' of the constellation are inherent in the very signs and lines used in writing. When learning traditional calligraphy with brush and ink, the Japanese learn not only to write the character but also to

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incorporate the empty background as an additional carrier of meaning in the text, particularly when writing a poem in ink. Especially in the case of ink calligraphy, one can say that the background emptiness is imbued with additional meaning. There are even so-called 'empty brushstrokes.' Teiji Ito makes an interesting comment on these in connection with the empty spaces ('ma') in Japanese architecture: Western calligraphy is continuous: the line with which the words are writ­ ten runs almost without any interruption. In Japanese writing — whether Kanji or Kana — the line has no optical continuity. What are the actual characters of eastern languages? In geometical terms they are 'places' that the point of a three-dimensional free-turning brush has left behind through contact with a sheet of paper. Only the places remain visible to the eye; the other movements of the brush disappear from view as soon as the move­ ments come to an end, similar to the running scenes on the screen of a tele­ vision. The movements of the paintbrush which have become invisible to the eye, which leave no trace on the paper, are called 'kuukaku (empty brushstrokes)' . . . After a line has been drawn, the tip of the brush leaves the surface of the paper, determines the direction and force of the next sign, whereby an organic connection is created between the just-drawn and the immediately to-be-drawn. . . In Japanese calligraphy the empty brushstroke is of great significance, as is 'imaginary space' in architecture.8

The Japanese read and attend to even these muscle movements which have vanished into emptiness. Through the invention of printing by Guten­ berg the writing of letters left the human hand; the universalization, stan­ dardization, and homogenization of written letters has steadily increased. Even in typography, however, the mixture of Kanji, Katakana and Hiragana is based on a different kind of order than that of the alphabet. The printed form of Greco-Latin letters can be roughly divided into two types of typographic styles: Roman style, the final form of which devel­ oped at the end of the 1st century and Gothic style, or so-called 'black let­ ters,' dating from the German Renaissance (which Gutenberg used for set­ ting his Bible). The former is characterized by its elegant curving line, whereas the latter uses lines which are stronger, wider and more surfaceoriented. It is from these two types that contemporary Roman and Gothic typography have developed. 9 Both of these types are geometrical. The dif­ ferences between the individual letters are reduced to the minimal factors of form. The left half coordinates with the right, and the individual letters form a lineal homogeneity. These letters, in other words, are based on a

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way of thinking that reduces letters to an endless horizontal line — similar to the geometrical thought which lies behind, for example, perspective, the language of painting. This linear quality and specialization has led, as I will discuss below, to a differentiation of language and from this to the specialized languages, for example, of the sciences, of art (perspective) or of music (note system). Japanese print types, on the contrary, have no direct connecting parts. Behind the individual characters are imaginary boxes as on a sheet of Genkoyoshi, the original Japanese writing paper, which is divided into squares. As a collective whole, the boxes do not force writing to be linear, instead, one is free to fill the boxes with signs — that is, vertically, horizontally, or even diagonally like on a checker-board. On a sheet of Genkoyoshi there is no pre-determined order; there is instead a system of space which can be designed freely. Even when it is printed, the Japanese writing system retains this freedom. Although on a page of printed text it may look like the individual signs have been arranged exactly according to the 'checker­ board' of Genkoyoshi, the imaginary boxes are only provisional housings, not constants. The density of the characters in the individual boxes differs. In this they may perhaps be compared to rows of houses which are all on lots of the same size but which are assigned to families of different size, with differing amounts of household effects. Perhaps this fact is related to the ecology of shop signs in towns, or billboards in the countryside which one often sees from the window of a train. Although there is an invisible matrix in the background of written Japanese — Kanji, Hiragana, Katakana — the impetus of writing itself is maintained in the order of the lots. They all have their own appearance and exhibit variety. In contrast to the form of geometrical order of western alphabets, which builds, so to speak, the visible backbone of the written text, order in Japanese letters seems chaotic and close to that of natural phenomena. It is based, however, on a different kind of order, that which determines, for example, the curve of the roofs in Japanese architecture. 10 Plate and type makers give new force to the sign which is to be carved from wood by the skillful use of their engraving knives. This is also expressed in the name of 'types' in Japanese: they are called 'Katsu-jV in Japanese; the first half of the word means 'living.' L. Wolf has attempted to explain the development of order in the forms of all phenomena. To this end, he provides a mathematical descrip­ tion of order as a 'transformation process of symmetry.' 11 He bases his

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argument on the various forms of symmetry which, since the time of the Greeks, have been regarded in Europe as the principles of aesthetics and of life. At the same time he considers expansion-contraction and the spiral, the forms which Goethe found in plant forms. According to his theory, the order found in a tree's process of becoming, for example, is symmetrical. But it is difficult to describe intuitively the fine movements of the boughs and branches of a tree, which moves with its environment as an existence in space, in terms of symmetry. For a mathematical explanation like Wolfs is only possible after stopping the movements and calculating the approxi­ mate values which they yield. The sensation of beauty which we have when we see a tree, however, is created more by the fine and complicated move­ ments and changes. Japanese written characters, held in boxes, take on the form of a chaos close to nature and awaken in the viewer an impression that is closer to the scene of the tree. It involves the feeling of harmony of 'becoming-by-itself which comes about only when one lets oneself sink into nature. If one looks for a parallel in contemporary western thought, the concept of 'process of becoming,' or 'devenir' as used by Guattair, shows some similarity. Comparing a Japanese writing-scene with the language of western painting, one comes across the related notion of 'aerial perspective,' which Turner developed in his paintings. He found the basis for his method in his encounter with contemporary science, for example the cloud research car­ ried out by Haward, Goethe's color theory, etc. If one closes one's eyes half­ way and looks at a page printed in Japanese or, to take a break, places on the desk the book one is reading at the moment, one can understand Turner's aerial perspective more clearly. One can still see the lines of black printed letters, but the black color of the print immediately begins to blur into the empty spaces in the background. The difference in density of the letters produces a finely blurred scale of blackness, and through these vari­ ations in color the printed line is transformed into an atmospheric image similar to ink drawing. What happens with books written in an alphabet? Even if one closes one's eyes only halfway, the lines of the letters do not dissolve; instead they condense and become clear lines. White surfaces, unnoticed in normal reading, rise up. The smaller surfaces between two letters catch the eye like glittering drops of water. This means that the words eliminate the background. The written lines retain their existence in the form of even stronger lines. But in order to discover the beauty of constellations of glit-

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tering spaces between the letters — or the poetry, music, and colors which Japanese writing creates in its atmospheric haziness — Western thought had to await the time of Turner, the outbreak of the modern era. The fact that an alphabet has a horizontal form becomes clear when horizontal lines, like those in Apollinaire's poem, are transformed into lines which fall from top to bottom. In this poem the letters, their horizontality usually emphasized by several regulations, lose their order in terms of height and connection. Through this, the various widths of the letters become noticeable. The extremely unstable relationships within the lines set off various vibrations and begin to produce an overall dissonance. This dissonance might be seen as a disturbing noise threatening the existence of the form; the modern Western world, however, sees it as a source of new tonality. In the old days, man used to see a mythical world of fruitful chaos, the source of all changing existence. At the same time this world overlapped with a new concept of space, such as von Foerster's 'order through noise' or 'order of unorder.' It also overlaps with Prigogine's new insight into life, 'order through fluctuations.' It was Ernest Fenollosa who first saw in the graphic, meaning-bearing quality of Kanji — compared to European writing systems — the energy of original language. His intuition and insight in 'The Chinese Written Charac­ ter as a Medium for Poetry'12 gives even us as Japanese, who work with Kanji in everyday life, much food for thought. Fenollosa's reflections were writ­ ten after his second stay in Japan between 1897 and 1900 and a few years after his last visit to Japan in 1901, thus at the beginning of the 20th cen­ tury. Interestingly enough, this was also the time when Mallarmé was scat­ tering words into constellations in his work "Un coup de Dés." In the fol­ lowing years at the turn of the century, the alphabet began to free itself of its lines, entering the realm of graphics or space. Fenollosa's book was summarized by Ezra Pound and published in 1918 in the Little Review. It was not until 1936, however, with the publica­ tion of the final volume, that it became well known. Pound, following Fenollosa's intuition and insight, saw the force of Kanji to evoke concrete images as the source of energy to create a new form of poetry. It is a wellknown fact that he called into life the so-called Imagist movement and exerted considerable influence on the movement for new poetry in Eng­ land, the U.S., Italy, France and elsewhere. Beyond this, the volume has continued to influence modern poets of concrete poetry. This is confirmed

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by the fact that in 1972 it was translated and published in German by Eugen Gomringer, advocate of 'constellations.' During his several visits to Japan, Fenollosa studied ancient Chinese poems and the history of Chinese poetry with Kainan Mori. Using the method developed by Kainan to decipher Chinese sentences in accordance with Japanese grammar and his analysis of Chinese characters, he was deeply impressed with the essential graphic ability of Kanji to portray natu­ ral objects and their movements. In the light of this, he developed his own theory of poetry, one which should bridge the gap between the languages of the eastern and western worlds. The result was the book mentioned above. Fenollosa understood Kanji as a 'thought picture' or 'gesture-picture.' He wrote, for example, about the hierographic quality of Kanji using the example of the sentence: 'man sees horse.' If this is written in Chinese, it consists of three characters: . The first portrays a man standing on two legs; the second illustrates the movement of the human eye through space; the third is a straightforward picture of an animal standing on four legs. This group of three characters has the quality of moving pictures, as in a film (Figure D). It reminds us of our own experience, during visits abroad, of explaining our sign system to the local inhabitants in a similar way. His theory of poetry, thus derived and developed, shook the roots of Western metaphysics, or theories of poetry which revolve around Logos. "Through approaching another system that connects parole and écri­ ture," 13 ** it prepared the way for the new intellectual adventure of the 20th century, namely the de-structuring of Western knowledge, according to Jacques Derrida, who said:

Figure D. Ernest Fenollosa, The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry.

72

SHUTARO MUKAI That is the significance of Fenollosa's work. As is well known, he in­ fluenced the poetry of Ezra Pound. This absolute-graphic poetry, to­ gether with Malarmés poetry, was the first break with the most fundamen­ tal of western traditions. And the attractive force which Chinese ideog­ rams acquired from Pound's writing gained intellectual-historical signifi­ cance.14**

Today, looking back on Fenollosa's almost fanatical affection for Kanji, one may perhaps comprehend the intellectual situation which con­ fronted the languages of the western world in the modern era. In fact, here and there one finds statements and comments of this sort. And if one takes them all into consideration, it can be said that the increasingly hectic com­ munication activities of western languages spurred a tendency towards anemic language. Kanji, by contrast, continues to this day to be able to absorb the poetic essence of nature, to radiate abundantly with 'meaningshine.' If one speaks of 'meaning-shine,' one is reminded of Leroi-Gourhan, who referred to the graphic representations made by primitive man, which emerged shortly before the appearance of homo sapiens, as 'mythic writ­ ing.' He also speaks of the manifold images which these signs evoke as 'backshine.' According to Leroi-Gourhan the Chinese language came into being when calligraphy was supplemented by mythic signs and the lineariza­ tion of sounds. Unlike the alphabet, which has developed a linear form of representation, the writing systems of Chinese and Japanese, to which Kanji belongs, represent a situation of equilibrium unique in the history of mankind in which the signs function not simply as signs with which one builds sentences, but as signs which by virtue of their pictorial representa­ tion and sequencing retain their potential for creating groups of images which are visually meaningul. Yet in that capacity they are fully capable of portraying mathematics or biology quite adequately. 15 But it is particularly difficult to use words to define the Japanese writ­ ing system, which has borrowed from Chinese characters, in order to explain it to Europeans. He gives an interesting example: The two languages are much farther apart than Latin is from Arabic. Chinese characters are connected with the Japanese language in a way that resembles glueing together a sequence of postage stamps, more or less cor­ responding to the meanings of the words to be copied, in order to read French with difficulty.16** T h e modern paleobiologist carefully attempts to follow the genetic develop-

CHARACTERS THAT REPRESENT CULTURE

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ment of mankind in order to prove that tool-making (gestures) and lan­ guage began simultaneously. He observes the emergence of hieroglyphs and considers the significance of Kanji. It is a fact that the current arts and sciences, in their resuscitation of 'mythic writing' in a new dimension, seek justification for a return to 'abstraction.' On the other hand, there is McLuhan's provocative statement: "the alphabet representing sound is a type of unique technology."17 Is not this statement, in which writing is referred to as technology, somewhat shocking to those who think that language is something sacred? If we accept that tools are extensions of bodily functions, expression of techniques and actions, means of production; if we accept that languages are the extensions of human intellect, expression of memory capacity or symbols, means for communication, then it is appropriate to refer to alphabetic writing systems as technology. In this way, perhaps, we can come somewhat closer to understanding the modernization of the western world. In contrast to hieroglyphic writing, the alphabet consists of sounds which are translated into about 30 optical signs (letters): sounds which have been cut off from their primitive physical entity. The homogeneous connec­ tion of letters produces a writing system in which extreme emphasis is placed on uninterrupted linearity. The rationality often attributed to west­ ern languages is revealed in their writing, or the alphabetic writing system. It seems to be located on the vanishing line of the rational spirit of the west­ ern world, which made post-Renaissance modernization possible. For in western languages, which are constructed through the manipulation of at most 30 anonymous signs, the signs of the 'alphabet' are like parts of a machine. A western language is a machine, so to speak, in which the spirit of language is constructed with alphabet parts. McLuhan also regarded the alphabet in this way as technology. The alphabet is an extension of the most enlightened and objective of human perceptive capacities, visual percep­ tion, whereas numbers are an extension of the sense of touch. Numbers then poured into the alphabet, and the writing system which thus developed became the basis for Western science and culture. It also contributed to the modernization of the Western world. As I presupposed with regard to the Gestalt character of the alphabet, it is fair to say that linear form and specialization have prompted the dif­ ferentiation of the various systems in the natural sciences and individual languages, and even the differentiation of various genres of art and the cre­ ation of an autonomous language in each individual art genre. If one looks

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more closely at the revolution in the arts in the modern western world, one realizes that it is nothing but a process of disassembling the traditional lan­ guage of each genre. In other words, western artists gradually tried to disas­ semble more and more of the art-language attached to objects in each genre, and from the resulting chaos they sought to revive the original func­ tions of the signs, now freed from their objects — such as dot, line, surface, light, color, texture, space, sound, rhythm, movement, time. They suc­ ceeded in resuscitating the sign as a common language for all the arts, such as painting, poetry or music. What they have done is experience chaos or nothingness, taking God's place; now they must give this chaos new rules and new meanings in order to create new autonomous structure. The vo­ cabulary of this new language of art is all-meaningful (pansemic) in the sense that it is undefined. This implies, on the one hand, that this language coin­ cides with the atomistic image of the cosmos in the natural sciences, which create the eye to observe chaos. On the other hand, the vocabulary of the newly acquired language is comparable to parts of a machine; it is the mate­ rial for artistic form. Modern technology and modern art have both received these 'parts,' an abundance of anonymous dots, as material to be processed. For both have had the task of reconstructing themselves on the basis of this material. There is, however, a significant difference between mechanical-techni­ cal structure and the structure of art: the former is concerned with a 'machine' with a clear purpose or function and a closed and self-sufficient form. It produces copies of a new object. In art, too, new structures are built out of dots, lines, colors or other factors. But the results are objects that are not quite self-sufficient. They are also not objects which might perhaps be called abstract, because they have not been achieved through abstraction from something; instead, they are pure structures made from materials and qualities such as color, and texture, or they have to do with a sur-real world like a dream. The results of these reconstruction attempts permit few connections with meaning; instead, they evoke in the observer a sense of the multifariousness of meaning. They permit the observer to rec­ ognize value in things which are normally regarded as 'worthless,' they call forth life in them. And they are — in contrast to the products of technology — individual. Here it occurs to one that, in putting together anonymous parts on the basis of one uniform principle, the world of technology is constructing, with great precision, one single repeatable form. Art, by contrast, uses the

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same principle of identity to construct the abstracted world of qualities. If one examines modern art closely, one finds the dissolution of forms and the collapse of reality. In particular, if the content of the new languages of the arts is color, texture, rhythm, movement, time, space etc., this is nothing but the vocabulary of qualitative form, both of life and of the material in the eternal life cycle. But what does 'vocabulary of qualitative form' mean? When the iden­ tification of the meaning of a word with the corresponding object evokes a reality, life between the lines, built up of particles forming words, falls into the background darkness of oblivion. It corresponds on the one hand to Klage's rhythmic form of life — a concept that Klage developed under the influence of Goethe's 'Urbild' or Bachofen's 'Materiachat.' Klage, who presupposes that western philosophy is based on the confusion of the con­ cept of life with the concept of intellect, maintains that the expression in­ tellectual rhythm' is often used for intellectual activity, but in his opinion this is an error, since rhythm belongs to life, whereas intellectual activity should properly be referred to as a 'beat.' What does this statement mean? If one takes a phenomenon familiar to us as an example, it means the fol­ lowing: the same letters that I am writing at the moment and that I wrote a few minutes ago make up one and the same word. Between the two words with the same letters there are, however, differences; each has an existence which is only very similar to the other. Because I am alive and am always changing in an uninterrupted rhythm of life, each individual letter appears to be a unique manifestation in the sway of life. The same letters written and printed out by a word processor, by contrast, are mere repetitions of the same letter. It is nothing other than something which the effect of intel­ lectual beat has cut out of the manifestations of the life cycle. Klage describes this phenomenon as follows: If beats are a repetition of the same, then one must say that rhythm is a return of the similar. And the return of the similar, in connection with what came before, represents a renewal of what came before, so that one can say: beats repeat themselves; rhythm renews itself.18**

This can be said of natural phenomena: the sunset, for example, which day after day colors the horizon a bloody red, is not the same today as yes­ terday, and the cherry blossoms that bloom every year are different this year than last. All such phenomena are to be referred to as a return of the similar; it is the very 'renewal' of these phenomena which impresses us, awakens the joy of seeing something again. This is what I term the form of

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life rhythms. It is above all the modern visual arts, through the effects of the main constituents of their new language — above all color, texture, rhythm or the representation of dreams — which have succeeded in reawak­ ening the creative processes which have suffered under the pressure of the standardized forms of modern technology. At the same time, this can be understood as the awakening of diverse perceptual capacities, among others the sense of touch, which is the most fundamental of all the senses and which integrates all other senses; in other words, the awakening of physical sensitivity (more precisely, direct sensation on the skin, or the sense of touch, and the sensation of movement including muscle move­ ment). Could not this development be seen perhaps as an explosion of the sense of touch, previously subjected to the pressure of the alphabet, domi­ nated by visual perception? Here the question arises as to the characteristic quality of the Japanese writing system as medium. Due to the graphic quality of Japanese writing, one tends to regard the system as a predominantly visual medium. As dis­ cussed above, however, Kanji includes many different factors which stimu­ late diverse senses. It is characteristic of the alphabet that visual perception is predominant, whereas Kanji, in my opinion, places more emphasis on the sense of touch. A color scale results from differences in density in indi­ vidual Kanji, and this color difference gives rise to the qualitative sensation which incorporates not only a factor which stimulates the sense of touch but also the concept of number according to McLuhan. The latter is based on the Japanese memory of the muscle movements involved in writing. It is true that we do not always keep in mind the number of strokes of a particu­ lar Kanji. If we look up a character in a dictionary, however, we must draw the determinative radicals of the Kanji with our fingers. In this case, one looks for the 'sound' of the particular Kanji, or the 'face' of the Kanji in the vaguely remembered form of the sign. This is thus a situation of touching. This fact leads us to the idea that the mists of our subconscious are crowded with an abundance of nameless Kanji which have been engraved there at some time without our having been aware of it. In fact we can understand the Kanji — as in palpation — by only groping from sight, with­ out knowing exactly how they should be read. Japanese texts can therefore be read in a state of half-dream. The reader's consciousness does not permit logic to distinguish the border between consciousness and unconsciousness. Thus in earlier times — up until the end of the Meiji era — one tried to read aloud, in order to call the acoustic side of language into consciousness.

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On the other hand, one practised calligraphy in order to evoke the gestures of written Kanji. It is a case of memories constantly accumulated by the body, in order to experience the original images as the return of the similar, again and again. The interest of the Western world in the graphic quality of Kanji is no doubt based on the rhythmic forms which it still incorporates and the qual­ itative form which permits the direct recognition of pattern and symbolic thought. Even if, according to the theories of entropy of informational aesthetics, one scatters the letters of alphabet in space, or even takes apart the forms of individual letters, one cannot achieve the original gestures still contained in Kanji. In the process of taking apart a Kanji, the origi­ nal gestures still remain in their original form, or an echo thereof. The characteristics of Kanji as a medium enabled us to translate Western scholarship into our language during the Meiji era and afterwards. In general this was due to the ability of Kanji to create new words; at the same time it was based on the flexibility of Kanji to copy the graphic or tactile stimulation created by the object to be depicted or described, as well as its ambiguity. Just when we in the darkness were looking for the light of modern civilization in the Western world and Western lan­ guages, established through the linearity of the alphabet, the Western world cast a glance into the darkness. In terms of the mechanization and standard­ ization of our everyday life, we Japanese and Europeans share the com­ mon intellectual danger of the 20th century. It is true that one cannot sim­ ply find a solution to this problem in the graphic qualities of Kanji which stimulate the sense of touch. The increasingly rapid digitalization of man's life forms including memory, however, may force us to reconsider the basis and significance of analog language, that is to reconsider the rhythmic forms of life including gestures and visual perception. This is also an impor­ tant task for present-day poiesis. Concrete Poetry Most of the works shown in Figure E date from the mid-1960s to mid-1970s. To permit a comparison between Japanese and alphabetic works, those with identical or similiar motifs and methods were chosen. Works 1, 2 and 3 share the topic T.' 1: in the middle of a circle made up of the overlapping words 'we, you (pI.), he, she, they,' that is in a circle of 'others,' is the word 'Ja (I).' Work 3 is related to 1: here the circle, how-

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Figure E. Authors and sources: 1. E. Ovčáček (CSSR): Solt, E. 1968. Concrete Poetry — A World View. Indiana University. 2. E. Jandl (FRG): Schmidt, S. J. 1972. Konkrete Dichtung. Munich: Bayerischer Schulbuch-Verlag. 3. Ryojiro Yamanaka (Japan): 1978. Japanische Konkrete und Visuelle Poesie. Kunstverein Gelsenkirchen. 4. A.L. Totino (Italy): Schmidt, S.J. 1972. Konkrete Dichtung. Munich: Bayrischer Schulbuch-Verlag. 5. S.J. Schmidt (FRG): Schmidt, S.J. 1972. Konkrete Dichtung. Munich: Bayerischer SchulbuchVerlag. 6. Shutaro Mukai (Japan): photographs in possession of the author. 7. P. Xisto (Brazil): Solt, E. 1968. Concrete Poetry — A World View. Indiana University. 8. Shoji Yoshizawa (Japan): 1971. ASA 5.5. 9. P. Xisto (Brazil): Schmidt, S. J. 1972. Konkrete Dichtung. Munich: Bayerischer Schulbuch-Verlag. 10. Hideo Kajino (Japan): 1972. ASA 6.6.

CHARACTERS THAT REPRESENT CULTURE

11. 12. 13. 14. 15: 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

79

Shutaro Mukai (Japan): photographs in possession of the author. E. Gomringer (FRG): Gomringer, Eugen. 1953-62. Die Konstellationen. Frauenfeld: E. Gomringer E. Gomringer (FRG): Gomringer, Eugen. 1953-62. Die Konstellationen. Frauenfeld: E. Gomringer Ryojiro Yamanaka (Japan): 1978. Japanische Konkrete und Visuelle Poesie. Kunstverein Gelsenkirchen. 1978. P. Garnier (France): Garnier, Pierre. 1978. Le Jardin Japonais. Paris: André Silvaire. Seiichi Niikuni (Japan): Schmidt, S. J. 1972. Konkrete Dichtung. Munich: Bayerischer Schulbuch-Verlag. Hioraoki Nishino (Japan): 1978. Japanische Konkrete und Visuelle Poesie. Kunstverein Gelsen­ kirchen. H. Mayer (FRG): 1986. Publikaties van de Editions Hansjörg Mayer en Werk van Hansjörg Mayer. Haags Gemeetemuseum. H. Mayer (FRG): 1968. Publikaties van de Editions Hansjörg Mayer en Werk van Hansjörg Mayer. Haags Gemeetemuseum. Motoyuki Ito (Japan): Schmidt, S. J. 1972. Konkrete Dichtung. Munich: Bayerischer SchulbuchVerlag. Shohachiro Takahashi (Japan): photographs in possession of the author. Shutaro Mukai (Japan): photographs in possession of the author.

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ever, consists of countless signs ' (I),' as if the single clear T in the middle is emerging from the subconscious. In work 2 one intuitively senses the existence of 'ich (I)' in the word 'nicht (negation).' The upward move­ ment of the rows of 'ich' (in the direction of the arrow) signifies 'finding oneself in the midst of collective negation (total self-negation).' Works 4, 5 and 6 are concerned with 'time.' 4: the rows of words ('tempo') wander down, upside down. A representation of how 'tempo' moves against the irrevocable current and how entropy is increased. 5: the word 'Zeit (time)' rests for a moment next to the sign '&': in the next line the word 'Zeif shows itself backwards: 'tiez.' One realizes that '&' indicates a cycle. The whole can be read from top to bottom but also from bottom to top and diagonally at the same time. The cycle of time stands for the struc­ ture 'life — death — resurrection.' 6: at the top the words ' (toki toki = time-time)' are repeated in Hiragana. They change into the words ' (toki doki = sometimes)' and, near the middle, ' (doki doki — the sound of a heartbeat).' These words repeat themselves, building uninterrupted waves of sounds which can also be read the other way around. Then, in waves, they change back into ' (some­ times)' and into ' (time-time)' again. Works 7 and 8 are concerned with labyrinths. 'L' is the first letter of the words 'love,' 'life,' 'logos,' 'leito' and also the word 'labyrinth.' This let­ ter is used to construct a labyrinth. 8: straight rows of the Japanese character (Kanji) ' (riddle)' are used to represent a rectangle. Within the rectangle the character loses the left part (radical) ' ' which means 'word' or 'to say.' Another character results ' (to lose one's way, feel embarrassed).' The farther in towards the middle, the more pieces are lost: from ' ' the part ' ' disappears (which means 'way') and the sign ' (grain of rice, hence seed)' results. The regularly repeated signs ' ' build a network of vertical, horizontal and diagonal lines, an optical labyrinth that irritates the eyes. The topic of work 9 is 'ZEN' (as in Zen-Buddhism). Placing the letters 'ZEN' and the mirror-image on top of one another, this form results. These alphabetic letters lying on top of one another creates (in the middle) a Japanese character ' (the sun).' The two diagonal lines in ' ' imply perhaps a graphic form of the inner peace of someone meditating or a space for meditation. The geometry of western meditation. In 10 one changes the individual strokes of the character ' (heart, soul)' into dots with the corresponding amount of energy. The work allows

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the observer to associate the sun, earth, moon and stars, like a symbolic image of the universe. The geometry of eastern meditation. 11 and 12 focus on the topic 'man.' 11 is a constellation of the sign (man, person)' and ' (interstice),' the two signs which together form the word 'man (mankind).' 12: also a constellation of the word 'Mensch (man)' repeated front­ wards and backwards 'hcsnem.' The bottom two lines are the mirror-image of the top two lines, turned upside-down. The facing pairs 'm — m' and 'h — h' do not so much resemble the human situation as they do two four-leg­ ged animals which stand together head to head or tail to tail. 13 and 14 share the subject of 'wind.' In 13 the word 'WIND' is repeated and ordered so that one can read it diagonally from bottom to top as well as from top to bottom. Here linearity is retained. 14: the sign ' (the wind),' written in ink with a brush, dissolves into individual strokes which are swept up into the air. In the middle is the printed character ' (the wind)' blown high. Work 15 is entitled "Le jardin Japonais." Line for line the 'e' in the middle of the word 'mer (sea)' is replaced by other vowels 'a, i, o, u.' The whole resembles the fine variation in the surface of the water in a quiet sea. At the same time the variation echoes the changes in meaning caused by the vowel substitutions and sounds to the ear of the observer like a sentence such as; '(a) quiet sailor (on) Tuesday (in a) village.' 16: ' (river or sandbanks). Work 16 is composed according to the same principles as 15. The sign ' (river)' becomes 'sandbank ' through the addition of three dots. 17: the sign (reciprocal, mutual)' is deformed to represent various relationships. A method of taking a word apart. 18: the letters are taken apart by placing one on top of the other. A method to create form by increasing entropy. Work 17, however, is more diverse. Works 19, 21 and 22 involve forms created from one single sign. 19 is by the same author as 18, the letter 'i' repeated and packed together. 21: bird ( ) 22: town ( ) Work 20 is made up of the signs ' (noise, tone),' split in the mid­ dle, and the sign ' (nothing).' An example of Gestalt poetry. Title: "Noise".

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Notes *

This article was translated from German by Susan Vogel. The original Japanese title of this article is Bunka (culture) o (accusative) Utsusu (repre­ sent, reflect, translate) Moji (writing signs). The Japanese verb utsusu (infinitive) can be written with three different characters ( ) which mean the following: = copy, represent, reproduce, depict, trace, sketch ... = mirror, reflect, project, throw [shadow]... = transfer, remove, displace, transpose, translate ...

**

English translation of the German translation of the Japanese translation (or, as in n. 7, the English original) of the general meaning of the text.

1.

From Daigaku Horiguchi's translation of "Apollinaire's Poems."

2.

Henri-Louis Bergson, L'Évolution créatrice, 1907.

3.

Jasia Reichart, "Seiichi Niikuni und Konkrete Dichtung." ASA 7.7, 1974.

4.

Stéphane Mallarmé, Un coup de Dés jamais n'abolira le Hasard, 1914.

5.

Eugen Gomringer. Die Konstellationen 1953-1962, E. Gomringer Press.

6.

For S. J. Schmidt's approach to concrete poetry, see his work: Siegfried J. Schmidt, Elemente einer Textpoetik — Theorie und Anwendung, Bayerischer Schulbuch-Verlag, Munich, 1974.

7.

Shutaro Mukai, "New Conceopt 'Graphematik' in Concrete Poetry," Graphic Design 74, June 1979, Kodansha Ltd. Tokyo.

8.

Teiji Ito, Nihon Design-Ron (On Japanese Design), Kajima Shuppan-kai, Tokyo, 1966.

9.

Jan Tschichold, Treasury of Alphabets and Lettering, Reinhold Publishing, New York.

10.

Teiji Ito, Nihon Design-Ron (see above).

11.

The author has discussed L. Wolf's symmetry in his article "Farben und Formen als Urzeichen," Studia Semiotica 1, Tokyo, 1981. Cf. Karl Lothar Wolf, "Symmetrie und Polarität," Studium Generale 4-5, Springer, 1949 and K. L. Wolf and R. Wolff, Symmet­ rie, 2 Vols., Böhlau, Munich/Cologne, 1956.

12.

Ernest Fenollosa, The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry with a Foreword and Notes by Ezra Pound, London, Stanley Nott, 1936 (Das Schriftzeichen als poetisches Medium, translated by Eugen Gomringer, Josef Keller, Starnberg, 1972).

13.

Jacques Derrida, De la grammatologie. Éditions de Minuit. Paris, 1967.

14.

Ibid.

15.

André Leroi-Gourhan. La geste et la parole. Albin Michel. Paris. 1973.

CHARACTERS THAT REPRESENT CULTURE

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16.

Ibid.

17.

Marshall McLuhan. Understanding Media: the Extentions of Man. McGraw-Hill. New York. 1965.

18.

Ludwig Klages. Vom Wesen des Rhythmus, Gropengiesser. Zürich/Leipzig. 2nd edition, 1944.

The Images of Japanese Landscapes: A Typological Approach T a d a h i k o Higuchi

The mountainous countryside of Japan offers many landscapes and topo­ graphical varieties. This paper deals with the way the Japanese people interpret their landscape with its various topographical formations, and how this imagery has become part of their everyday life. Japan has steep, rugged mountain ranges whose slopes are interspersed with thousands of rapidly flowing streams. Before the water reaches the ocean this network of rivers and waterways has crossed many a basin, valley or plain. These arable flatlands which make up some thirty percent of Japan's territory and are inhabited by the majority of Japanese people, are regarded as ideal habitats. In this paper the basin, valley and plain will be important elements in my attempt to classify the different Japanese landscapes into seven prototypes of dwelling places. 1.

The basin surrounded by mountains.

For centuries basins surrounded by mountains have been important habitats for the Japanese. The scenic beauty of a lush misty basin seen from the top of a mountain pass is considered by many Japanese a valuable experience. The Japanese tend to attribute mysterious properties to such landscape imagery. 1.1 An ideal country — the Akizushima-Yamato

type

The Nihon Shoki relates how the legendary first emperor of Japan, Jimmu fought his way toward the east in order to find a proper place to establish

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his empire. Before undertaking his campaign, the emperor describes his ideal as follows: Now I have asked the Ancient of the Sea, and he said, "In the east there is a beautiful land, surrounded on all four sides by green mountains. There is someone there who flew down in the rock-strong boat of heaven." I think that this land will surely be suitable for the expanding of our heavenly enterprise, so that its glory will fill the universe. It is no doubt the center of the world, and I suspect that the one who flew down was Nigihayahi-no-mikoto. Why do I not go there and make it my capital?" (Aston 1972, Vol.1:110-111).

Jimmu thereupon set out toward the east and conquered all the people along the way. When he had acquired the beautiful land in the east and made it his capital, he surveyed it and found it good. The account in the Nihon Shoki says: The emperor went up on Hohoma Hill at Wakigami and, having gone around viewing the shape of the country, said: "Oh, what a magnificent land we have won! Though it is a small country, it looks like a dragon-fly licking its tail." Because of this, the land came to be called Akizushima (Ibid.: 134-135).

Akizu is an ancient word for dragon-fly. Akizushima is also called Yamato, and for that reason we have called it Akizushima-Yamato here. Izanagi, the progenitor of the sun goddess, is said to have described Yamato as "the country of inner peace," while the deity Oanamuchi-no-okami is supposed to have called it "a land within beautiful fence-like mountains." The following quotation is attributed to Nigihayahi-no-mikoto, "View­ ed from high in the sky, it is a well-chosen beautiful country." Uttered at a time when man had no airplanes at his disposal the expression "viewed from high in the sky" expresses the emotion experienced when Nigihayahino-mikoto suddenly saw the lush basin in front of him when he reached the top of a mountain pass. According to the great lexicographer Fumihiko Otsuki (1847-1929) Yamato is a contraction of yama (mountain), ma (interval), and to (place) (Otsuki 1932, Vol.4:693). Shinobu Orikuchi (1887-1953), a poet and scholar deeply interested in Japanese folklore, suggests the original mean­ ing of Yamato was, "the gateway where one enters the mountains" and that gradually it referred to all such enclosed territories. He writes: The fact is that the people of old regarded the area within the mountain gateway as being sunny and cheerful [...] When one descended through the

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gateway, one came upon a fertile plain, a bright and happy land. It was generally thought that once inside the gateway, one encountered no more barriers. Consequently, attention was focused on the gateway itself, and its name, Yamato, came to be applied to the land of light and hope within (Orikuchi 1955:171-173).

In other words, since time immemorial Yamato refers to not only the district around Nara that still bears the name, but to any basin surrounded by mountains. The following paean praising the qualities of Yamato is from Prince Yamato-takeru-no-mikoto: Yamato is The most excellent part of the land; The mountains are green hedges Lying layer upon layer. Nestled among the mountains, How beautiful Yamato is!1

This poem celebrating the attractive beauty of the remote Yamato was sung yearningly by Prince Yamato-takeru-no-mikoto, when he reached Nobono in Ise Province, in a state of utter exhaustion, after a long expedition to Northwest Japan where he vanquished the rebellious Emishi (an old name for the Ainus) and appeased the violent gods of the mountains. In this old Japanese epic the basin surrounded by mountains represents not only the Prince's beloved home country but also his eternal restingplace. The tragic quality of the epic is enhanced by the fact that Yamatotakeru-no-mikoto could not return to his beloved basin, or eternal restingplace. The ideal country of Emperor Jimmu or the burial place of Yamatotakeru-no-mikoto, in both instances Yamato symbolizes rest and peace. Taking into consideration the Japanese penchant for the basin as an ideal place, it is rather odd that the location of Japan's capital is not in the famous Nara or Kyoto basin. However, this fact can only have deepened the attachment to the basin of the capital's inhabitants. 1.2 A Buddhist ideal — the eight-petal lotus blossom type Esoteric Buddhists hold the Womb Mandala in high regard. In the womb the Cosmic Buddha is seated on an eight-petal lotus blossom representing the womb of the universe. The location of several Japanese Buddhist estab­ lishments situated in highland valleys surrounded by mountainpeaks,

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suggests the lotus blossom configuration. A standard Japanese dictionary of Esoteric Buddhist terms explains eight-petal peaks as: One name for Mount Koya; based on the idea that the mountains there represent the eight-petal lotus pedestal in the Womb Mandala; a great pagoda at the center of the flower form represents the south Indian Iron Tower; there are thus eight petals for the eight directional Buddhas and Bodhisattvas and a central tower for Vairocana (Mikkyo daijiten, Vol.4:1818).

Mount Koya is the general name for a mountainous area in Wakayama Pre­ fecture where one of the two chief monasteries of the Shingon Sect is located. The principal temple there, known as the Kongobu-ji, was founded by the great priest Kukai in 816. When Kukai requested that the court grant him Mount Koya as a place for worship and meditation, he explained that as a young man he had liked to tramp the mountains and that in the course of his wanderings his eyes had fallen on an area in the province of Kii (Wakayama Prefecture). He described the spot as a "secluded plain, surrounded by high peaks and untrod upon by man" (Shoryoshu, in Vol.7, of Nihon koten bungaku taikei 1965:398). The eight-petal peaks form a boundary enclosing an area that is regarded as sacred. The idea is not unlike the "land of hope and light" in the Akizushima-Yamato configuration. However, the secluded plain is con­ ceived of as the residence of the Buddha; a paradise resembling in form the central lotus blossom in the Womb Mandala. The surrounding mountains eliminate agoraphobia, guard against evil influences of the everyday world and create a Buddhist capital of peaceful tranquility, where a "pedestal for a thousand Buddhas" soars in the clouds. 2.

Narrow valleys or gorges

The Japanese valley is characterized by a path which follows the contours of a river. The path distinguishes the valley from the basin and plain, and suggests the presence of another world beyond the valley. The path leads to worlds like the Akizushima-Yamato basin and the eight-petal blossom basin; both ideal worlds lie beyond narrow gorges.

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2.1 The Mikumari shrine type Before the introduction of proper surveying the plains put up barriers for most people, even though some were completely treeless. Traversing a plain presented problems in the nature of crossing an ocean. The Japanese disliked the vast open space of the plain, for it offered them no security. In the pursuit of arable land the Japanese went further up the river and settled in those areas where the sound of running water could be heard. The Mikumari shrine type of valley is an example of such a dwelling place. To most Japanese it represents a familiar, classic and nostalgic image of a small farming community in the mountains. For people whose livelihood depends on the cultivation of rice in paddyfields, irrigation is a matter of life and death. It is hardly surprising then that the ancient Japanese believed in a deity whose function it was to dis­ tribute water abundantly and fairly over all the paddyfields. His name was Mikumari-no-kami, the god of water distribution, and was worshipped at shrines in many different parts of Japan. A watershed high in the mountains would be an appropriate site for a shrine to Mikumari-no-kami, yet the deity demanded worship at regular intervals, so a more accessible location at lower height was more practical. This became the location of the Watergate — the spot where the stream can be seen first when it starts to flow down the mountain, and where the water is still crystal clear and unsullied. The Oyamado shrine in Nara Prefecture, one of the Mikumari shrines, is situated near a Watergate. This location is also the point of entry into the mountain proper, that is, the point where the slope changes from gradual to steep. From here down the stream, small mountain fields spread over the valley. The degree of sloping is no more than 1 to 2. Since the shrine itself is situated on a hill, it not only commands a good view, but is also eminently visible from the fields below. The shrine looks out onto the fields, while the farmers look upwards to the residence of the deity. Thus a tangible relationship existed between the god and his worshippers. In addition, the topographical setting — ridges in the east and west converging toward the mountain in the south, which serves as the shrine's background — made the shrine an awe-inspiring focal point in the landscape. Lao-tse imagined this landscape of ever flowing water as the god of the valley, the prime source of all the vital forces in heaven and on earth. The

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Figure 1: Mausoleum of Kōbō Daishi, the Okunoin at Mount Köya, as portrayed in the Ippen Shönin Eden ("Picture Biography of Saint Ippen") in the collection of the Kankikō-ji (Kyoto)

ancient Japanese raised several shrines in similar locations for Mikumarino-kami, and so a complete network of Mikumari shrines came into being. 2.2 The secluded valley type The precipitous terrain of the narrow valley often contains many inner recesses. These secluded spots exude a mysterious, otherwordly atmos­ phere. In the past, settings of this sort were often regarded as the home, or the gateway to the home, of spirits. The expression secluded valley is used here as a translation of the ancient Japanese term komoriku, which also means hidden land. In early Japanese writings, komoriku can be found as a 'pillow word' for Hatsuse,

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an elongated valley in the mountains east of the Yamato Plain.2 The poet Kakinomoto-no-hitomaro composed the following lines on the occasion of the cremation of the maiden of Hijikata: The cloud drifting over the brows Of the hills of secluded Hatsuse— Can it, alas, be she?3

Hatsuse thus appears to have been a burial and cremation site where the spirits of the departed floated like clouds. The word hatsu also carries the adjectival meaning first, or beginning, but the verb hatsu means to end or to be exhausted. Hatsuse appears to have been imagined as an abode for those whose lives had come to an end. Before the pillow word function was assigned to komoriku, it referred to any mountainous and secluded district. Shigeru Gorai describes it as fol­ lows: All places deep in the mountains, where the spirits of the dead conceal themselves, are suitable to be called "Kumano." It is an old word for the kingdom of departed spirits and is the same as komoriku, which is used a number of times in the Man'yoshu to refer to the place where the spirits of the dead hide (Gorai 1967:108).

The Komoriku landscape, as I prefer to call it, can be observed in many places throughout Japan. Popular ancient myth has it that at the end of our lives we are sent to the inner recesses of a quiet, darkish valley, where we will undergo a purification ritual, after which we will climb forever upwards (Yanagita 1969, Vol.11:341). It is most likely that every farming community in the mountains had their own 'inner recess' for the departed spirits. 3.

The mountain edge

The insecurity of the vast open plain and even the basin was the prime reason why so many old Japanese communities settled often at the foot of the nearest mountain, or the mountain edge. Another important factor for this choice of location must have been the easy access to running water and the possibilities it presented of irrigation. Until modern times the Japanese avoided the plains where the large rivers converged. Before we go on to deal with the plain, it is necessary to set up the category of the mountain edge for it will give us a better under­ standing of typical Japanese dwelling places.

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3.1 The Zofu-tokusui

Type

According to Kunio Yanagita, Japanese names ending with yama (moun­ tain), oka (hill), tani (valley), sawa (marsh or valley), no (plain), and hara (field) have been in use since ancient times (Yanagita 1970:24). Especially place names ending with no are numerous. No indicates a plain below a mountain or a gentle slope at the foot of a mountain. It is a sunny place where one feels psychologically secure covered from behind by the moun­ tain; it is a favorite dwelling place of the Japanese since ancient times. This is the reason why there are so many place names ending with no. Among the landscapes at the base of mountains, I call the type of land­ scape with a mountain behind, hills on two sides, and an open space in front the zofu-tokusui type. Since ancient times a theory of Chinese geomancy involving directions, seasons, signs of the zodiac, and the elements has played an important fac­ tor in determining the location of cities, buildings, and tombs. Chinese geomancy reached Japan at an early stage and exerted a strong influence on the location of Japanese sites. According to Nariaki Akita: The four directions are considered to belong to the green dragon (east), the crimson bird (south), the white tiger (west), and the black tortoisesnake (north); mountains, streams, buildings, and houses represent these beasts. By studying the configuration of mountains and rivers, one selects a site where the vital energy that flows throughout the earth is confined by water and not scattered by the wind, and there one builds houses for the living or tombs for the dead. It is held that if one follows this principle, one's descendants will partake of the earth's vital energy and obtain riches, happiness, and long life (Akita, Vol.26:221).

With respect to the question of how to shelter from the wind and catch water, Tadashi Saito has the following to say: In concrete terms, the mountains come from behind, which is to say from the north, and end at this point (that is, the site selected), overlooking a plain ahead. They occupy the position of the so-called "drooping head of a tortoise-snake." On the left and right, mountain ranges extend southward to protect the area; these are known as the "undulations of the green drag­ on" and the "deferential bowing of the white tiger." To the south are spreading flatlands or low hills. As a rule, water from the three sets of mountains flows down through the area bounded by them. In short, there are mountains behind, lower mountains on either side, and a plain with flowing water in front. Such a location is suitable for zofu-tokusui condi­ tions (Saito 1937:24).

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Such a site gets plenty of sunshine, gives shelter from the winds, is covered from behind, commands a splended view, and provides the resi­ dents with an excellent dwelling place. Heijo-kyo (present Nara), the capital of Japan from 710 to 784, was built on a site that satisfied the zofu-tokusui conditions. It was selected from among the Akizushima-Yamato landscapes in the Nara basin. The Empress Gemmei, who reigned from 707 to 715, decreed the con­ struction of a new capital up north, as quoted in the Shoku Nihongi (Chronicles of Japan) says: Now at the district of Heijo, the four beasts fit the charts, the three moun­ tains provide peace, and the tortoise divinations are favorable. Let our capital be built here (Snellen 1937:220).

Here we find mention not only of the four beasts of Chinese geomancy, but also of mountains on three different sides. This fits in nicely with the Chinese idea that the emperor's throne is to the north from where he can keep an eye on his domains in the south. In short, Nara not only ful­ filled the requirements of the geomancers, but also occupied a commanding position with respect to the whole Yamato Plain. The construction of a cap­ ital here signified the coming of age of the ancient Japanese state, modeled on Chinese principles of government and law. Heian-kyo (present Kyoto), the capital from 794 to 1868, was also found on a site in the Kyoto basin. Like Heijo-kyo Heian-kyo met the zofutokusui principles. But these principles were not only applied to the con­ struction of the country's capital cities. There are many smaller scale exam­ ples: farming communities, aristocrats' villas, temples, and the mansions of provincial lords. Neither is the zofu-tokusui type of landscape confined to inland areas. A port surrounded by mountains on three sides with a quiet inlet as entrance may also be called the zofu-tokusui type, if we ignore the exact directions of the location. The mountainous and volcanic islands of Japan have some 33,000 kilometers of coastline with numerous zofu-tokusui port towns throughout the country. 3.2 The sacred mountain type In Japan farming communities can often be found near a small cone shaped mountain at the foot of a high mountain. Compared to the surrounding mountains, this small mountain is strikingly beautiful and somehow awe-

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Figure 2. Mount Mikasa and Kasuga Shrine. Painting of the "Kasuga Miya Mandara" (Collection of Tokyo National Museum).

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inspiring the way it is covered with lush vegetation. It is not difficult to imagine a shrine at the foot of such a mountain. The Japanese regard the small mountain as sacred; they have been worshipping it since ancient times. In a study of ancient religious practices Iwao Oba defines the kannabiyama as "a small mountain or hill adjacent to the flatlands." Oba distin­ guishes the small mountain from another principal type of sacred mountain, which he describes as "a majestic peak soaring above the clouds" (Oba 1970:18). He lists the following as the chief characteristics of the kannabiyama type: l.The mountain is near a community and is sufficiently clean and pure and serves as a place for worship. 2.The form of the mountain stands out conspicuously from the surround­ ings and gives the impression of being a place that the gods might inhabit. 3. The mountain is covered with trees, so that it appears to be enveloped in greenery.

When there was a hayama (foothill) where the mountainous area joins the basin or flatland, people used to regard it as a sacred mountain where gods dwelt. They often built a farming community at the foot of the sacred mountain. The sacred mountain offered religious and psychological support to the villagers, and was no doubt an important symbol of their community. The mountains behind the zofu-tokusui type landscape, mentioned earlier, were in many cases the sacred mountains of this type. 3.3 The domain-viewing mountain type Man's desire to ascend an elevation from where he has a good view of his home or some other place, seems to be universal. In a completely flat plain, it is necessary to construct a belvedere for such purposes. At the edge of a high mountain, however, a small mountain or hill, if located near the com­ munity, serves as an excellent observation point. Such a small mountain or hill is called a domain-viewing mountain. According to Yutaka Tsuchihashi, the practice of viewing domains, which is called kunimi in Japanese, began as a ceremonial part of the annual first trip to the mountains in the spring, a custom practised by agricultural communities all over the country (Tsuchihashi 1965:265). Gradually, it seems, the domain-surveying part of the ritual became the

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sole prerogative of the community patriarch and afterwards of the emperor. Spring is the most active of seasons. It is the time of the year when the natural life forces of the universe are revived. By praising the rising mist or the flying gulls, which symbolize the annual reawakening, the singers of the domain-viewing songs hoped to ensure an abundant harvest in the fall. A good example of the domain-viewing song is as follows: Countless are the mountains in Yamato, But perfect is the heavenly hill of Kagu; When I climb it and survey my realm, Over the wide lake the gulls are on the wing; A beautiful land it is, the Land of Yamato!4

This famous poem from the Man'yoshu is supposed to have been composed by the Emperor Jomei, who reigned from 628 to 641, on an occasion when he climbed to the top of Mount Kagu to view his domain. The domain-viewing mountain differs in shape from the cone shaped sacred mountain. Many of them have plateaus, they are often not more than 50 meters in height, and even the highest of them do not exceed 100 meters. Gaston Bachelard has stated that when a person looks out on the sea from a high point or views a city from a tower or gazes out over the vast earth from a mountaintop, he feels a sense of power and authority over all he surveys.5 The process whereby domain-viewing by the ruler became a separate ritual no doubt had something to do with the "strong impresssion of domination" mentioned by Bachelard. The foothill with a vast plain in front and a high mountain behind functioned as a burial mound in the first half of the fourth century in Japan. From his burial mound the ruler commands a view of his domain just as he viewed it when he was alive. In late feudal times, many castles were built on foothills or isolated hills throughout Japan. The high castles built on such hills had donjons to enhance the image of the all-powerful rulers and looked down at the towns below. These castles fall into the same category as the domain-viewing mountain. The mountain edge is jagged; in some places the hills or mountains protrude the flatland, whereas in other places the flatland makes deep inden­ tations into the mountain edge. Just because of these different topographi­ cal features the zofu-tokusui landscapes, the sacred mountain and the domain-viewing mountain types could develop. These three types, that is,

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including the secluded valley type, form a whole integrated world inhabited by the living, the dead, and the gods. 4.

The maternal landscape

If we take into consideration the examples of Japanese landscapes dealt with so far, we may conclude that different terrains evoke corresponding mental images. A powerful example, even nowadays, is the small plain sur­ rounded by mountains which evokes the image of a safe, peaceful place to live. These combinations of places with their corresponding images can be classified into several types. In his two books, La terre et les rêveries du repos and La terre et les rêveries de la volonté, the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard discusses various images evoked by earth. In his discussion Bachelard makes a major distinction between the images of rest {repos) and the images of will {vol­ onté). Another interesting theory concerning the subject of landscape aesthet­ ics is proposed by Jay Appleton who makes a major distinction between the habitat theory and the prospect-refuge theory: Habitat theory postulates that aesthetic pleasure in landscape derives from the observer experiencing an environment favorable to the satisfaction of his biological needs [...] Prospect-refuge theory postulates that, because the ability to see without being seen is an intermediate step in the satisfac­ tion of many of those needs, the capacity of an environment to ensure the achievement of this becomes a more immediate source of aesthetic satis­ faction (Appleton 1975:73).

There is a notable resemblance between Bachelard's image of rest and the refuge symbolism of Appleton, so too between Bachelard's image of will and Appleton's prospect symbolism. If we assign a maternal qualifica­ tion to the image of rest and the refuge symbolism, and a paternal qualifica­ tion to the image of will and the prospect symbolism, then we have a valu­ able tool for the construction of a typology of the various combinations of places and their corresponding images. So how can we interpret the seven types of Japanese landscapes described in this paper in terms of Bachelard's images and Appleton's sym­ bolism? It may be said that the image of refuge-rest is predominant in the Akizushima-Yamato and the eight-petal lotus blossom type landscapes sur­ rounded by mountains and in the mikumari shrine and the secluded valley

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type landscapes located deep in the valleys, while the image of prospect-will is predominant in the domain-viewing mountain and the sacred mountain type landscapes. The zofu-tokusui type landscapes surrounded on three sides by mountains with an open space in front, can be assigned both the image of refuge-rest and the image of prospect-will, although the former seems stronger than the latter. However, in reality we may come across cases which form combina­ tions of the seven types of landscapes: for instance, the Akizushima-Yamato type landscape in the basin at whose edge is a zofu-tokusui type landscape, or a zofu-tokusui type landscape which backs onto the sacred mountain type. The domain-viewing and sacred mountain type landscapes are nearly always located at the edges of basins or of mountains where the image of refuge-rest is predominant; in other words, in the maternal landscapes. They do not rise in the midst of vast plains for then they would display the image of prospect-will of the paternal landscape. Thus we find that the seven types of Japanese landscapes that I con­ sider the prototypes of dwelling places of the Japanese people were devel­ oped on the terrains that evoked both the image of refuge-rest and the image of prospect-will. There was no need for people to recreate artificially places that had the image of refuge-rest and the image of prospect-will. All they needed to do was to select carefully and take advantage of the terrain. On the whole it can be said that terrains belonging to the maternal (refer­ ring to the image of the mother bosom) landscape are in the majority in Japan. This is a main reason why many Japanese dwelling places blend in beautifully with the landscape. Finally another powerful image comes to mind, that of nature as the archetypal mother and man as her suckling, totally depending on her.

Notes 1.

In the Nihon shoki, Vol.1, pp.292-293, the same poem is spoken by the emperor Keiko, who is supposed to have been Yamato-takeru-no-mikato's father. See Aston, Nihongi, Vol.1, p. 197, for a diferent translation.

2.

A pillow word is an epithetical modifier conventionally used with a particular word or group of words in both poetry and prose.

3.

Man'yoshu, Vol.1, pp.264-265. The translation of the poem is taken from Nihon Gakujutsu Shinkokai, The Manyoshu, p.51.

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4.

The translation is taken from Nihon Gakujutsu Shinkokai, The Manyoshu, p.3.

5.

The original work being unavailable, this English translation is from Kaoru Oikawa, Daichi to Ishi no Muso, pp.369-371, which is a Japanese translation of Gaston Bachelard's Les rêveries de la volonté.

References Akita, Nariaki. 1981. "Fusui-setsu." Sekai daihyakka jiten, Vol.26. Tokyo: Heibonsha. Appleton, Jay. 1975. The Experience of Landscape. New York: Wiley. Aston, W.G. Translation 1972. Nihongi: Chronicles of Japan from the Earliest Times to A.D. 697. Rutland & Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle. Gorai, Shigeru. 1967. Kumano Mode {a Pilgrimage to Kumano). Kyoto: Tanko Shinsha. Kukai. 1965. "Shoryoshu" (Collection of Chinese poems). Nihon koten bungaku taikei, Vol.71. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Oba, Iwao. 1970. Saishi Iseki (Relics of Ancient Religious Rites). Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten. Orikuchi, Shinobo. 1955. Orikuchi Shinobu Zenshu. Tokyo: Chuokoronsha. Otsuki, Fumihiko. 1932. Daigenkai. Tokyo: Fuzanbo. Snellen, J.B. Translation 1937. Shoku Nihongi. In Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, Vol.14. Tsuchihashi, Yutaka. 1965. Kodai Kayo to Girei no Kenkyu (A Study of Ancient Songs and Ceremonies). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Yanagita, Kunio. 1969. "Yamamiya-ko." Teihon Yanagita Kunio Zenshu, Vol.11. Tokyo: Chikumashobo. . 1970. Chimei no Kenkyu (Study of Place Names). Tokyo: Chikumashobo.

Semiosis in Architecture: A Systemic Analysis of the Traditional Towntextures in Japan Teruyuki Monnai

Introduction These days, meanings in architecture become increasingly important in the context of modernization. This research focuses on a semiotic approach to architecture, because architecture can be considered as a complex of vari­ ous signs. So far, many approaches have been tried in the field of architec­ tural semiotics.1 For example, Sven Hesselgren studied architectural lan­ guage from a perceptual and symbolic viewpoint. Umberto Eco discussed the idea of regarding a cultural unit, conveying some meanings, as an architectural sign. In his famous A Componential Analysis of the Architec­ tural Sign /Column/', he depicted the mechanism of architectural denotation and connotation. Donald Preziosi found a network of architectonic signs through the survey of Minoan architectural design, and pointed out the pro­ found relationship between architecture and language. Moreover, Groupe 107 described the semiosis of the housing plan from a topological view­ point. It is, however, not so easy to apprehend the mechanism of the very complicated and multi-modal SEMIOSIS of architecture. This research aims to analyze the traditional townscapes in Japan from a semiotic viewpoint.2 I have conducted on-site investigations of existing traditional townscapes which are distributed all over Japan. The number of towns investigated reached 200, over an interval of five years (1980-1984). Many fascinating scenes can be found in the townscapes and their meanings and modalities appreciated. A representative scene is shown in Figure 1. Its appearance is attractive to most people. The intention of this research is to reveal the secret of the beauty of townscapes and contribute to the develop-

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Figure 1. A representative scene of traditional townscape in Japan Ohmihachiman (Shiga Prefecture) was constructed as a castle town in the 16th century. It is located near Kyoto, which was the capital city of Japan during that time. After only a 10 years' history as a castle town, it has since been developing as a commercial town by making use of the fact that its location near Lake Biwa, an important water route, as well as on the main transport route between Tokyo and Osaka, provides easy access to anywhere in Japan. The pattern of the facade appears beautiful, as if it were a painting by P. Mondrian, and the mountain in the background performs an important role in generating a towntexture with a serene atmosphere by acting as an eye stop in the visual field.

ment of architectural semiotics. As well, the properties of Japanese spatial tradition are taken into consideration. In this context, it is necessary to distinguish a phenomenalistic scene from a physicalistic townscape. 3 In order to designate the phenomenalistic scene, a new term, TOWNTEXTURE, has been coined, because the scene is composed of the appearances or visual textures of houses, ground, sky, greenery, etc. We are often emotionally affected by such imagery, its orien­ tation or our memories of it. Therefore this research will focus on the semiosis of those towntextures.

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In Japan, traditional townscapes have gradually been disappearing since the end of World War II. Towntextures which are either homogene­ ous or heterogeneous are the two extreme results of modernization. The preservation movement of traditional townscapes has been gaining momen­ tum in recent years. The results of this research are expected to have an impact on the conservation, renewal, and formation of townscapes in Japan. 1.

The multi-modality of the urban semiotic text

Charles Sanders Peirce has developed a unique theory about multi-modal semiosis.4 According to his theory, all phenomena are classified into three categories; FIRSTNESS, SECONDNESS, and THIRDNESS. He describes these categories as follows: Firstness is the mode of being of that which is such as it is, positively and without reference to anything else. Secondness is the mode of being of that which is such as it is, with respect to a second but regardless of any third. Thirdness is the mode of being of that which is such as it is, in bringing a second and third into relation to each other (CP 8.328).

He also explains the typical ideas of firstness as being quality, possibility, qualities of feeling, or mere appearances; those of secondness as being rela­ tion, existence, or the experience of effort; those of thirdness as being rep­ resentation, law, generality, or mentality. Thus multi-modal semiosis can be grasped in terms of these categories. Even in looking at a simple object, we first abstract various qualities such as shape, color, or texture, secondly compare those qualities and then under­ stand what it is. In the case of a towntexture, we will find multi-modalities from firstness to thirdness, because it is full of meaningful expressions. For instance, the color of the facade makes a vivid impression; dynamic changes of the curve and undulation of the road delight the eye while taking a walk in the street; and the silhouette of the facades generates deep emo­ tion. As well we can enjoy the distinct contrast of light and darkness in the strong sunlight, a silhouette at sunset, the rhythm of the towntexture along the street and the bright atmosphere of festival days (firstness) ; orientation of a building often indicates the direction of the wind, and the configuration of buildings corresponds to the topography of place (secondness); and architectural elements such as roofs, entrances, and ornaments frequently signify social relationships, economic status, or cultural meanings (third­ ness).

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In this way we are able to find various meanings and multi-modalities in the towntextures. Therefore a towntexture can be regarded as a TEXT which is fabricated of various signs. Once Roland Barthes said, "In general, human space (not only urban space) is always a signifier."5 This expression suggests that we often find different meanings in the same space. In other words, the semiosis of human space is essentially open-ended. Therefore we are able to consider it as an OPEN text. This terminology 'open' is used to designate a kind of modality of the text by various semioticians like Umberto Eco. 6 The open text can be read in multiple ways according to the user's interests or the context. On the contrary, the CLOSED text has more definite meanings. In literature, Dubliners by James Joyce is an open text and The 007 series by Ian Fleming is a closed text. A traditional towntexture is fascinating espe­ cially in the contemporary context, because it is unfamiliar to us and thus it appears not only as a closed text but also as an open text. Therefore this research aims to analyze multi-modal semiosis of the urban text, that is towntexture. Now let's consider an instance from the experience of on-site investigations. When visiting Ouchi town (Fukushima Prefecture), our research group was disappointed with the towntexture, because straw thatched roofs had been replaced with red or blue iron sheets. At sunset, however, the color disappeared and instead the silhouette of the roofs suddenly appeared and its beauty struck us deeply. At that time we constructed another towntexture according to the contex­ tual change. Obviously we do not observe everything existing there. We choose appropriate signs from the repertoire of potential signs in the tradi­ tional townscapes in Japan, and realize various towntextures on occasion. Thus multi-modal semiosis is realized through the performance of the people in the street. 7 The performance will become very dramatic, when they experience a shock from seeing something new in the towntexture and appreciate its beauty. Incidentally, we can find various performance-like towntextures in historical contexts. For example, the Italian who identifies a street as a theatrical stage enjoys street life. As Bernard Rudofsky described, the voice of the street cry in Naples is the prototype of the opera, and taking a walk in the street is even the aim in life;8 at the end of the nineteenth century the Art Nouveau Movement gained force in West­ ern Europe, and there the drama which people shared was to ornament the street with posters, paintings, architecture, street furniture, etc.9 During the Nazi era, urban space was also considered as an impressive stage for the

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military and the masses. The towntextures contributed to the expression of an emotional unity and symbolized totalitarianism.10 As described above, the towntexture reflects the social and cultural context, and thus the street becomes the topos where numerous dramas are performed. In this way, multi-modal semiosis can be found in the urban semiotic text. The aim of this semiotic research is to investigate its mechanism. In order to grasp such semiosis, C.S. Peirce has defined the concept of sign as follows: A sign, or representamen, is something which stands to somebody for something in some respect or capacity. It addresses somebody, that is, creates in the mind of that person an equivalent sign, or perhaps a more developed sign. That sign which it creates I call the interpretant of the first sign. The sign stands for something, its object (CP 2.228).

In terms of these three correlates of semiosis (Sign [S], Object [O], Interpretant [I]), three fundamental dimensions of semiosis are discrimi­ nated; the syntactic dimension (R[S]), the semantic dimension (R[0,S]), and the pragmatic dimension (R[0,S,I]). The semiotic analysis of towntex­ tures will be developed from the syntactic dimension to the pragmatic dimension in the following steps: (1) (2) (3) 2.

to construct the sign system of towntextures (section 2) to describe the formation of the actual scene (section 3) to read the meanings and modalities of towntextures (section 4).

Systemic code: the sign system of towntextures

In order to construct the sign system of towntextures, first of all it is neces­ sary to observe actual townscapes found in on-site investigations. As described in the preceding section, various towntextures can be realized from even a townscape. Here we will focus on a townscape of Unno town (Nagano Prefecture). Figure 2 illustrates a towntexture of its facade sequence, and several different towntextures derived from it. In this way, each towntexture, which is a visual image, can be regarded as a plane com­ posed of various regions, and thus those different towntextures appear according to different divisions of the plane into regions. For instance, towntextures divided into fine regions appear under the bright sky and dis­ appear at sunset.

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An elevation of Unno (Nagano Prefecture)

This elevation of the facade sequence is translated into a towntexture com­ posed of various regions. Different towntextures can be derived from it by means of a computational graphic system.

Figure 2. Examples of towntextures

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In the case of traditional townscapes in Japan, there is an appropriate division to project an architectural sign (roof, window, column etc.) to any region of the plane. Each region, corresponding to an architectural sign, has various information, such as digital coordinate data to express the shape, properties of material, color or texture, and information about posi­ tion, configuration or situation. Then the data base of the towntexture com­ posed of divided regions can be constructed. In Figure 2, various towntextures are drawn by a computer graphic system.11 Any region can have environmental cues, and appear as various signs according to the context. For example, a region of roof often appears as pure form (triangle, square, circle, etc.) at sunset, and its sequence as skyline in the distance. Therefore the subject of the next step is to investi­ gate all possible regions observed in traditional towntextures in Japan, and to find the repertory of architectural signs generated by those regions. Inci­ dentally, it is difficult to grasp ambiguous signs such as light, sound, smell, and activities of people in the street, which have an effect on the meanings and modalities of the place. On-site investigations are, however, helpful to understand the multi-modal semiosis in spite of those difficulties. The architectural signs of towntextures are linked together to form fas­ cinating scenes in the same way that linguistic signs form literary texts. This research focuses on the network of architectural signs, that is the architec­ tural code. The code of towntextures is constructed based on "Systemic Grammar (SG)" developed by M.A.K. Halliday et al. which offers an excellent mechanism used to understand multi-modal linguistic semiosis. It is called SYSTEMIC CODE (SC) after SG in this context.12 SC is illustrated in Figure 3 and Figure 4. (A glossary of Japanese architectural vocabulary, such as udatsu, komayose, and koshi is appended to the end of this article.) From the perspective of SC, actual towntextures (tokens) are realized, not through the transformation from deep structure to surface structure, but through the selection of potential architectural signs (types) which those networks offer. Thus the above-mentioned multi­ modal semiosis in which a region appears as various signs according to its context is explained very well in terms of this architectural code.

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Fig. 3 Systemic code: stratum, rank, unit, structure

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Fig. 4 Systemic code: system network of FRAME as a The mechanism of SC is as follows: (1) STRATUM: There are three strata of SUBSTANCE, FORM, and SITUATION in the natural language. Corresponding to these linguistic strata, the semiosis of towntextures can be divided into three strata, such as MORPHEME, FORM, and TOWNTEXTURE. The actual semiosis is realized through the overlay of these three strata. The dominant modality of the semiosis of these strata seems to be, respectively, perceptual, formal, and topological, and therefore the semiosis of towntexture is necessarily

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multi-modal. Probably various devices generating multi-modal semiosis can be found in towntextures. In the case of language, many variations of a word are generated by adding a suffix or prefix, such as -er, -ing, -ed, re-, to the base of a word, such as play; the modality of the same word varies with intonation, tone, and rhythm; the meaning of the text depends on the order of sentences, etc. In the case of towntexture, what kind of devices can be found so as to generate various meanings and modalities? Are they the same devices as language? Do rhythm or configuration of architectural signs generate the atmosphere of the place? These are the subjects of sec­ tion 3. (2) UNIT: The different sizes of formal elements are called UNITS. The form stratum of language includes the following units; word, group, and clause. In this way various units are found in towntexture. Architec­ tural elements such as windows, walls, and columns combine to create larger units such as facades of houses. Thus there can be large scale units in "Systemic Grammar." This is one of the characteristics different from "Transformational Grammar" proposed by Noam Chomsky. (3) RANK: Each stratum can be divided into several ranks according to scale, in order of the size of units. In traditional towntextures in Japan, it is enough to divide each stratum as explained in the following statement. There is only one rank both in MORPHEME stratum and in TOWNTEX­ TURE stratum; FORM stratum is divided into three ranks such as ELE­ MENT, PART, and FRAME, which correspond to word, group, and clause in language. If necessary, we are able to acquire more detailed divi­ sions in any stratum. Moreover, when a unit in a certain rank consists of members of the next unit below, we say that the unit contains RANKSHIFT. For instance, the house of historical interest is a group which has a rankshift of of historical interest. (4) STRUCTURE: Each unit has patterns composed of several ele­ ments and these patterns are called STRUCTURES. In the case of lan­ guage, 'clause' is composed of principal clause(a) and subordinate(β), 'group' is composed of 'Subject'(S), 'Predicator'(P), 'Complement'(C), and 'Adjunct'(A), and 'word' is subdivided into more detailed elements. In the case of towntexture, similar devices can be found in the FRAME rank, main buildings (a) and additional elements (|3) (garden, fence, storage, etc.) are differentiated; in the PART rank and the ELEMENT rank, elements (S), relations or configurations (P), and modalities (A) are distinguished. In townscapes of Eastern Europe, there are numerous variations of architec-

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tural elements, and thus S is dominant. In the townscapes of Islam, similar architectural elements appear repeatedly, and their configurations are very interesting. At that time P is dominant. In contrast to those towntextures, we often feel emotional modalities through gradation of color, or shift of form in traditional townscapes in Japan, and therefore A is dominant. In this way, this model of S, P, and A is very suggestive, because each culture has varying dominant categories of them. As well interesting devices can be found both in MORPHEME stratum and in TOWNTEXTURE stratum. MORPHEME stratum is composed of a basic form containing several fea­ tures (base) and the transformation of the base (trans). TOWNTEXTURE stratum include various topological configurations and modalities inherent in towntextures in Japan. (5) SYSTEM: The units of each rank in SC (Figure 3) are described as networks of possible choices. These networks are called SYSTEMS. For example, the roof unit is realized through the repertoire of possible choices composed of kirizuma, yosemune, irimoya, etc. In this research, system net­ works corresponding to units are constructed based on the data of on-site investigations. The meaning of the roof depends partly on the choice from the repertoire, for the meaning of each unit in a system depends on the meaning of the other units in the system. For instance, if an irimoya roof is found in the sequence of kirizuma roofs, we will infer that special meanings may be given to an irimoya roof. These systems are arranged on a scale according to the fineness of the distinctions in meaning which they repre­ sent, and as a result a system network is constructed (Figure 4). Moving from left to right in the network, more details can be grasped. This scale of detailed description is called DELICACY. We are able to account for cer­ tain aspects of multi-modal semiosis by means of this concept of delicacy. For instance, a region appears as kirizuma roof to someone having the knowledge of the architectural vocabulary, and as pure form to someone having no such knowledge. In other words, the modality of semiosis depends on the delicacy of this network. 13 In the following section, this research focuses on the analysis of the phenomenalistic scene, that is towntexture in terms of the above-mentioned Systemic Code.

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Scene analysis: the formation of towntexture

The Systemic Code (SC) is devised to grasp the mechanism by means of which various towntextures are realized from a townscape. This research aims to describe the formation of actual scenes based on SC. As described in section 2, even a region of towntexture appears as various signs, and we try to introduce a computational method of image understanding, which is called a regional analysis in the domain of computer vision.14 The data base of towntextures has already been constructed, and thus this computational method will provide us with a system to simulate various towntextures. Therefore we can analyze the formation of towntextures by semiotic analysis including such a computational method. This analysis is called SCENE ANALYSIS. The steps of scene analysis are as follows. (i) The division of the scene into regions: the towntexture photo­ graphed in on-site investigations is divided into regions based on the cate­ gory of RANK in SC. (ii) The description of the regions: each region can be described as realization rules which designate the choice from the repertoire of system networks. The fineness of description of such a region will be grasped by means of the category of DELICACY. (iii) The understanding of the relation between regions: after step (i) and step (ii), we will investigate the network of these regions in order to understand how they build up a fascinating towntexture as a whole. The scene analysis aims to investigate the formation of towntextures through the above-mentioned stages. In step (i), the object of analysis is the scene represented by the photographs of the facade sequence. The scene of this facade sequence extending horizontally is difficult to see as a whole, but it seems to be the most fundamental scene necessary to understand the formation of towntextures which we experience while taking a walk in the street. However, there are some distortions in the photographs, and draw­ ings of elevations have been made based on the photographs to remove such distortions. Therefore this analysis focuses on reconstructed drawings, and at the same time the photographs will provide various information, such as color, texture, material, etc., which is omitted in the drawings. (i) The division of the scene through the category of RANK. The forma­ tion of towntextures can be grasped by choosing the signs from the reper­ toire of SC and constructing the network of those signs. The network,

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(1) This elevation represents a house in Waki (Tokushima Prefecture).

(2) The towntexture is composed of 26 regions (see Figure 6). Each region can appear as a different sign depending on the context or viewpoint. When we focus on the FORM stratum, it is designated as an architectural sign such as "roof," "column," and "window."

(3) The network of these signs can be represented as a tree diagram based on the "inside-of" relations of regions. Figure 5. Translation of the towntexture into the network of various signs

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which is a fabric of signs, is called CHAIN. If we focus on the 'inside-of' relation between various regions of the scene, a chain can be represented as a 'tree' diagramm. When a region of window (O 3 ) is, for instance, included in a region of Wall(W 1 ), the relation of these regions is described as [W1O 3 ]. 15 Therefore a townscape can be translated into a tree diagramm. Fig­ ure 5 illustrates the process of translation of a towntexture. It is a distin­ guished property of traditional towntextures in Japan to be able to describe such tree diagrams. If there is no common architectural sign, it may be dif­ ficult to translate townscapes into such tree diagrams. While investigating structural characteristics of tree diagrams, various properties of those towntextures will be found not only in particular signs but also in the lin­ kage of those signs. As well, the townscape appears as various towntextures depending on viewpoints and surrounding contexts. These dynamic aspects of towntex­ tures can be simulated by the computer graphic system with reference to a tree diagram. Figure 6 shows towntextures of FRAME, PART, and ELE­ MENT rank in the following townscape; Unno (Nagano Prefecture), Sasayama (Hyogo Prefecture), and Waki (Tokushima Prefecture). The towntexture of each rank represents the actual scene in various contexts. A towntexture of FRAME rank, for instance, reminds us of the silhouette or skyline of houses at sunset, the contrast of the facades in PART rank touches our hearts deeply, and the details in ELEMENT rank produces the comfortable rhythm of the towntexture. There are also other methods to execute this stage. 16 For example, T. Sieverts and his Berlin Seminar divided the facade into three layers. They defined "'primary signs' as all those structural elements of a building strip­ ped of its finish (balcony, loggia, window, opening, gable, roof, etc.) and 'secondary signs' as the ornaments applied as a finish, while the 'third layer of signs' consisted of various messages, for example, window displays and their support." Their analysis is to remove these layers in order, which appears as a kind of 'striptease' treatment of facades. In our scene analysis, the gradation of the fineness of division found in Figure 6 represents the generation or degeneration of the townscape, and such a process is regarded as a kind of 'supersign formation.' Moreover, it is possible to analyse the structural characteristics of towntexture by means of computational techniques, because they are drawn by the graphic system and thus each region has various information included in a tree diagram. Various techniques of scene analysis used to

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SEMIOSIS IN ARCHITECTURE Unno (Nagano Prefecture) (1) towntextures of FRAME, PART, and ELEMENT rank

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

(2) occurence of signs (Horizontal axis expresses the house number.) Occurence of Element-Rank Signs in a Towntexture

Rl(Roof) R2(pent Roof) R3(Kemuridashi) R4(Ornament) N1(Udatsu/Sodekabe) N2(Noki) C2(Dashigeta) O1(Koshi) 02(Door) 03(Window) Wl(Wall) W2(Shutter Box) H1 (Boundary) H3(Trees) G1 (Foundation) Total

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Total

1 1 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 4 5 0 0 0 1

1 2 0 0 0 2 0 7 1 0 6 2 0 0 1

1 1 1 0 0 1 6 5 2 3 12 2 0 0 1

1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 10 3 3 1 2 1

1 0 1 0 4 0 7 4 1 1 12 0 0 0 1

1 1 1 0 0 0 0 4 1 0 4 2 0 0 1

1 1 2 2 4 0 0 3 1 6 6 0 0 0 1

1 1 1 0 2 1 9 8 1 2 9 1 0 0 1

8 8 7 2 10 4 22 32 8 26 57 10 1 2 8

14

22

35

23

32

15

27

37

205

(3) complexity of towntextures (based on both sign classes and areas) Similarities and Differences of Unno: Sign Classes & Areas 1 Information Measure Redundancy Aesthetic Measure

2

3

2 551 2 449 2 466 6 128 7 178 10 263 24 076 30 957 173 786

4

5

6

2 591 2 335 2 390 8 183 8 264 7 203 52 794 147 743 35 044

7

8

2 645 2 361 9 204 11 341 99 219 243 654

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Sasayama (Hyogo Prefecture) (1) towntextures of FRAME, PART, and ELEMENT rank

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

(2) occurence of signs (Horizontal axis expresses the house number.) Occurence of Element-Rank Signs in a Towntexture

Rl(Roof) R2(Pent Roof) R4(Ornament) N1(Udatsu/Sodekabe) N2(Noki) D1 (Signboard) C3(Column) Ol(Koshi) 02(Door) 03(Window) Wl(Wall) W2(Shutter Box) H3(Trees) G1(Foundation) Total

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

1 1 1 0 3 0 0 2 2 2 9 0 0 1

1 2 1 0 5 0 0 0 1 4 12 0 0 1

1 4 1 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 7 2 0 1

1 2 1 2 7 0 0 0 1 4 3 0 0 1

1 1 1 0 5 0 0 0 3 6 7 0 0 1

1 3 1 0 9 0 0 1 1 1 7 0 0 1

1 2 1 0 7 0 0 1 4 5 10 0 0 1

3 2 1 1 3 0 0 0 3 2 11 0 1 1

1 2 1 0 8 0 1 0 2 4 7 0 0 1

1 2 1 2 1 1 0 0 1 2 6 0 0 1

12 21 10 5 49 1 1 4 19 31 79 2 1 10

22

27

19

22

25

25

32

28

27

18

245

10 Total

(3) complexity of towntextures (based on both sign classes and areas) Similarities and Differences of Sasayama: Sign Classes & Areas 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

2.245 2.439 2.270 2.585 1.898 2.406 2.176 Information Measure 2.524 2.278 2.190 9.266 8.284 9.222 8.204 7.241 8.309 8.401 7.198 8.314 8.292 Redundancy Aesthetic Measure 87.171 67.880 116.309 185.050 67.993 89.527 136.184 127.011 137.508 102.985

117

SEMIOSIS IN ARCHITECTURE Waki (Tokushima Prefecture) (1) towntextures of FRAME, PART, and ELEMENT rank

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

(2) occurence of signs (Horizontal axis expresses the house number.) Occurence of Element-Rank Signs in a Towntexture

Rl(Roof) R4( Tsuma-Kazari) N1(Udatsu/Sodekabe)

N2(Noki) N4(Shogi) Cl(Handrail) C3(Column) 02(Door) 03(Window) Wl(Wall) W2(Shutter Box) Hl(Boundary) G1(Foundation) Total

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10 Total

2 1 6 2 0 0 0 2 4 8 0 0 1

2 0 2 2 0 0 0 2 6 8 2 4 1

1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 0

2 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 2 2 0 0 1

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0

2 0 4 2 0 0 0 1 5 4 0 0 1

2 1 6 3 0 1 1 1 5 4 0 0 1

2 0 4 1 1 1 1 2 4 8 1 0 0

0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0

2 0 4 1 0 0 0 2 7 4 0 3 1

15 2 26 12 1 2 2 11 33 41 3 8 6

26

29

3

9

1

19

25

25

1

24

162

(3) complexity of twontextures (based on both sign classes and areas) Similarities and Differences of Sasayama: Sign Classes & Areas 1

2

Information Measure 2.278 2.583 Redundancy 7.241 8.185 Aesthetic Measure 82.126 37.650

3 0.888 1.112 2.647

4 2.108 5.184 19.881

5

6

7

8

— 2.294 2.569 2.705 — 6.183 9.227 9.186 — 24.708 88 643 49.676

Figure 6. Several scene analyses of towntextures

9

10

— — —

2.482 7.173 40.373

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Here we have analyzed the following three townscapes; Unno (Nagano Prefecture), Sasayama (Hyogo Prefecture), and Waki (Tokushima Prefecture). Each towntexture is drawn by a compu­ ter graphic system (The number described below designates a house number). The matrices of occurence and complexity are gained by computational techniques (it is possible to get the ma­ trices of area and perimeter). Various facts can be discovered about these towntextures. In Japan, roof dominates about 1/3 of the scene, and wall about 1/3 in the area. The slight change of complexity generates a proper rhythmic order in the towntexture.

read the similarities and differences of towntexture have been developed in the field of informational aesthetics and computer vision. Figure 6 also illustrates some analyses about the occurence of architectural signs, the dis­ tribution of those areas, and the complexity of their composition.17 (ii) The description of the scene through the category of DELICACY. Any region of the towntexture corresponds to not only a unit in certain RANK, but also a unit in DELICACY in Systemic Code. As DELICACY is represented by a system network as shown in Figure 4, it is described as the rule needed to choose appropriate signs from the network. This rule is called REALIZATION RULE. For example, the house on the left side of the towntexture of Waki is illustrated as follows (This description is slightly simplified for explanation): [correlated / direct / Rsimple: tsumairi / second-layer / construction: okabe] where ":" indicates that the feature on the right is dependent in delicacy upon the one on the left, and "/" indicates that the two features (or groups of features) are independent.

The same towntexture also has detailed differences. The house of tsumairi, for instance, is divided into different types according to the form of the roof or the construction. If we look at the detailed levels of DELI­ CACY, more detailed differences appear to us. The scene in the same rank produces various textures and tastes in the street. By the way, I discriminate the signs which generate similarities and dif­ ferences. The division is as follows.18 CONNECTOR (C) SHIFTER (S) If we make use of these categories, the realization rule of the houses (i) in the towntexture is represented as [Ca+Sa.]. As all the houses in the same towntexture have Ca in common, the house (i) can be described only by [Sa i ]. In this way, we can condense the information to describe the reali­ zation rule. In Unno, Sasayama, and Waki, the realization rules shared in

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the FRAME rank are as follows: Unno; Cα = [correlated / direct / hirairi / Rsimple: kirizuma / second-layer / shinkabe construction] Sasayama; Ca = [correlated / direct / tsumairi / Rsimple: X1 / second-layer / X2] Sa = [X1, X2] X1 = (irimoya, kirizuma), X 2 = (shinkabe construction, okabe construction) Waki; Ca = [correlated / direct / X / Rsimple : X 2 / second-layer / okabe construc­ tion] Sa = [X1 X 2 , X3] X1 = (hirairi, tsumairi), X 2 = (irimoya, kirizuma, kumiawase) In this way, Connector and Shifter represent the similarities and differ­ ences of towntextures. For example, [roof] is C in Unno, but S in Sasayama and Waki. [Entrance] is C in Unno and Sasayama, but S in Waki. More­ over, [construction] is C in Unno and Waki, but S in Sasayama. There is no Shifter in Unno. [Roof] and [construction] are shifters in Sasayama, but [en­ trance] and [roof] are shifters in Waki. This discrimination of C and S changes according to the context of towntextures to be considered. A sign which is C in a small range of towntextures sometimes becomes S in the wider range of towntexture. It will be very suggestive for the conservation and formation of townscape. (iii) The realization of the scene. Actual towntextures are realized through the overlay of three strata such as MORPHEME (color, texture, material, scale, etc.), ELEMENT-PART-FRAME (window, column, wall, facade, etc.), and TOWNTEXTURE (configuration, situation, place, etc.). This realization is to combine various signs and to construct the urban semiotic text. It is in the text that people can appreciate the beauty of towntexture. However, it is not so easy to describe such realization rules because of their complexity. Any sign, for example, a roof, is realized by the overlay of var­ ious information such as color, texture, material, scale, form, configura­ tion, situation, and so on.

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Therefore, a more refined system for scene analysis must be con­ structed in order to overlay such information which is chosen from the repertory composed of three strata. To that end, the idea of FRAME pro­ posed by Marvin Minsky in the domain of artificial intelligence is introduced in this research. According to his theory of FRAME, it is "a data-structure for representing a stereotyped situation, like being in a certain kind of liv­ ing room, or going to a child's birthday party." 19 If the idea of frame is introduced, this information can be stored in a simple frame. In general, frames can be represented as nested association lists from the technical viewpoint. 'Roofl' frame and 'roof of Waki' frame, for instance, are represented as follows: (roofl

(class (a-kind-of (a-part-of (form (transformation (roof of Waki (class (a-kind-of (position (material (color

(value instance)) (value roof of Waki)) (value frame 1)) (value irimoya)) (value curve))) (value generic)) (value roof)) (value top of house)) (value Kawara)) (default black)))

where, 'roofl' is FRAME NAME; 'a-kind-of,' 'form,' and 'material' are SLOT; 'value' and 'default' are FACET; 'Irimoya' and 'black' are VALUE; 'a-kind-of path represents the 'generic' and 'instance' relation ('Roofl' frame is linked to 'roof of Waki' frame by an 'a-kind-of' path); 'a-part-of' path represents the 'whole' and 'part' relation ('Roofl' frame is linked to 'framel' frame by an 'a-part-of' path).20

This idea of frame will be easily considered from the semiotic view­ point. For example, 'a-kind-of relation and 'a-part-of relation corresponds respectively to 'paradigm' and 'syntagm' in some respects; 'generic' and 'in­ stance' relations correspond to 'type' and 'token' relations. Therefore a towntexture represented as a complex network of various signs as shown in Figure 5 can be translated into a network of frames, that is a frame system. At that time, Systemic Code is useful to construct such a frame system, because it provides a medium for finding frame names, slots, and values. Figure 7 shows a part of the frame system of towntexture in Waki. It is easy to implement a frame representation language which has var­ ious functions for question-answering by means of LISP language. The

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This network represents a part of the frame system in Waki. It is possible to extend the scene analysis of towntextures based on the Systemic Code (see Figures 3,4) by intro­ ducing a frame system. ("IE" in Japanese means a house.)

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T h e following describe an example of the dialogue with a towntexture by this frame system (A) to abstract the structure of the frame system > (Ftree 'IE-1 Part-of) (Towntexture-of-Waki (IE-1 (Roof-1 (Yane-1 Hisashi-1)) (Noki-1 (Udatsu-1 Nokishita-1)) (Facade-1 (Opening-1 Wall-1)) (Pattern-1)) (IE-2 (Roof-2 (Yane-2 Hisashi-2)) (Noki-2 (Udatsu-2 Nokishita-2)) (Facade-2 (Opening-2 Wall-2))

(C) to survey the antecedent and descendants of a frame > (Fget-Classes? 'Part-of 'Yane-1) (Yane-1 Roof-1 IE-1 Towntexture-of-waki Towntexture-of-Japan) > (Fget-Classes? 'A-Kind-of — Yanel) (Yane-1 Yane-of-waki Yane) > (Fdescendants 'IE-1 'Part-of) (IE-1 ((Roof-1 ?) (Noki-1 ?) (Facade-1 ?) (Pattern-1))) > (Fdescendants 'IE-1 'A-Kind-of) (IE-1 Has No Descendants.) (D) to inherit information

(IE-8 (Roof-8 (Yane-8 Hisashi-8)) (Noki-8 (Udatsu-8 Nokishita-8)) (Facade-8 (Opening-8 Wall-8)) (Pattern-8))) > (Ftree 'IE-1 'A-Kind-of) (Frame-as-α (Frame-of-Waki (IE-1 IE-2 IE-3 IE-4 IE-5 IE-6 IE-7 IE-8))

(B) to investigate the existence of the linkage between two frames > (Flink? 'Part-of 'Yane-1 'IE-1) T > (Flink? 'Part-of 'Yane-1 'IE-2) NIL > (Ako? 'Yane-1 'IE-1) NIL > (Ako? 'Yane-1 'Yane-of-Waki) T

>(Fget-n 'IE-1 'Function) (A1-No-Seisan-Hanbai) > (Fget-n 'Yane-1 'Material) (Hongawara) > (Fget-n 'Yane-2 'Color) (Black) (E) to embed common sense by "default" > (Fget-N 'Yane-1 'Rinkaku-R) (Sori+) > (Fget-n 'Yane-2 'Rinkaku-R) (Son-) (F) to attach procedures in a frame by "demon" > (Fget-n 'IE-1 'Archetype) Please supply a value for the archetype slot in the Frame-as-a Frame > (Fput 'Frame-as-a 'Archetype 'Value 'Iegata) legata > (Fget-n 'Towntexture-of-Waki 'Configuration) Please Survey Configuration Slot in Towntexture-of-Waki Frame Frequential Degree (High/Low)? High You Can Find Rythmical Order!

Figure 7. Knowledge representation of the towntexture based on frame system

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frame system has many interesting properties such as 'default,' 'demon' and 'inheritance of information.' When there is no information in which you are interested in a given frame, this system searches for other frames linked to it by an 'a-kind-of path; in this case, there is no value of material in 'roofl' frame, but the system will return a value of 'Kawara' in 'roof of Waki' frame. This is an example of the property of 'inheritance of information.' In this way, it is a very sophisticated description of towntexture. It is possible to investigate various realization rules and the fascinating properties of towntexture by this system. A fragment of the dialogue with towntexture of Waki is also illustrated in Figure 7.21 As shown in this section, the syntactic dimension of semiosis, that is the formation of towntextures, are analyzed in the light of Systemic Code. In the following section, this research will move on to the semantic and pragmatic dimensions of the semiosis of towntextures. 4.

Text analysis: the meaning of towntextures

By scene analysis, various towntextures can be generated from a townscape according to semiotic acts of the viewers. Each towntexture is composed of various signs, and considered as a text which has a total property such as a particular atmosphere and an identity of the city. Therefore the next step of semiotic analysis is to investigate the meanings and modalities which can be produced by the formation of towntextures. This analysis is called TEXT ANALYSIS. The text analysis will be confronted with many difficulties, because it is inevitable that not only formations but also subjects and contexts are intro­ duced into the semiosis of text. For example, various styles of houses and ornaments are found in Hita (Oita Prefecture), and thus the towntexture appears disorderly at a glance. The heterogeneous towntexture, however, appears to be animated, if it is known that Hita town, located in a provin­ cial district, was governed directly by the central administration called Bakuhu from the 17th century to the 19th century. Such diversified features of the towntexture displayed the town's superiority over the surrounding districts during that period. In this case, background knowledge about the history of the town plays an important role in this semiosis. Such knowledge can be called SEMANTIC CONNECTOR. Therefore the following two structures of text which T. A. van Dijk has proposed in the domain of text theory will have to be considered in this text analysis.22

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In the text analysis of towntexture, a microstructure corresponds to the formation of various signs such as architectural elements and their relation­ ships, and a macrostructure corresponds to an atmosphere or identity of the text. In this research, the text analysis is first conducted from a microstruc­ tural viewpoint, and then from a macrostructural viewpoint whenever pos­ sible. Such structural character of text is called TEXTUALITY, and there are alternative proposals about the criteria of textuality. R. de Beaugrande and W. Dressier, for instance, have proposed the next seven criteria; cohe­ sion, coherence, intentionality, acceptability, informativity, situationality, and intertextuality. 23 With respect to this theory, the criterion of 'cohesion' is considered as a microstructure, and the other criteria are considered as a macrostructure. A towntexture is composed of various signs from the microstructural viewpoint. It builds up a text which is considered as a kind of sign, that is, a supersign which has a new quality of totality. Therefore it is appropriate to analyse the meanings of signs at first. There are very important classes of signs called ICON, INDEX, and SYMBOL in the semantic dimension of semiosis, which have been proposed by C.S. Peirce. He defined these clas­ ses of signs by means of applying his categories (firstness, secondness, and thirdness) to the relation of sign and object: An icon is a sign which refers to the object that it denotes merely by virtue of characters of its own, and which it processes, just the same, whether any such object actually exists or not (CP 2.247); [...] An index is a sign which refers to the object that it denotes by virtue of being really affected by that object (CP 2.248); [...] A symbol is a sign which refers to the object that it denotes by virtue of a law, usually an association of general ideas, which operates to cause the symbol to be interpreted as referring to that object (CP 2.249). According to this trichotomy, much research has been done in the field of architectural semiotics. Gerald R. Blomeyer et al., for example, clas­ sified the object relations of sign systems as follows: iconic object relations as frame systems, indexical object relations as directional systems and sym­ bolic object relations as selective systems.24 In this research, it is possible to find such sign systems and various meanings of them in the light of this trichotomy as follows: a silhouette of a roof at sunset sometimes reminds us

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of a ship, a pattern of wall bears some resemblance to the paintings of P. Mondrian (see Figure 1), and the atmosphere of the towntexture evokes the memory of one's hometown (icon); the position of an entrance occa­ sionally indicates the direction of the place of a shrine, the appearance of udatsu or sodekabe often designates the direction of wind or snow, the con­ figuration of buildings corresponds to the topography of place (index); architectural elements such as roofs, entrances, and ornaments signify not only physical functions but also symbolic meanings such as social relation­ ships and cultural meanings (symbol). It must be brought to attention that these classes of signs often appear simultaneously in the same object. Udatsu is an icon which expresses vitality and rhythm because of its singular form and its repetition; an index indicating the direction of wind or snow; and a symbol which signifies the physical function of arresting the spread of fire and the symbolic meaning of economic status. In this way, these classes of signs are very useful to discriminate the meanings of signs. In order to investigate the meanings at the macrostruc­ tural level of towntexture, other classes of meaning can be introduced. They are TEXTUAL MEANING, INTERPERSONAL MEANING, and IDEATIONAL MEANING, which are devised to grasp the meanings of a text based on M.A.K. Halliday's "Systemic Grammar."25 As described below, these meanings take into consideration not only the semantic dimen­ sion but also the pragmatic dimension of semiosis. (i) Textual meaning. In the text theory, the textual component of meaning accounts for thematic organization and information structure of the propositional content of the sentence, and makes any stretch of language into a coherent and unified text rather a set of miscellaneous sentences. Its func­ tion is that of highlighting certain parts of the text. In this context, the connectedness of towntextures, which is a kind of textuality, often expresses such textual meanings. It is the concept rep­ resented as CONNECTOR and SHIFTER described in section 3. The most apparent criterion of connectedness is the repetition of similar signs. Hirairi house in Unno, tsumairi house in Sasayama, and the second story in all three towntextures are connectors which generate a quality of totality in the towntexture. When people observe the rhythm while taking a walk along the street, they will expect to find the similar rhythm in the future based on their previous experience. This kind of connectedness can be called COHE­ SION. Dashigeta in Unno, tsumakazari in Sasayama, and udatsu in Waki are shifters, and generate slight variations in the towntexture. They are

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highlighted on the background of connectors, and stimulate varying emo­ tions in the viewer. In this way, the meanings based on the cohesion of towntexture are usually included in these textual meanings. (ii) Interpersonal meaning. The interpersonal component of meaning deals with the interactional and personal aspects of grammar. It provides information about the immediate situation, particularly about the speaker's intention, towards his hearer or reader and the speaker's or writer's expec­ tation of his hearer or reader. This kind of meaning is therefore considered to include illocutionary force and modality studied in linguistic pragmat­ ics.26 In nonverbal communication such as dance, music, and architecture, various signs are usually produced to express such interpersonal meanings. For example, people can enjoy different modalities of music according to the pitch, loudness, tone, and tempo of the sound. In the same way, many interpersonal meanings can be found in towntextures, especially in their substantial stratum. The form, scale, color, texture, and material of towntextures often express the intentionality of a text. The magnificent form of udatsu in Unno and Waki appears as a sign to show the self-confi­ dence of inhabitants who contributed to the prosperity of the city. As well, we can find formal transformations in details, such as the slight curve of a roof and the exaggeration of an ornament. Such transformations corre­ spond to a dialect of language, and display the disposition of the inhabit­ ants. (iii) Ideational meaning. The ideational component of meaning accounts for the underlying content of an utterance. It includes the expe­ riential sub-component which refers to all types of processes, qualities, par­ ticipating entities, and circumstances, and the logical sub-component which handles their logical relations. This kind of meaning is usually considered as the symbolic meaning based on habit or law. Indeed, manifold ideational meanings can be found in traditional towntextures. For example, the color of the wall of the second story of a house in Waki is often deep blue, and it signifies the local traditional indus­ try, that is, the production and marketing of indigo; kemuridashi (a ven­ tilating device) in Unno is also a sign which signifies the previous indus­ try of rearing silkworms (informativity); when a roof is realized as a special form to keep out the strong wind and rain, it appears as a sign to signify the climate of a district which is often struck by typhoons (situationality); the

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dozou construction (a kind of fireproofing construction) of Kawagoe (Saitama Prefecture) is a replica of the magnificent dozou construction in Nihonbashi, a commercial district of Edo which was traditional Tokyo (intertextuality). The ideational meanings will be usually grasped as semantic rules, and we can gain a great deal of knowledge about the fascinating towntextures. 27 By developing a text analysis, a system network of meanings and mo­ dalities of traditional towntextures of Japan can be constructed like linguistic texts. Here we will investigate these meanings in a townscape of Waki by drawing various towntextures which appear depending on the viewpoint. Figure 8 illustrates the simulation of towntextures by means of our compu­ ter graphic system. This simulation displays that even an architectural ele­ ment like udatsu often appears as a polysemic sign which signifies different meanings. In scene (3), udatsu appears as a rhythm maker in its sequence; in scene (4), it appears as a symbolic sign to signify the social and economic status of the house; in scene (5), its shape appeals to the eye; in the final scene, we can moreover find the similarity between the silhouette of udatsu and that of the house. Different strata of the architectural sign appear depending on the viewpoint. SITUATION stratum is dominant in scene (3); FORM stratum in scene (4); SUBSTANCE stratum in scene (5). Accordingly, numerous meanings can be found in a towntexture. A part of the system network of those meanings is also illustrated in Figure 8. It is thus necessary to construct a dialogue system in order to read meanings and modalities of towntextures. To that end, the idea of a pro­ duction system is useful in this research. It is a kind of knowledge proces­ sing system based on production rules. Each production rule has a formula which is composed of IF-part and THEN-part. 28 In the text analysis of towntextures, we describe the formal properties in IF-part and various meanings and modalities in THEN-part to construct a kind of semantic code. It is also implemented by LISP language, because it can be rep­ resented as the following list: (rule 1 (if ((>house) has udatsu) (then ((I1

(Rule meaning4 (If ((> IE) has Udatsu)) (Then ((< IE) has a function to keep out wind or snow) ((< IE) has a function to arrest the spread of fire) ((< IE) is rich and symbolic)))

(Rule meaningl says (IE-1 has nostalgic feeling)) (Rule meaning4 says (IE-1 has a function to keep out wind or snow)) (Rule meaning4 says (IE-1 has a function to arrest the spread of fire)) (Rule meaning4 says (IE-1 is rich and symbolic)) (Rule meaning7 says (IE-1 looks like human face))

(Rule meaning7 (If ((> IE) has Udatsu)) ((< IE) is symmetry)) (Then ((< IE) looks like human face))) (Rule meaning8 (If ((> IE) extends in horizontal direction)) (Then ((< IE) has relaxed feeling))) > (RBS) *** RBS (Rule-Based-System) is the dialogue system for inferences based on production rules. *** WelcometoRBS!! *** Please select the rule! R1.Identify R2. Meaning >R2 Which house are you interested in? IE-1 IE-2 IE-3 IE-4 IE-5 IE-6 IE-7 IE-8 >IE-1 Please tell me the feature. > (Tsumairi) More (Y/N) ? Y > (Udatsu) More (Y/N) ? Y > (Symmetry) More (Y/N) ? Y Dou you want to survey another house (Y/N) ? >N The given facts are (IE-1 is Symmetry) (IE-1 has Udatsu) (IE-1 is Tsumairi) OK (Y/N) ? Y

> (How '(IE-1 is rich and symbolic)) ((IE-1 is rich and symbolic) demonstrated by) (IE-1 has Udatsu) T > (Why (IE-1 has Udatsu)) ((IE-1 has Udatsu) is needed to show) (IE-1 looks like human face) ((IE-1 has Udatsu) is needed to show) (IE-1 has a function to keep out wind or snow) (IE-1 has a function to arrest the spread of fire) (IE-1 is rich and symbolic) T Please select the inference! I1. forward-chaining 12. backward-chaining >I2 Tell me the hypothsis! ? (IE-1 has relaxed feeling) More (Y/N) ? Y ? (IE-1 looks like human face) More (Y/N) ? N The hypotheses are (IE-1 has relaxed feeling) (IE-1 looks like human face) OK (Y/N) ? Y Is this true: (IE-1 extends in horizontal direction) >No Is this true: (IE-1 has Udatsu) >Yes Is this true: (IE-1 is Symmetry) > Yes (Rule meaning7 says (IE-1 looks like human face)) Hypotheses (IE-1 looks like human face) is true.

Figure 9. Text analysis by production system A great deal of knowledge is represented as a production rule. It is described as a formula of "if then ," and superior in the respect of its modularity. This is a fragment of the dialogue with the towntexture given in Figure 8 based on the listed pro­ duction rules. ("IE" in Japanese means a house.)

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Generally speaking, ideational meanings can be easily translated into production rules, but it is not so easy to construct such rules in the case of textual meanings and interpersonal meanings which are often dependent on the pragmatic dimension. However, if these semantic rules are accumu­ lated, it is expected that the secret of the beauty of towntextures in Japan can be appreciated by means of this dialogue system. Figure 9 illustrates the fragment of dialogue with towntextures. This research develops the text analysis to investigate the meanings of towntextures from microstructure to macrostructure. It is, however, dif­ ficult to grasp the global meaning, such as atmosphere, identity, and 'Genius Loci' (the spirit of place). This interesting task will be the very important theme of semiotic research in the future. 5.

Concluding remarks: semiosis in architecture

In this research, the multi-modal semiosis of towntextures have been revealed by the semiotic analysis based on the Systemic Code: (1) A townscape can appear as various towntextures according to the code. For example, its element appears as a triangle, a ship, or a roof, and each time it becomes a different sign. (2) A towntexture forms a text composed of numerous signs. We can find not only meanings of the signs but also global meanings of the text. These aspects of semiosis can be investigated respectively by scene analysis and text analysis. Here it must be pointed out that the semiotic analysis depends on the code by means of which we observe a townscape. Nelson Goodman said the following on this respect: "A world may be unmanageably heterogenous or unbearably monotonous according to how events are sorted into kinds." 29 The Systemic Code is a hypothesis which has been constructed by inves­ tigating various towntextures in Japan. We want to construct a more evolved code after the semiotic analysis of 200 townscapes, and to develop the theoretical framework of architectural semiotics. As shown in section 3 and section 4, various properties can be found through the semiotic analysis in the traditional towntextures of Japan: (1) There is a very sophisticated mechanism which generates fascinat­ ing towntextures by forming the network of similarities and differences (see Figure 5-7). (2) Multi-modal semiosis can appear based on such a mechanism. It is

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amplified by the context such as light, air, climate, season, topography, viewpoint, etc. The context takes a very important role in the realization of towntextures in Japan (see Figures 8-9). In this way, this research has developed various methods of semiotic analysis, including artificial intelligence techniques, and clarified some properties of multi-modal semiosis of towntextures in Japan. As well, we can also apply this semiotic research to the conservation, renewal, and for­ mation of townscapes. At that time the computational dialogue system will be helpful for investigating the properties of a townscape, and for designing a new townscape based on this multi-modal semiosis.

Notes 1.

Architectural semiosis can be differentiated into three strata; Perceptual [P], For­ mal [F], and Topological [T] stratum. Various approaches to architectural semiosis are classified by means of focusing on these strata [[P]-Hesselgren (1972), Lynch (1960); [F]-Prak (1968), Eco (1972), Preziosi (1979a, 1979b); [T]-Groupe 107 (1973), Boudon (1977)].

2.

Since 1980, I have been studying the semiosis of traditional towntextures in Japan, and have published many papers about this study such as Monnai (1981; 1982), Monnai et al. (1981-1988).

3.

Nelson Goodman has distinguished a "physicalistic" (physical) system and a "phenomenalistic" system (Goodman 1953). Since a white wall can be seen as a red wall at sunset, it is difficult to discriminate both systems exactly. In this research, I want to develop a phenomenalistic viewpoint. Therefore I call it "towntexture."

4.

These categories have been devised from his phenomenology and are considered as the basis of his semiotic theory (Peirce 1965). They are very fruitful in revealing multi-modal semiosis in architecture. "CP" is the abbreviation of "Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce" and the numbers, such as 8.328, corresponds to the paragraph number of CP (This is a conventional notation).

5.

As generally known, "signifier" is a semiotic term coined by Ferdinand de Saus­ sure. It appears that R. Barthes was interested in the semiosis of firstness (Barthes 1971).

6.

U. Eco has discriminated between an open text and a closed text from his interest­ ing text theory (Eco 1979).

7.

Various meanings are generated through the active role of readers or users which is very important in the semiosis of open text (also see Eco 1979).

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8.

B. Rudofsky describes, "All times, and long before people's actions and emotions were exhibited against payment on the stage, the street itself has been the great world theater" (Rudofsky 1969).

9.

One of the aims of the Art Nouveau Movement was not only to make organic forms but also to ornament streets with various works of art (Russel 1979).

10.

G.R. Blomeyer has studied the architectural system based on the semiotics of C.S. Peirce and M. Bense (Blomeyer 1978). Various symbolic devices have been found in Nazi architecture. For example, rays of searchlights around the "Zeppe­ lin Feld" looked like "columns of a cathedral."

11.

Each region is considered as a polygon in a computer system, and the coordinate data are input by means of a digitizer. This computer graphic system used to draw towntexture is implemented by FORTRAN 77 language (on FACOM M-380 sys­ tem).

12.

Systemic Grammar (SG) is one of the most powerful and flexible mechanisms used to understand linguistic semiosis. The following terminology used in Sys­ temic Code (SC) is based on SG; stratum, rank, unit, structure, and system. (Halliday 1978; Halliday et al. 1981; Berry 1975, 1977).

13.

As the delicacy of the network changes according to the knowledge of the reader, the system network is open-ended and any system can be added or deleted. SC is very flexible. Therefore it is applied to the study of children's language acquisi­ tion. As well, in the field of artificial intelligence, a system of natural language processing has been constructed based on SG (Winograd 1972).

14.

In the field of computer vision, the stages of image understanding are as follows: 1) Segmentation into Regions; 2) Regional Descriptions; 3) Relational Descrip­ tions. (Hall 1979).

15.

This 'inside-of' relation is a kind of topological relation. It is often adopted to understand the scene in the field of computer vision (Ballard et al. 1982).

16.

M. Krampen discussed objective differences between styles, and especially focused on the information measurement of facades: "In advancing the concept of supersign formation by combination of facade elements into increasingly simpler grouping on the facade, Kiemle showed that the amount of information decreases with supersign formation" (Krampen 1979).

17.

This system of scene analysis is implemented both by FORTRAN 77 language and BASIC language. These matrices can be also used to execute various semiotic analyses such as "Componential Analysis" and "Conceptual Clustering." More­ over, we have developed "Morphological Analysis" techniques. The silhouette of towntextures has been analyzed by various mathematical measures ("curvature," "fractal dimension" etc.). (Monnai et al. 1981-1988).

18.

R.L. Klatzky et al. discriminate S-category and D-category to show the similarity and dissimilarity between two pictures (R.L. Klatzki and A.M. Stoy 1978). In the field of Text Theory, this discrimination is included under the textuality of COHESION.

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19.

M. Minsky explains about the idea of FRAME as follows. "When one encounters a new situation (or makes a substantial change in one's view of the present prob­ lem) one selects from memory a substantial structure called a frame. This is a remembered framework to be adapted to fit reality by changing details as neces­ sary" (Minsky 1974). This concept of frame corresponds to the concept of scheme studied in the gestalt psychology. In terms of frames, we can implement common sense, and thereby predict future events.

20.

In general, a frame can be represented as the following list formula (Winston 1984): ( ( ( ) ( ) ( ( ) ) ). This system is constructed based on FRP (Frame Representation Language) (Roberts 1977), and implemented by UTILISP (University of Tokyo Interactive LISt Processor) language (on FACOM M-380 system). Thus there are many func­ tions for the dialogue with towntextures; FGET (fetches information), FPUT (places information), FREMOVE (removes information), etc. Especially, "de­ faults," "demons," and "inheritance" are very interesting functions of a frame sys­ tem (for the details of this discussion, see Winston 1984).

21.

22.

"Macrostructures are theoretically relevant especially or only for complex and hypercomplex information, such as discourse, action, sentences, complex think­ ing, and problem solving, complex visions of scenes and episodes or their rep­ resentations [...]" (van Dijk 1977).

23.

"Cohesion concerns the way in which the component of the surface text are mutu­ ally connected within a sequence; coherence concerns the ways in which the com­ ponents of the textual world are mutually accessible and relevant; intentionality concerns the textual producer's attitude; acceptability concerns the text receiver's attitude; informativity concerns the ways in which the occurrences of the pre­ sented text are expected vs. unexpected, or known vs. unknown; situationality concerns the factors which make a text relevant to a situation of occurence; intertextuality concerns the factors which make the utilization of one text dependent upon knowledge of one or more previously encountered texts" (R. de Beaugrande and W. Dressier 1981).

24.

"Iconic frame systems are constituted by architecture in the sense that they divide the environment into sections, or more precisely, separate exterior from interior space, which forms habitual units. We can thus also call architectural frame sys­ tems 'habitation systems.' All energetic, anthropological or informational trans­ portation systems function as indexical, directional systems by connecting the iconic habitation systems, i.e. by making them accessible so that we will refer to them as 'access syterns.' Finally the selective systems designate the architectural objects systems symbolically with metric specifications that definitely determine individual size and proportions, hence 'metric systems'" (G.R. Blomeyer and R.M. Helmholz 1976).

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25.

Systemic Grammar is a kind of text grammar which can investigate the macrostructural level of text. Manifold meanings have been studied in this theoretical framework. Therefore it is suitable to grasp the multi-modal semiosis of towntextures. (Berry 1977; Halliday 1978; Morley 1985).

26.

It is well-known that at least three kinds of acts can be found in an utterance in the light of the speech act theory: (1) uttering of words; (2) referring and predicating; (3) stating, questioning, commanding, promising, etc. The illocutionary force is the meaning in act (3), which is discriminated from the propositional meaning in act (2). (Searle 1969; K. Bach et al. 1979).

27.

For example, Geoffrey Broadbent has detected the following four deep structures in architecture: (1) the building as container for human activities; (2) the building as modifier of the given climate; (3) the building as cultural symbol; (4) the build­ ing as consumer of resources. (G. Broadbent 1974).

28.

The production system is considered in the problem-solving paradigms. In gen­ eral, a production rule can be represented as follows: ( ( () () ) ( () () )). There are two strategies in the inference; forward-chaining, backward-chaining. In forward-chain strategy, first the matching of facts and conditions are investi­ gated, and then actions are activated; in backward-chaining, first a hypothesis is constructed, second the matching of the hypothesis and actions are investigated, then rules are found by investigating whether conditions are true or false. (Winston 1984).

29.

N. Goodman asserts that the world is not already given but constructed by our semiotic acts, and discusses the "ways of worldmaking" (Goodman 1978). This idea is very suggestive in our semiotic research based on C.S. Peirce's semiotics.

Glossary of Japanese Architectural Language dashigeta:

dozou: gangi: hirairi: irimoya: kabuto: kemuridashi:

a girder on a bracket or cantilever beam which was necessary to sup­ port the rafters or to make a corridor in the farm house rearing silkworms. a kind of fireproof construction which has a wooden skeleton and mud wall a kind of passage which is created by the extension of the roof com­ mon in the snowy district a kind of building type which has an entrance in the side parallel to a ridge of the roof a gable roof; a half-hip roof a roof in the shape of a helmet a fennel; an opening for emitting smoke or ventilating an attic space

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kirizuma: komayose:

a gable roof a fence made of bamboo grille, which is set between house and road. It is often in the shape of a circular arc. koshi: a grille ; a famous element in the traditional folk architecture of Japan noki: eaves okabe: a kind of wooden construction whose columns, plastered with mud, cannot be seen in the external wall shinkabe: a kind of wooden construction, whose columns appear in the external wall shogi: a built-in bench attached to the facade sudare: a bamboo blind tsumairi: a kind of building type which has an entrance in the gable side tsumakazari: an ornament on the gable udatsu/sodekabe: sodekabe is a wing wall; udatsu is a wing wall with a small roof. They are used to keep out wind or snow, to arrest the spread of fire, and often symbolize the social and economic status of the inhabitants. yosemune: a hip roof

References Bach, K. & R.M. Harnish, 1979. Linguistic Communication and Speech Acts. Cam­ bridge: The MIT Press. Ballard, D.H. and C M . Brown. 1982. Computer Vision. Englewood Cliffs: PrenticeHall Inc. Barthes, R. 1976. "Semiotik und Urbanismus." Konzept 3 — Die Stadt als Text. Tübingen: Verlag Ernst Wasmuth. de Beaugrande, R. and W. Dressier. 1981. Introduction to Text Linguistics. New York: Longman. Bense, M. 1969. Einfilhrung in die Informationstheoretische Ästhetik — Grundlegung und Anwendung in der Texttheorie. Hamburg: Rowohlt. Berry, M. 1975. Introduction to Systemic Linguistics — 1. Structures and Systems. Lon­ don: Batsford. . 1977. Introduction to Systemic Linguistics — 2. Levels and Links. London: Batsford. Bloomeyer, G.R. and R.M. Helmholtz. 1976. "Semiotic in Architecture: A Classifying Analysis of an Architectural Object." Semiosis 1:42-51. Blomeyer, G.R. 1978. "Materialized Ideology — A Semiotic Analysis of Monumental Nazi Architecture," Ars Semeiotica 3:73-106. Boudon, P. 1977. "Un modèle de la cité grecque." Communications 27:122-167. Broadbent, G. 1974. "The Deep Structure of Architecture." Signs, Symbols, and Architecture, ed. by G. Broadbent, R. Bundt, and C. Jencks. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. van Dijk, T. A. 1977. Text and Context. London: Longman.

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. 1980. Macrostructures. Hillsdale: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Eco, U. 1972. "A Componential Analysis of the Architectural Sign /Column/." Semiotica Vol.5,2. . 1979. The Role of the Reader. Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press. Fu, K.S., ed., 1976. Digital Pattern Recognition. Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Goodman, N. 1953, repr. in 1977. The Structure of Appearance. Dordrecht: D. Reidel. . 1978. Ways of Worldmaking. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company. Groupe 107. Hammad, M. et al. 1973. Semiotique des plans en architecture. Mimeo­ graphed. Paris. Halliday, M.A.K. 1978. Language as Social Semiotic — The Social Interpretation of Lan­ guage and Meaning. London: Edward Arnold. Halliday, M.A.K. & J.R. Martin, eds. 1981. Readings in Systemic Linguistics. London: Batsford Academic. Hall, E.L. 1979. Computer Image Processing and Recognition. New York: Academic Press. Hesselgren, S. 1972. The Language of Architecture. London: Applied Science. Krampen, M. 1979. "Survey on Current Work in Semiology of Architecture." A Semiotic Landscape, ed. by S. Chatman et al. The Hague: Mouton. Klatzky, R.L. and A.M. Stoy. 1978. Semantic Information and Visual Information Pro­ cessing — Semantic Factors in Cognition. Hillsdale: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Minsky, M. 1975. "A Framework for Representing Knowledge." The Psychology of Computer Vision, ed. by P.H. Winston. New York: McGraw-Hill. Monnai, T. 1981. "Semiosis in Architecture — A Semiotic Analysis of Traditional Towntextures in Japan." Studia Semiotica 1:239-258, ed. by The Japanese Associa­ tion for Semiotic Studies. Tokyo: Hokuto Shuppan. . 1982. "Performance in Urban Space — A Systemic Analysis of Traditional Towntextures in Japan." Studia Semiotica 2:135-158, ed. by The Japanese Associa­ tion for Semiotic Studies. Tokyo: Hokuto Shuppan. Monnai, T. et al. 1981-1988. "The Semiotic Analysis of Traditional Towntextures in Japan (No.1-19)." Tokyo: The Architectural Institute of Japan. Morlay, G.D. 1985. An Introduction to Systemic Grammar. London: Macmillan. Morris, C. 1938. Foundations of the Theory of Signs. Chicago: The Univ. of Chicago Press. O'Toole, L.M. 1980. "Dimensions of Semiotic Space in Narrative Structure." Poetics Today, Vol.1,4:135-149. Peirce, C.S. 1965. Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press. Prak, N.L. 1968. The Language of Architecture. The Hague: Mouton. Preziosi, D. 1979a. The Semiotics of the Built Environment. Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press. — . 1979b. Architecture, Language, and Meaning. The Hague: Mouton. Roberts, R.B. 1977. The FRL Primer, Al Memo 408. Cambridge: MIT Artificial Intelli­ gence Laboratory. Russel, F., ed. 1979. Art Nouveau Architecture. London: Academy Editions. Rudofsky, B. 1969. Streets for People. New York: Doubleday.

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Searle, J.R. 1969. Speech Acts — An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. London: Cambridge Univ. Press. Winograd, T. 1972. Understanding Natural Language. New York: Academic Press. Winston, P.H. 1984. Artificial Intelligence. Massachusetts: Addison-Wesley. (Second edition). Winston, P.H. & B.K.P. Horn. 1984. LISP. Massachusetts: Addison-Wesley. (Second edition). Zevi, B. 1978. The Modern Language of Architecture. Seattle: Univ. of Washington Press.

Intertextuality in Japanese Traditional Music Yoshihiko Tokumaru

1.

Octopus traps and the vertical society

Japanese people are particularly sensitive to differences between their own and foreign cultures. In the field of music, foreign has referred to music of the West since it reached Japan a century ago. It is only recently that the Japanese began to pay serious attention to the musical styles of Asian coun­ tries, but specialists outside the field of music have not yet become fully acquainted with the musicological researches conducted in this area. It is partly for this reason that the theories discussed here are mostly concerned with cultural differences between Japan and the West rather than between Japan and other Asian countries. One of the most interesting metaphors used to compare Japanese and western cultural behavior is based on the contrast between the structural make-up of octopus traps and fans, as proposed by Masao Maruyama (Maruyama 1961:129-151). The meaning of this metaphor may be sum­ marized as follows: Japanese behavior is likened to the way octopus traps are arranged. In order to catch octopuses, we have to set many clay pots into the sea. We lift the claypots one by one after the octopuses have entered them. Although many pots are set in the sea, there is no structural connection between these pots. Maruyama also states that in marked con­ trast to this Japanese mode of behavior, cultural behaviors in the western world are connected in a fundamental way, even though on the surface they appear totally unconnected. In this sense various forms of western behavior are compared to the structure of a fan, of which the edges are all connected at the bottom. Even though Maruyama does not cite any specific art forms which illustrate this theory except for general references to Japanese social and academic organizations, it also applies to the subject of music. The different genres exist the way octopus traps are set in the sea.

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Maruyama's metaphor fits in well with Chie Nakane's theory about Japanese social organization. She distinguishes two basic principles in the formation of social groups: attribute and frame (Nakane 1973:1-8). Take for instance a university; a university contains many people of different attributes: the president, the dean, and the students, they all function in roles which Nakane qualifies as attributes. If students, for example, organize an inter-collegiate association, it will be considered a social group formed on the attribute of being a student. In contrast to this, according to the frame principle, a university can be thought of as a social group based upon the frame. My own university, for instance, can be viewed as one indi­ vidual unit, separate from other universities. According to Nakane's theory, Japanese society consists of social groups which are formed in terms of frame, while western societies tend to be formed in terms of attribute. She labels Japanese society as vertical. Members of a vertical society tend to be loyal only to the frame-based group to which they belong. Both of these theories contribute to the understanding of certain aspects of Japanese culture and society. Particularly in the area of music, two important aspects of musical behavior can be more clearly understood when viewed from the perspective of these theories. One of these aspects is the simultaneous existence of different musical genres and the other is the fact that individual musicians tend to form groups, or sub-groups, in order to wield more influence. Both of these phenomena can be explained in terms of Maruyama's octopus trap theory and Nakane's vertical society theory. The first point, the simultaneous existence of different musical genres in Japan, refers to the historical fact that traditional forms were not replaced by newer forms, but rather the former survived and coexisted with the latter. Thus, gagaku and syômyô, have been performed since the seventh century and the eighth century respectively, without interruption, or replacement by later medieval and modern art forms such as no theater, kabuki and bunraku. In contrast to the West, which for instance has seen the revival of baroque music, old Japanese musical traditions never experi­ enced such a revival because of their continuation to this day. In other words, the simultaneous existence of musica antiqua and musica nova alerted musicians to many different styles. It is due to this awareness that traditional musicians, even today, accept other genres. The music of an individual musician which is not appreciated by others may meet accep­ tance if his or her style is reinterpreted as belonging to a genre or a group.

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The habit of forming groups or sub-groups by musicians can be easily understood in this connection. The style of a musician which originates on the personal level may be recognized as a new art form or genre when it has the support of other musicians. This can be explained differently: a per­ sonal approach in music becomes a style when it is performed by a group of musicians and acknowledged as a 'different' style by musicians of other groups. Take for instance the music of bunraku, which was started by a crea­ tive musician called Takemoto Gidayû. He wrote in a preface to his col­ lected works in 1687 about the development of his own style. "Of all the musical pieces that came to my ears during my childhood, I carefully col­ lected and arranged my favorite phrases, then I developed them into my own style which I have performed as well as taught my disciples to perform" (Takemoto Gidayû 1687, reprinted in Geinôsi kenkûkai 1975:131. Transla­ tion by Tokumaru). Thus, by making explicit the difference between his own style and those of his predecessors, Gidayû succeeded in forming his own group and consequently in transmitting his style to this day. After Takemoto Gidayû, many creative musicians followed in this group. They preferred to adhere to the gidayûbusi style rather than forming other new groups or sub-groups. Later musicians, in order to break away from the ordinary gidayûbusi style, had to use 'discordant' and conspicuous elements in their performance. These elements are generally called 'hû' (manners or ways) and labeled after the names of the musicians who introduced them. In contrast to gidayûbusi, in other genres of syamisen1 music, different groups or sub-groups formed more easily. The following chart (based mainly upon Matida 1978) shows the different genres which branched out from ittyûbusi, the single narrative genre of syamisen music, a contempo­ rary genre of gidayûbusi. Figure 1 indicates that most genres have been performed without inter­ ruption to this day by their respective groups of musicians. Bungobusi is the exception to the rule for it dissolved into different genres, each of which represents only a facet of the original style which was too conspicuous for this sensuousness and exaggerated expression. Besides bungobusi there are no examples of new styles which abolished preceding styles. Although it must be said that during the formation of kiyomotobusi, (see Figure 1), antecedent genres were suppressed in terms of the number of performances in the kabuki theater as well as performances by amateurs, and were not absorbed into kiyomotobusi. But on the whole practically all the different

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Figure 1: Ramifications and co-existence of different styles styles enjoyed peaceful coexistence. Figure 1 emphasizes the interdepen­ dence as well as the independence between, for instance, ittyûbusi and kiyomotobusi, the oldest and the latest style of the chart. Examples la and lb (transcription by Tokumaru — the first accord in the parentheses indicates the tuning) will show this interdependence. Both are considered to be identical in terms of their melodic contour as well as their function of inaugurating a piece.

Example la: An opening pattern of ittyûbusi

Example lb: An opening pattern of kiyomotobusi

INTERTEXTUALITY IN JAPANESE TRADITIONAL MUSIC

143

The only difference between them is made by the use and non-use of the sliding movement of the index finger from D to Bb in this transcription. The authentic ittyûbusi style considers this sliding technique as an unwanted element. In kiyomotobusi, however, this sliding technique became an indis­ pensable element, for it added an essential soft flavor to the style. Thanks to the slide in kiyomotobusi, ittyûbusi is recognized as the authentic style with a long tradition. Equally, it is thanks to the archaic character of ittyûbusi that kiyomotobusi appeals to larger audience than ittyûbusi. In short, both need each other in order to be acknowledged as characteristic styles. 2.

The style of 'syamisen' music in general

It should be noted here again that these characteristics are not of an indi­ vidual nature. They are shared by the musicians of the same schools and to that extent can qualify as a group characteristic, the differences among the individual performances being very subtle and difficult to discriminate. In order to consider this problem I will limit my research to the music of the syamisen including that of bunraku, that is gidayûbusi, which Roland Barthes discussed (Barthes 1977:170-178; 1982:48-62). The syamisen is a Japanese three-stringed plucked lute. In the midl6th century the prototype of this instrument was introduced to mainland Japan from China, via the Okinawan archipelago. Already in the 17th cen­ tury this instrument underwent a process of 'japanization' on the mainland which resulted in a larger instrument than the Okinawan one. Along with the formation of different styles in mainland Japan, the instrument as well as the plectrum changed in certain details. In other words, each style created a syamisen which produced the sonority appropriate to that style. The variables determining the sonority of the syamisen may be sum­ marized as follows: (1) the weight of the bridge; (2) the height of the bridge; (3) the thickness of the strings; (4) the weight, form and material of the plectrum; (5) the pitch of the open strings; and (6) the amount of sawari, the buzzing sound of the syamisen caused by the slight rubbing of the first, that is the lowest and thickest string against the surface of the neck (concrete data concerning these organological characteristics are given in Tokumaru 1981:18-21; 1977:91-93; 1987:15-17). Although different types of syamisen differ in terms of sonority, they have an important feature in common. This is the tonal structure, namely

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the system concerning the use of pitches. For instance, the tuning systems which determine the tonal system of string instruments like syamisen are commonly used across the different styles. The most important and most frequently used tuning systems are the following: 1. hontyôsi (basic tuning) a 4th plus a 5th; 2. niagari (the 2nd string raised) a 5th plus a 4th; and 3. sansagari (the 3rd string lowered) a 4th plus a 4th. As this is not the place to give a comprehensive description of the tonal systems of syamisen music, I shall limit myself to the following points: 1. pitches used in this music tend to be based upon latent units (terminology by Tokumaru), each of which consists of a frame of two nuclear tones a 4th apart; 2. this frame may include two latent intermediate tones; 3. the positions of the intermediate tones are a minor 2nd above the lower nuclear tone and a major 2nd below the upper nuclear tone; 4. these units can be combined conjunctively, that is using one nuclear tone in concert as well as disjunctively, that is, juxtapos­ ing two units a major 2nd apart; and 5. consequently, the idea of repetition of an octave scale is not relevant to this style. To give some examples, the following melodic sequences are observed frequently regardless of the styles: (when the mi is a nuclear tone) si-la-fa-mi; mi-do-si; re-mi; etc. (Concerning the tonal system of this music, see Tokumaru 1980 and con­ cerning its relation with bodily movement, see Tokumary 1986.) 3.

Intra-stylistic intertextuality

As mentioned in the previous section, every style of syamisen music has its own characteristic sonority. This is mainly the result of the combination of such variables as the bridge, the plectrum, etc. Apart from these variables, however, every style can be recognized by its melodic patterns. The number of patterns differs from one style to another. In the case of gidayûbusi, for instance, we can enumerate several hundred patterns, while in other genres fifty or more patterns can be recognized. Musicians of syamisen music have composed an indefinite number of pieces by combining a number of those melodic patterns. Consequently one pattern was used for different texts. Examples 2a (transcribed from the trad­ itional notation, Yosizumi 1966:1) and 2b (Yosizumi 1965:1) will show that a single pattern (named zyo in nagautd) is combined with different texts. In example 2a, the text is about a brave samurai Soga no Gorô, while example 2b is about the history of a temple.

INTERTEXTUALITY IN JAPANESE TRADITIONAL MUSIC

Example 2a: Zyo in nagauta: Gotô

145

Tokimune

Example 2b: Zyuo in nagauta: Kisyû-dôzyôzi The sole function of the zyo pattern is to open a piece or a section of a piece. Because of its clear functional nature these patterns will be called syntactic patterns. Every style possesses a set of syntactic patterns such as those for opening or closing a piece or section, etc. Some patterns function as indicators of vocal registers. Examples 3a (transcription by Tokumaru) and 3b (transcription by Tokumaru and

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Example 3a: Haru in ittyûbusi: Koharu kamiyui no dan

Example 3b: Haru in ittyûbusi: Tatumi no siki Matida 1982:301) are transcriptions of a melodic pattern of ittyûbusi called haru, referring to the high vocal register. The text of Example 3a reads "it is not enough give up your lover (you should wait for the future)," while Example 3b reads "cherry blossoms are like snow." While they are semantically different, the two examples share a similar degree of tension in musi­ cal expression.

INTERTEXTUALITY IN JAPANESE TRADITIONAL MUSIC

147

There are also patterns which point to such extra-musical things as snow, waves of the river, a boat moving in the river, countryside, palace, temple, etc. Regardless of the types of melodic patterns, they should not be taken for musical quotation. They do not belong to any particular piece. On the contrary they are common 'vocabularies,' which adapt to different styles. In other words, when we listen to Example 2a, we should identify the melody as the zyo pattern. It is not important here whether we know its name or not, but we should recognize it as one of the common patterns in this style. We have to relate the different pieces in terms of such patterns. By borrowing the term intertextuality of Riffaterre (for instance, 1978:109, etc., 1983:232) and Kristeva (1969:146), I should like to classify this process as intra-stylistic intertextuality. This type of intertextuality occurs on the cog­ nitive level as well as on the neutral level of musical works. In the case of syamisen music it seems that the restricted number of melodic patterns is compensated for by this process, which relates pieces in the network con­ sisting of the unrestricted number of pieces. 4.

Inter-stylistic intertextuality

Another compensatory process in syamisen music is the use of melodic pat­ terns across stylistic barriers. It means that a piece of nagauta borrows a melodic pattern from ittyûbusi. This is one example of musical quotation. In order to clarify this discussion we should first consider the various definitions of musical quotation. A helpful definition is given by the Polish musicologist Zofia Lissa: "utilization of pre-existing literary and musical phrases (antefacta) in a context which differs from the original one" (Lissa 1970:674; 1976:19, translated by Tokumaru). This definition is too general, for it includes marginal phenomena like phrases which fall in between the categories of quotation and non-quotation. There are, for instance, varia­ tions on a quoted theme, transcriptions from one instrument to another, and synchronic juxtapositions of musical elements. In syamisen music these musical practices are not considered as musical quotations, so it is necessary to delimitate Lissa's definition of musical quotation. The additional condi­ tion to Lissa's definition that I should like to propose can be formulated as follows: the antefacta of quotations are recognized as quotations if, and only if, they are diachronically isolated from their adjacent parts. Accord­ ing to this condition, variation on a theme, for instance, is excluded from

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the definition of quotation, as its antefactum (a borrowed theme) is ubiqui­ tous in the quoting piece and cannot be isolated in the flow of the time. As far as the classification of musical quotations is concerned several attempts have been made by various researchers. Each of these classificatory systems, however, seems to be strongly bound to a certain musical style. Although categories such as Fremdzitat (quotation of other com­ poser's music) and Selbstzitat (quotation of his/her own works) may be use­ ful in contemporary music (Kühn 1972:15), they are not so in syamisen music, for it would mean that practically all examples in this music end up in the category of Fremdzitat, not Selbstzitat. Consequently, the classification that I propose is specifically geared to syamisen music. It is based upon two different criteria. The first criterion concerns the relations between quotations and their antefacta. There are three cases: A. Quotation of a specific work of art; B. Quotation of independent melodic patterns which belong to a style dif­ ferent from the style of the work which quotes it; C. Quotation of stylistic features other than independent melodic pat­ terns. The second criterion concerns the signification of quotation. There are also three cases: D. To transmit designative meanings specific to the antefacta; E. To introduce idiosyncratic attributes proper to the style of the antefacta; F. To cause syntactic changes. Every occurrence of quotation in syamisen music is interpreted and represented in terms of a combination of two cases, one from the first criterion and another from the second criterion, as shown in the Figure 2. Of the above mentioned nine types I would like to pay careful atten­ tion to types AD and BE in particular. Offenbach's parodic use (in his Orphée aux enfers or Orpheus in the Underworld) of Gluck's opera aria Che faro senza Euridice (from his opera Orfeo ed Euridice) is one of the most frequently mentioned quotations and considered a typical example of the AD type. The vigorous connectedness between pieces and composers in western music may have yielded many examples of the AD type. In syami­ sen music, where the intra-stylistic relation is dominant, quotations belong-

INTERTEXTUALITY IN JAPANESE TRADITIONAL MUSIC

criterion I

A

B

C

criterion II D

AD

BD

CD

E

AE

BE

CE

F

AF

BF

CF

149

Figure 2: Morphology and significance of quotations in syamisen music ing to the AD type do not appear frequently. If it appears, it is based upon the existence of unusually well-known individual pieces. Statistically speak­ ing, two pieces are very often used as antefacta for quotations. They are a piece called Rokudan (an instrumental piece for syamisen and/or koto) and another piece called Yuki (snow). The former was widely known because it was used to instruct amateur musicians of the syamisen and the koto. The latter became known when it was used in the kabuki and bunraku theaters as backgroud music for a snowy scene. Example 4 (transcription by Tokumaru) is an excerpt of an instrumental interlude of Yuki which designates the sound of a bell on a snowy evening.

Example 4: Yuki

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YOSHIHIKO TOKUMARU

Example 5 (Tokumaru 1981:186-187. The whole piece of Tuna yakata is transcribed in Tokumaru 1981:165-220 with a French translation of the literal text.) is an excerpt from a nagauta piece entitled Tuna yakata (Tuna's mansion) and contains a quotation based upon the previous melody belong­ ing to another style, that is ziuta. The following story may explain why the melody designating snow is quoted here. A brave samurai Watanabe no Tuna cuts off an arm of a demon in Kyoto. Afterwards, the demon goes to Tuna's mansion so as to retrieve it. Tuna refuses to open the gate, and so the demon transfigures himself into Tuna's aunt and says at the gate, "Tuna, Tuna, why don't you let me enter? Have you forgotten that I warmed you with a doubling quilt when it snowed?" The BE type fulfills a more important role than AD in syamisen music. The antefacta for the BE type are the styles anterior to syamisen music (no, biwa music, etc.), other styles of syamisen music, and urban and rural folk music. In the light of these facts the statement of gidayûbusi's founder which I mentioned in the section 1 makes sense: "[...] I carefully collected and arranged my favorite phrases, then I developed them into my own style [...]." The following example, entitled Husimi no sato no dan (a scene in Husimi) from a long drama entitled Genzi ebosiori (a genesis story of the samurai clan Genzi), composed by him and written by his companion libret­ tist Tikamatu Monzaemon shows how they used perceptively the process of quotation. The names in parentheses refer to the styles to which those melodic patterns belonged. Kosode no tuma no uagaiwo: the upper part of kimono (edo reizei) Sikine no toko to katasikase: she lays for mattress (edo reizei, continued) Kasa wo byôbu no hizi makura: stands her hat to prevent the wind and uses her own arm as a pillow (bun'ya) Mukasiwa suityô kôkei ni: however, in the former days she slept in a luxurious bedroom (hyôgu) Figure 3: Inter-stylistic intertextuality in gidayubusi 'Husimi no sato no dan'

INTERTEXTUALITY IN JAPANESE TRADITIONAL MUSIC

Example 5: Quotation of Yuki in nagauta Tuna yakata

151

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YOSHIHIKO TOKUMARU

Syamisen musicians never concealed the fact that their style included many quotations from other genres, as seen in this example. Syamisen players of gidayûbusi, for example, tend to write the names of patterns quoted from other styles along with those of patterns proper to gidayûbusi. Example 6 is actually based upon various transcriptions notated by various musicians. Due to the process of intertextuality even a short phrase of only a few notes can be integrated into a large text matrix of another style. It thus serves to interrelate a number of pieces with different styles. I would like to call this type of intertextuality an 'inter-stylistic' one. Although this is a type of quotation, it should be differentiated from the above-mentioned type of AD quotation. In inter-stylistic intertextuality it is irrelevant to associate the quoting piece with any particular piece, as it is theoretically impossible to identify a quoted piece. 5.

Intertextuality, group consciousness, vertical societies, octopus traps

For a musician in order to use quotations it is necessary to have knowledge of the music or style he wants to quote. If a musician adheres to a single style of music he will only be able to quote from his own style (the AD type of musical quotations or intra-stylistic intertextuality). Musicians who freely quote from other styles produce another type of intertextuality, that is interstylistic intertextuality. In this context the conscious use of intertextuality, especially the inter­ stylistic type, does not seem to validate the theories of the vertical society and the octopus traps. Although I was at first attracted to both theories, not only the process of intertextuality but also certain experiences made me suspicious of them. First of all, interviews with living masters of Japanese music, especially, with those who are qualified as 'national treasures,' revealed that many musicians learned other styles in addition to the style they perform profes­ sionally. Then, after a careful examination of personal histories of musi­ cians in the past, similar facts emerged. All of these explain why it was pos­ sible for musicians in the past and the present to produce intertextuality across the 'barriers of the vertical societies' (if any exist). They were and are actually interested in activities of other groups. They could and can learn, appreciate or at least recognize other styles. The activities of good amateurs seem to have enhanced musical inter-

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textuality. Even in the Edo period amateurs not only listened to but also practiced their favorite musical styles. In 1903, for instance, two German musicologists, Otto Abraham and Erich M. von Hornbostel, wrote about musical life in Japan as follows: In Japan, more than in Europe, music belongs to the people. With us, instrumental music is cultivated largely by the fairly affluent classes, while lower classes are satisfied with song for one or several voices. But in Japan, instrumental music finds special favor everywhere. It is said that every home has a koto or at least a shamisen [syamisen]. Every Japanese bride, even in poor circumstances, receives a koto and a shamisen as part of her dowry (Abraham & Hornbostel 1903 [1975:55]).

This high incidence of musica practica (cf. Barthes 1977:149-154) can still be witnessed today maintained until the present, although the Japanese instruments practiced in earlier times have been gradually replaced by the violin, and later by the piano. Evidently, widespread use of intertextuality in Japanese music is based upon the simultaneous existence of different styles. And the existence of different styles is enhanced by the group-oriented tendency of musicians which is reflected by Maruyama's octopus theory and Nakane's theory of the vertical society. However, in the case of music, intertextuality functions as a network relating musical styles and groups which otherwise never would have met each other.

Note 1.

Also spelled shamisen in the Hepburn system of romanising Japanese terms. In this paper, priority is given to the Nippon (government authorized) system. Ja, sha, fa, cha, and tsu in the Hepburn system are written respectively as zya, sya, ha, tya, and tu.

References Abraham, Otto and Erich Moritz von Hornbostel. 1903. "Studien über das Tonsystem und die Musik der Japaner." Sammelbande der Internationalen Musikgesellschaft 4:302-360. Reprinted with English translation as Abraham and Hornbostel 1975. . 1975. "Studien über das Tonsystem und die Musik der Japaner / Studies on the Tonsystem and Music of the Japanese." Translated by Gertrud Kurath. In Wachsmann, Christensen, Reinecke, eds., 1975:1-84.

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Barthes, Roland. 1977. Image-music-text. Translated by Stephen Heath. New York: Hill and Wang. . 1982. Empire of signs. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Hill and Wang. Geinôsi kenkyûkai, ed. 1975. Nihon syomin bunka siryô syûsei (A collection of materials for popular culture in Japan). Vol.7. Ningyô zyôruri (Music of puppet theater). Tôkyô: San'iti syobô. Greimas, Algirdas Julien et al., eds. 1970. Sign. Language. Culture. Den Haag (The Hague): Mouton. Koizumi, Fumio, Tokumaru, Yoshihiko and Yamaguchi, Osamu, eds. 1977. Asian Musics in an Asian Perspective. Tôkyo: Heibonsha. In collaboration with the Japan Foundation. Reprint, Tôkyo: Academia Music, 1983. Kristeva, Julia. 1969. Sêmeiôtikê: recherches pour une sémanalyse. Paris: Seuil. Kühn, Clemens. 1972. Das Zitat in der Musik der Gegenwart. Hamburg: Wagner. Lissa, Zofia. 1970. "Ästhetische Funktion des musikalischen Zitats." Greimas, et al. 1970:674-689. . 1976. "Fonctions esthétiques de la citation musicale." Translated by JeanJacques Nattiez. Versus 13:19-34. Maruyama, Masao. 1961. Nihon no sisô (Ideas of Japan). Tôkyô: Iwanami syoten. Matida, Kasyô. 1978. "Syamisen uta no oitati to sono uturikawari" ("The Birth and Change of Shamisen-songs and Ballads"). Tôyô ongaku gakkai 1978:93-225. . 1982. "Syamisen seikyoku ni okeru senritukei no kenkyû" ("A Study of Melodic Patterns in Japanese Vocal Styles Accompanied by the Shamisen"). Tôyô ongaku kenkyû (Journal of the Society for Research in Asiatic Music) 47(2): 1-416. Nakane, Chie. 1973. Japanese society. Revised edition. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin. Riffaterre, Michael. 1978. Semiotics of Poetry. Bloomington, Indiana & London: Indiana University Press. . 1983. Text production. Translated by Terese Lyons. New York: Columbia Uni­ versity Press. Takemoto, Gidayû. 1687. Zyôkyô yonen Gidayû dannmonosyû. Kyôto: Yamamoto Kyûbê. Modern edition in Geinôsi kenkyûkai ed. 1975:196-206. Tokumaru, Yoshihiko (Yosihiko). 1977. "Some Remarks on the Shamisen and its Music." Koizumi, Tokumaru, Yamaguchi, eds. 1977:90-99. . 1980. "Le mouvement mélodique et le système tonal de la musique de syami­ sen." Canadian university music review / Revue de musique des universités candiennes 1:66-105. . 1981. L'aspect mélodique de la musique de syamisen. Dissertation. Québec, Canada: Université Laval. . 1986. "The Interaction of Orality and Literacy in Structuring Syamisen Music." Tokumaru, Yamaguti, eds. 1986:110-129. Tokumaru, Yosihiko and Yamaguti, Osamu, eds. 1986. The Oral and the Literate in Music. Tôkyô: Academia Music. Tôyô ongaku gakkai (The Society for Research in Asiatic Music), ed. 1978. Syamisen to sono ongaku (Syamisen and its Music). Tôkyo: Ongaku no tomosya. Wachsmann, Klaus P., Dieter Christensen and Hans-Peter Reinecke, eds. 1975. Hornbostel opera omnia I. Den Haag (The Hague): Martinus Nijhoff.

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Yosizumi, Kozyûrô, ed. 1965. Collection: Nagauta sin keikobon (New Series of nagauta pieces), Kisyû dôzyôzi. Tôkyô: Hôgakusya. . 1966. Collection: Nagauta sin keikobon (New Series of nagauta pieces), Gorô Tokimune. Tôkyô: Hôgakusya.

The "Forbidden Chamber" Motif in a Japanese Fairy Tale* Hayao Kawai

1.

The Bush Warbler's Home

The motif of the forbidden chamber is widely spread in fairy tales through­ out the world. Japan is no exception; the theme can be found in stories col­ lected in various parts of the country. A good illustration of this category is the story called The Bush Warbler's Home (Uguisu no sato; included under 196 A in Keigo Seki's monumental collection of Japanese fairy tales, Nip­ pon mukashibanashi, 12 vols., 1978-1980). The storyline is as follows: A young woodcutter goes into a forest, where he encounters a splendid mansion that he never saw or heard of before. Entering the mansion, he mets there a beautiful lady who asks him to watch over it while she goes briefly away. While leaving, she forbids him to look into the next room, which he promises her. Once he is left alone, however, he breaks the promise and enters the next room. Three pretty girls are sweeping that room, but upon seeing the woodcutter, they immediately disappeared, slipping quickly away like birds. The woodcutter enters then one room after another of the mansion, and sees that they contain many treasures. The seventh room contains a bird's nest with three small eggs. While pick­ ing up the eggs, he accidentally drops them. Three birds come out of the eggs and fly away. Just then, the lady comes back, and blames the wood­ cutter for breaking his promise and causing thereby the death of her three daughters. Transforming herself into a bush warbler, she, too, flies away. When the man becomes aware of himself, he stands alone in the same place where he found the mansion; but the mansion is no longer there. One who is acquainted with stories of the forbidden chamber category in the West will no doubt note a great difference between them and this Japanese example. Before comparing the two types, however, let us con-

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sider for a moment the structure of the Japanese Bush Warblers' Home. The forest which is the story's locale is a familiar place to its hero. Yet, here he encounters a fine mansion about which he knows nothing. Sometimes we are surprised at recognizing completely new features revealed in a reality which we believe to be entirely familiar to us. An ordinary, accus­ tomed scene may suddenly be experienced as a feast for the eyes or like an abyss. A beautiful woman may appear ugly, or even look like a witch. Real­ ity consists of countless layers. Only in daily life reality appears as a unified being with a single layer which will never threaten us. However, it is possi­ ble for the deep layers to expose themselves and break through to the sur­ face before one's eyes. Fairy tales have much to tell us in this regard: the mansion that suddenly appears to the hero of our story and the beautiful lady who lives there are good examples of that type of experience. In fact, heroes of fairy tales often encounter curious existences when they have lost their way or when they are abandoned by their parents. The multiform view of reality corresponds to that of human conscious­ ness. Or, if we follow the thought of analytical psychology, it corresponds to the human psyche which contains conscious and unconscious layers. If fairy tales tell us about the structure of reality, it may as well reflect that of the human psyche. Take The Bush Warblers' Home, for instance: the man­ sion, the lady, the forbidden chamber — they are all manifestations of something which exists in the deep layers of the psyche. The Bush Warblers' Home is a story with variants that are spread all over Japan, as may be seen in Keigo Seki's collection of Japanese fairy tales. Aside from the problem whether these variants originated indepen­ dently or were disseminated from an original source, it is interesting to dis­ cover a common pattern in them. In Table I, which shows the variants found in Seki, one can detect a basic pattern in stories 1-13: (1) the hero meets a young woman; (2) he looks into a room forbidden by her; (3) the woman disappears with a grudge; and (4) the hero is left alone, finding him­ self in the same situation as at the beginning. (In story 10, however, the young man has become old.) Stories 14-18 have some different variations. The pattern in which a man from daily life space meets a beautiful woman from non-daily space is widely seen in fairy tales and legends throughout the world. The struture of daily and non-daily spaces is inter­ preted as the structure of the conscious and the unconscious in the psyche. In view of this one can say that in man's unconscious there exists a woman of a special kind, and an encounter with her is a highly universal event. The

woman

woman(proposal)

beautiful girl

young woman

woman beautiful girl

10 sawyer

11 man

12 traveler moor

mountain

mountain

lost the way moor

Forbidden Chamber

thirteenth store house third store house

guest room not to look at the girl for 3 years guest room twelfth store house

fourth store house

second guest room

twelfth guest room

seventh store house

chest of drawers

a store house

fourth store house

one of two store houses twelfth store house

east and west

twelve guest rooms

next guest room

Inside of the room

dragon (father)

hen

son is sleeping heavy snow

growing stages of rice plant bush warbler in plum tree room of the mountain god bush warbler in plum tree bush warbler in plum tree eggs

bush warbler in plum tree growing stages of rice plant fish

regular annual events bush warbler in plum tree bush warbler

treasures, eggs

Table I. Variations of The Bush Warblers' Home

inn

man

girl

8 two charcoal burners 9 man

18 woman

young woman

7 man

lost the way mountain

mountain

woman

6 woodcutter

street

woman

girl(proposal)

5 merchant

lost the

son young woman

beautiful girl

4 traveler

mountain

moor

lost the splendid mansion own home inn

woman(proposal)

3 man

Place forest

13 young man 14 young man (proposal) 15 mother 16 young traveling monk 17 woman

beautiful girl

2 clerk in a shop

Prohibitor

beautiful woman

Transgressor

1 young woodcutter

Results

the two marry

the son disappears somewhere the woman flies away, the priest dies in snow transgressor becomes a hen

„ „

"

the woman becomes a bush warbler and disappears; the man left alone bush warbler's voice is heard; the man left alone bush warbler flies away; the man left alone the woman becomes a bush warbler; the man left alone the woman chases the man away; the man left alone the woman becomes a snowy heron; the man left alone(4 years have passed) the woman becomes a bush warbler and disappears; the man left alone the woman feels sorry; the man left alone the woman becomes a bush warbler; the man left alone the woman becomes a bush warbler; the man an old man the woman becomes a bush warbler; the man left alone

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existence of such a universal pattern shows, as C.G. Jung points out, the existence of a collective unconscious in the human psyche. However, this universal pattern has variations peculiar to the cultures in which it is revealed. While they have a nature that is universal to mankind, fairy tales concurrently also manifest culture-bound characteristics. The aim of this essay is to demonstrate the latter point in a consideration of the Japanese fairy tale. Before considering cultural differences, I should like to draw attention to some special features of The Bush Warblers' Home. The bush warbler, as may be well known, is a bird that is especially loved by the Japanese as a harbinger of spring. The earliest anthology of Japanese poetry, Man'yoshu, compiled in the eigth century, already contains poems about bush warblers. The Kokinshu, compiled in the early tenth century as the first of the impe­ rially sponsored collections of courtly poetry, contains a number of poems in which the bush warbler figures as a bird of spring. The preface of the Kokinshu, considered the first exposition of Japanese poetics, raises the rhetorical question: "Is there anyone alive who hears the voice of the bush warbler singing among the flowers, or of the frog dwelling in the water, who is not himself inspired into poetry?" Such passages reveal how much this bird has stimulated the sense of beauty of the Japanese. The image of a bird so closely connected with the ideas of beauty and of spring would be trans­ formed into that of a beautiful maiden quite naturally. Uguisu Hime, the Bush Warbler Princess who appears in Kaidoki and other mediaeval stories, is another one of those images. It would appear that the image of a maiden who lives in a village of bush warblers has been strongly fixed to the psyche of the Japanese from ancient times. Let us now consider what happens when the man and the woman meet each other in a non-daily space in our tale. The loci of the two are shown in Figure 1. The town where the woodcutter lives is clearly daily life space. A mansion suddenly appears in an intermediate place between daily and nondaily spaces. No doubt the forbidden chamber belongs to a non-daily space. One can assume that those three areas are the conscious, intermediate, and unconscious spaces in the human psyche. The man and the woman who meet at the intermediate place separate immediately. While she goes off to town, he intrudes into the forbidden room. When they meet again, the catastrophe is downright. They have to return to their own worlds separately and will never meet again. They are like two comets flying through the loci of two parabolas: they are destined

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Figure 1. Loci of the male and the female in Bush warblers' home never to meet again after the two momentary encounters. To be sure, there are variants that tell of the couple's marriage, namely stories 3, 5, 10, 14, and 18. In stories 3 , 5 , and 10, the woman proposes marriage to the man as soon as they meet. In story 10, the young man grows old in the last scene, suggesting the difference between the time experience in daily life space and non-daily space. This motif, as well as the motif of the woman's pro­ posal, reminds us of the famous Japanese fairy tale Urashima Taro, which I have discussed elsewhere. As one may judge from the process of transfor­ mation that the tale of Urashima underwent through the ages, those vari­ ants of The Bush Warblers' Home which contain the motif of the woman's proposal are likely to be older than the others. In most of the variants in which the couple are married, however, the marriage is not happy but results in a tragic separation. The only exception is story 18, which ends with a happy marriage; moreover, here the man is the prohibitor and the woman the transgressor of the prohibition. For those reasons, I tend to share Keigo Seki's doubts about classifying this last ver­ sion as a true variant of The Bush Warblers' Home. In any event, we can conclude on the basis of all the above that the basic pattern of our tale is that a man and a woman separate forever after two momentary encounters while moving along their own parabolic paths. What, however, will happen if the prohibition is not broken? Can we expect a happy marriage as the outcome? The variants of the forbidden chamber theme classified under 196 B in Seki's collection of Japanese fairy

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tales include stories in which the men keep their promises to the woman. In those stories the heroes are old men instead of young, and accordingly the marriage motif is absent. One such story, from Aomori Prefecture, runs as follows: In a village lives a good old man and a bad one. The good old man meets a beautiful princess in a mountain, and she asks him to watch over her home while she goes to town to shop. As she leaves, she forbids him to look into one of the house's twelve rooms, the February Chamber, which the old man promises her. When the princess returns, she finds that the old man has kept his promise, and she rewards him with a magical spatula, tell­ ing him that its powers will enable him to obtain any kind of fine food he might wish for. The good old man takes the spatula home with him, and enjoys the fine food he and his wife prepare with it. When their greedy neighbour finds out about their good fortune, however, he, too, goes to the mountain to see the princess. This bad old man cannot restrain from looking into the February Chamber. When he breaks the prohibition, a bush warbler flies out of that room, and he is left alone on the wild moun­ tainside.

There are a fair number of variants of this kind of tale, but not as many as of tale 196 A. We have no concrete basis to judge from which of the two types of stories is older. Psychologically, however, we can assume that type 196 A may have been changed into 196 B with the intention of providing the tale with a happy ending. But even in that case, it is noteworthy that there is no happy marriage in the end. The change in the story brings happi­ ness to the male hero, but not to the woman, who has to disappear towards the end of the story. Nobody is able to change the tragic fate of the female. 2.

The problem of cultural differences

I have already mentioned that fairy tales have two aspects: one is universal to mankind, and the other is peculiar to the culture to which the story belongs. How are these two aspects manifested in The Bush Warblers' Home and in similar stories elsewhere in the world? To find precisely corresponding stories in cultures radically different is not always an easy task. To be sure, on occasion one does come across a European fairy tale, such as The Handless Maiden in the Kinder- und Hausmarchen (KHM) of the Brothers Grimm, which has a very close equivalent in Japan. But in case such equivalents are not available we may have to set­ tle for stories of different types, depending on the motifs we wish to stress.

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Accordingly, Seki's types 196 A and 196 B of the forbidden chamber theme may be said to have affinities with Aarne and Thompson's AT 480 and AT 710, even if those affinities do not make for a perfect fit between the Japanese and the European stories. AT 480 is the story of The Kind and the Unkind Girls. The kind girl who enters the non-daily world obtains happiness, whereas the unkind girl becomes unhappy. In this story, the contrast between the two girls is emphasized, and the similarity is obviously with type 196 B rather than 196 A. AT 710, the story of Our Lady's Child (KHM 3), contains the motif of the forbidden chamber, but one who reads the story closely will feel that its plot is quite different from the Japanese fairy tale. Although the forbidden chamber motif is universal, the way it appears in stories is different in accor­ dance with cultural differences. In order to appreciate this point more fully, the reader may want to examine other western fairy tales in which the motif occurs, for example, the Grimm Brothers' Faithful John (KHM 6), on which I shall comment in the next section of this essay. In the strict sense, one cannot find in Aarne and Thompson's book a story that is precisely similar to The Bush Warblers' Home. Indeed, this fairy tale seems to be typ­ ically Japanese. Let us have a look at how the motif of the forbidden chamber appears in some other countries. It is classified as C 611 in Stith Thompson's MotifIndex of Folk-Literature, and it occurs widely, but for our purposes a limited sample may suffice. Five stories from a collection of the world's fairy tales prepared by Toshio Ozawa and two from the Kinder- und Hausmärchen of the Brothers Grimm were chosen for comparison and are shown in Table II. The differences between the stories in Table I and those in Table II are apparent at a glance. First of all, the relationship between the prohibitor and the person who is enjoined is different. In Table II, the prohibitor and the transgressor are a father and his son or daughter; a hus­ band and his wife; a witch and a nine-year-old boy; and the Blessed Virgin Mary and a young girl. In the western stories, the prohibitors are in general thought to be superior to the persons who are enjoined. In Japan, the pro­ hibitors are women and the persons who are enjoined are men except for stories 15 and 18. We note that story 18 comes very close to the western pattern, but we shall skip it here as an exception, although the question of why we have this kind of tale in Japan deserves further investigation. If we consider the places where the prohibitions are issued in the west­ ern stories, we shall find three different patterns, as shown in Table III.

boy (9 years old)

„

castle of the king secret room

king (father)

The boy escapes from the witch's mansion. He marries the princess.

The two sisters are killed by their husband. The third one kills him with the help of others.

4 horse (prince)

5 corpses

The prince visits the princess. They marry. Table II. Stories of Forbidden Chamber in the West

The girl is driven away from heaven. —She marries the king afterwards.

6 Trinity

7 a picture of a princess

2 king's garden

The heroine is about to be killed by her husband. The king rescues her. She marries the king's son.

the thirteenth door

3 husband as a man eater

Results

heaven

„

hut in a forest

husband (robber) Blessed Virgin Mary

„

witch's mansion

princess (witch)

„

Brothers of the heroine rescue her. — She marries afterwards. The heroine is about to be killed by the king, but afterwards they marry.

prince

home

1 corpses of the former wives

Inside of the room

7. Faithful John (Germany)

5. Robber's Marriage (Croatia) three sisters 6. Our Lady's Child (Germany) girl

4. Bellonick (France)

Forbidden Chamber

Bluebeard's home secret room

Place

husband(Man of Three Eyes) husband's home

father

daughter

2. Clever Maria (Portugal)

3. Man of Three Eyes (Cyprus) woman

husband (Bluebeard)

Prohibitor

woman

Transgressor

1. Bluebeard (France)

Title

164 HAYAO KAWA

FORBIDDEN CHAMBER" MOTIF IN A JAPANESE FAIRY TALE

Prohibitor

165

Transgressor

daily

father

daughter son

intermediate

husband

wife

non-daily

witch Mary

child (male female)

Table III. Prohibitors and Transgressors in forbidden chambers in the West When the father is the prohibitor (stories 2 and 7), the locale is his own house, in other words obvious daily life space. When the husband issues a prohibition to his wife (stories 1,3, and 5), the place is the husband's home. If we think of its binary character, such a place may be considered as inter­ mediate between daily and non-daily space. In stories 4 and 6, the prohibi­ tions are issued in a witch's house and in heaven, which clearly belongs to non-daily space, and the prohibitors are superhuman beings. If we correlate the division of daily, intermediate, and non-daily space with those of the conscious, intermediate, and unconscious in the human psyche, Table III will show a proper model for delineating the structure of the western psyche; but we shall leave a more detailed consideration of this point for the next section of this essay. So far we have discovered an interesting set of relationships between the characters of the prohibitors and the places where the prohibition was issued in the western stories. However, the Japanese fairy tale presents a different case. We still do not know who the prohibitors are in daily or in non-daily spaces in Japan. In the intermediate space, young women are the prohibitors, contrary to the western rule. If we pay attention to the way the stories continue after the taboo is broken, the difference between the Japanese and the western patterns becomes clearer. Keigo Seki points out the curious fact that in the Japanese fairy tale, the one who issues the taboo becomes unhappier than the one who breaks it: the latter is not punished, whereas the former disappears sorrowfully. In the western stories, one who breaks a taboo is punished, even though he may become happy at the end. Thompson's motif-index lists various punishments for breaking a taboo, but one cannot find the item no punishment. The Japanese story, however, belongs to the no punishment type. The fact that the happiness which the hero might have obtained vanishes without a trace could possible be inter-

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preted as a kind of punishment, but if so, then surely not as punishment of a direct kind. In the Japanese fairy tales, such resolutions as "the women chases the man away" (story 5) and "the priest dies in a snowstorm" (story 16) have connotations of punishment. Only in story 17, however, do we find a direct kind of punishment: the heroine is turned into a hen. To be sure, the fact it is a woman who breaks the taboo makes this story some­ what of an exception to the basic pattern of the tale. When we compare situations after the taboo is broken in the inter­ mediate space, we find many points of difference between the Japanese and the western stories. They are shown in Table IV. The prohibitors differ, and what is found in the forbidden chambers is also different: in the Japanese stories, they contain scenes of natural beauty, such as bush warblers, a plum tree, or rice plants showing their season changes; in the western stories, the forbidden chambers contain corpses, or the transgres­ sor's husband eating a corpse. In the West, the punishment is the death penalty; in Japan, nothing. Actually, Bluebeard's former wives and the heroine's two sisters in A Robber's Marriage have already been killed. There is a complete divergence in the outcome of the Japanese and the western stories: the man who breaks the taboo remains untouched and the woman disappears sorrowfully in the former, whereas there is a happy mar­ riage in the latter. In the western stories, a man appears to save the woman by killing her monstrous husband. Except for the Croatian fairy tale, mar­ riage is the happy end of the story. That type of happy ending is rare in Japanese fairy tales in general. Kiril Čistov, a Russian scholar of fairy tales, has reported an interesting episode which casts light upon the matter. While he was recounting the famous Japanese fairy tale Urashima Taro and talking about the beauty of the dragon palace under the sea, he noticed that his grandson was not at all interested and seemed to be expecting some different sort of development. He asked the boy what he was thinking about, and the boy answered, "When does he fight?" Evidently, he was expecting the hero Urashima Taro to fight the monster dragon. The Russian child, according to Čistov, "could not understand at all why the hero did not fight the dragon and why he did not marry the beautiful princess." Röhrich, a West German professor of folklore, points out the same thing: in Japan, happy marriage is not a fre­ quent motif in fairy tales, whereas in the typical European story the hero rescues the maiden from distress, and at the end they are married. To be sure, there are Japanese fairy tales in which marrriage occurs.

man(husband)

The West

corpses

beauty of nature

man

woman(wife)

Inside of the room

Transgressor

rescue of woman by another man's appearance

woman disappears, man left alone

capital punishment

Results

no purnishment

Punishment

Table IV. A comparison between Japanese and Western stories

woman

Japan

Prohibitor "FORBIDDEN CHAMBER" MOTIF IN A JAPANESE FAIRY TALE

167

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HAYAO KAWAI

The famous Japanese folklorist Kunio Yanagita suggests that when fairy tales were told to children only, adults tended to omit the motif — which was originally present — from some stories because they did not want to talk about the relations between men and women in front of the children; this reluctance, we are told, was caused by the rigoristic moral sensibilities imposed upon the Japanese by Confucianism. I cannot agree with Yanagita's suggestion because the Japanese still have quite a few stories in which sluggards, tricksters, and outright liars obtain success; if the influence of Confucianism had indeed been so strong, those stories, too, would surely have vanished. What do the striking differences between the characteristics of Japanese and of Western fairy tales indicate? 3.

Consciousness

Human consciousness has integration to a certain degree, including psychic contents which are conscious at a given moment and have the potential to be made conscious when necessary. It has also a certain degree of autonomy, although it is influenced by others inwardly and outwardly. A person is recognized to have a personality insofar as he has that kind of integration and autonomy. The ego which denotes the center of conscious­ ness contains both. Here I do not propose to enter into description of the ego function in detail, but I would like to focus on the peculiarity of the ego which was established in modern Europe. It cannot be compared with others in its high degree of integration and autonomy, as well as in its strength against influences from the inside and the outside. The Jungian analyst Erich Neumann describes the process of the evolution of conscious­ ness in Europe in a very interesting manner in his Ursprungsgeschichte des Bewuβtseins. Neumann's description makes use of mythological images, and his theory is quite useful for the investigation of the meaning of fairy tales, as they have many images that are common to mythology. However, I am not going to interpret Japanese fairy tales by borrowing Neumann's method, because they are so unlike those of the West that they must be analysed according to a theory adapted particularly to them. One of the purposes of my research is to find such a method. Nevertheless, it is true that we Japanese have been strongly influenced by western methodologies, and for that reason if for no other it is necessary to refer to Neumann's theory even while attempting to interpret Japanese fairy tales in a different

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way. The following is a summary of his description of the evolution of con­ sciousness. According to Neumann, the first stage in the evolution of conscious­ ness begins with chaos, as many creation myths tell us. At this stage, the separation of the conscious and the unconscious has not yet occurred, and the consciousness is still in a state of chaos. The symbolic representation of this stage is Uroboros, a snake which bites its own tail, making a circle. "It is man and woman, begetting and conceiving, devouring and giving birth, active and passive, above and below, at once." In the next stage, "the ego begins to emerge from its identity with Uroboros." The world experienced by the waking ego is that of the Great Mother. The figures of the Great Mother play important roles in the world's myths and religions. The Venus of Willendorf and Mary, the Virgin Mother in Christianity, are but two of the many varieties of this image; the former emphasizes the physical aspect of the Great Mother, whereas the latter incarnates the spiritual. The Great Mother can be seen as positive or negative according to the way it appears to the ego. The positive mother nourishes and raises children, and the negative or terrible mother devours children. To take up some Japanese examples, Kannon, who accepts every­ thing, is the positive Great Mother, and Yamauba, who appears in fairy tales as an all-devouring mountain witch, is the negative image. Izanami, a great goddess in Japanese mythology, gave birth to the land of Japan, but afterwards she became the deity of the land of death; her image is that of the Great Mother who has two sides, positive and negative. The ego raised by the Great Mother experiences in the next stage the separation of heaven and earth, light and darkness, the father and the mother, and so on. As a mythological experience of this stage, there are myths of the separation of the heavens from the earth and the bringing of light into darkness. The conscious and the unconscious are separated. In the next stage of the evolution of consciousness, according to Neumann, "a radical shift in the center of gravity has occured." In contrast with the process so far, which is represented by the creation myth, the pro­ cess that follows is symbolized by the hero myth. In this stage, "man's con­ sciousness has achieved independence," and "his total personality has detached itself from the natural context of the surrounding world and the unconscious." It is the phase of "humanization and personality formation." The cycles of the hero myth consist of the birth of the hero, his fight with the dragon, and the acquisition of a hard-to-obtain treasure. In many cases,

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the final goal is to get the virgin, the captive of the dragon. There are many myths and fairy tales in which the birth of the hero is described as an entirely extraordinary event. The heroes in Greek mythol­ ogy are the children of Zeus and human mothers. In Japan, Momotaro (Peach-taro), a famous fairy-tale hero, is born from a peach. Such stories are meant to express the unusual qualities of the heroes. After the birth comes the phase of the hero's slaying of the dragon. Freudians interpret this event as the murder of a father by his son, and the myth is thus reduced to the Oedipus complex. In contrast, Jung opposes the reduction of this myth to the context of personal relations in a family. Jung recognizes that the dragon is the symbol of T h e Father' or T h e Mother' instead of one's own personal father or mother. Slaying the dragon means, from a Jungian point of view, doing away with T h e Father' and T h e Mother,' archetypal beings in man's psyche. Slaying the dragon hence signifies the fight with the Great Mother who would otherwise devour the ego. In other words, it is the fight which the ego wages against the strength of the unconscious in order to acquire its independence. The ego succeeds in establishing its independence when this symbolic achievement is attained. After the slaying of T h e Mother,' the slaying of T h e Father' is necessary. The latter means the fight against cultural and social laws and rules. In order to attain true indepen­ dence, the ego must liberate itself not only from the unconscious but also from the general laws and rules that prevail in society. The ego can reach its goal insofar as it wins these dangerous fights. As the result of the conquest, the hero obtains a treasure. In many western stories, that treasure is a virgin who is the captive of the dragon and whom the hero marries. This means, in short, that after attaining its inde­ pendence and separating itself from the world by slaying its parents, the ego regains a relation with the world through the mediation of a woman. This result is not the 'uroboroic' undifferentiated unity but a new relationship between the established ego and others. In this summary of Neumann's thought, simplified as it is, there are two extremely important points which stand out. First, the ego is rep­ resented by a male figure. Second, marriage is the highly valued final goal. As for the problem of the male figure, it is important to keep in mind that "masculine" and "feminine" are treated in Neumann's theory as symbols, different from real men and women. He stresses that "even in woman, con­ sciousness has a masculine character" and that "the correlation 'consciouslight-day' and 'unconscious-darkness-night' holds true regardless of sex."

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171

He adds that "consciousness as such is masculine even in woman, just as the unconscious is feminine in men." His use of the words "masculine" and "feminine" clearly differentiates these concepts from "man" and "woman." The latter set means man and woman as human beings and the former denotes male and female with symbolic connotations. In speaking about the problem of men and women, unnecessary confusion is apt to arise, as a clear distinction all too frequently is not made between the two terminolog­ ical sets. Neumann's concern is with the ego in modern Europe, a type that is peculiar in the history of consciousness in the world. He calls it the pat­ riarchal consciousness which is clearly separated from the unconscious and free of its influence. In contrast with it, what Neumann calls the matriarchal consciousness is one where the ego is still overwhelmed by the power of the unconscious and has not yet attained its full independence. According to Neumann, a real modern woman has patriarchal consciousness and her ego is denoted by the masculine hero. Neumann stresses again and again that in his usage the terms mas­ culine, feminine, patriarchal, and matriarchal are meant symbolically and are different from the notions of man and woman as persons and paternal or maternal figures in the family or in social structures. Patriarchal con­ sciousness and matriarchal consciousness do not accord with paternal and maternal familial or social structure, although some sort of relationship between them is not excluded. With a Europe-centered attitude, in the pro­ cess of ego-establishment the sequence of matriarchal to patriarchal con­ sciousness is noticed rather easily. However, we should not apply the pat­ tern directly to social structures in different cultures to assume that every patriarchal society must be preceded by a matriarchal society. While we may notice that agricultural peoples tend to be matriarchal and nomads pat­ riarchal in their psychology, it would be erroneous to assume on that basis that agricultural families are matriarchal and nomadic families patriarchal. The structure of consciousness is not always identical with that of the soci­ ety or the family. Table III, which shows the relationship between the prohibitors and the persons who are enjoined in western stories with the forbidden chamber theme, assumes additional interest if we take into account the nature of the ego in modern Europe. First of all, in the daily space, which is supposed to denote consciousness, the prohibitors are fathers. This supports the notion that the patriarchal principle prevails in the western consciousness. In the non-daily, that is, the unconscious world, the prohibitors are Great Mother

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figures. Here the children or the persons who are enjoined have no blood relationship with the prohibitors, contrary to the cases in daily space. Just in between the two spaces there exists the relationship of husband and wife, which is not a vertical relationship of superior and inferior but horizontal, although the prohibitors are always men. The union of man and woman provides an image of the integration of the conscious and the unconscious, and is very meaningful. As is shown in Table II, almost all the Western stories end with happy marriages. Why is this important theme not found frequently in Japanese fairy tales? Perhaps a further look at the Japanese forbidden chamber will reveal at least part of the answer. 4.

What has happened?

So far, we have seen that the motif of the forbidden chamber is universal but the plots of the stories in which it occurs vary according to the cultures in which the stories are told. But what are the essential characteristics of the Japanese version? What does it really tell us? Let us first of all approach these problems through a brief comparison between it and a western story. In Grimm's fairy tale, Faithful John, the person who is enjoined is a young male, just as in The Bush Warblers' Home. His relationship with the heroine is schematized in Figure 2. As the figure shows, at the beginning of the story there are only the king and the prince, namely the father and his son. It is noteworthy that nothing is said about a queen or a princess at this point; here the patriarchal principle prevails. However, the dying king sig­ nifies that the principle is now losing its vitality and that a renewal is required. As he is dying, the old king forbids his son to enter a certain room in his castle. The prince, however, breaks the taboo and finds there a pic­ ture of "the princess of the golden-roofed mansion." The old king confronts a dilemma. Consciously, he wants his son to succeed him and reign over the country according to patriarchal principle. On the other hand, uncon­ sciously he wishes that his son will achieve the task which he himself never accomplished: to bring a female principle to the country. The father knows so well the danger of that task that he is obliged to behave in an entirely contradictory way: he takes the trouble of hiding a picture of the princess in a room, and then forbids his son to see it. If the problem is analyzed in this way, the psychological meaning of the forbidden chamber becomes clear. The young man who breaks the taboo falls in love with the princess. In order that his wishes may be fulfilled, Faithful John must make strong

"FORBIDDEN CHAMBER" MOTIF IN A JAPANESE FAIRY TALE

173

Figure 2. Loci of the male and the female in Faithful John efforts which need not be discussed here. In any event, the prince succeeds in marrying the princess, having overcome many dangers with the help of Faithful John. The story does not fit Neumann's theory completely. However, it clearly shows a process of ego-establishment in a culture where the patriar­ chal principle is dominant. The prince as a male hero signifies the ego. He acts against his father's will, overcomes the dangers, and finally marries the princess. The process can be seen, from a cultural point of view, as a way for the female principle to compensate for the prevailing male principle and for integration to occur. A higher unity is attained by the unity of male and female and daily and non-daily. From a look at Faithful John, one can see rather clearly what is meant by the forbidden chamber in the West. But what about the Japanese story? In The Bush Warblers' Home, the hero has a rare chance to meet a woman beautiful beyond compare, only to be left standing alone after everything precious has vanished. What has really happened? The famous Swiss folklorist Max Lüthi in comparing Japanese and west­ ern fairy tales points out, "Breaking a taboo rarely provokes a hero's adventure which results in his promotion. It leads to the situation of nothing, where everything [is] lost." Indeed, in The Bush Warblers' Home the hero who breaks the taboo does not go through any adventures and is

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instead led at the end to a "situation of nothing." Anyone accustomed to analyzing western fairy tales must have a good deal of difficulty with this type of Japanese story. Nothing significant will be said by simply relying on Neumann's theory or by the observation that Japanese fairy tales tell of the regression into Uroboros or that they remain at a lower stage of ego development. We had better try finding another standpoint for our interpretation. If we adjust our standpoint properly, we shall be able to say that Japanese fairy tales have meaning in their own right. Insofar as we are able to develop that new standpoint, we can say that we have arrived at a significant analysis of the Japanese stories. What has happened, then, in The Bush Warblers' Homel Has nothing happened really? Let us start by changing our attitude completely, and put positive value on the fact that nothing has happened instead of searching for that something which might have happened. In other words, nothing has happened can be interpreted as The Nothingness has happened. In this way, the story may be assumed to be simply about The Nothingness. Lüthi's "the situation of nothing" has a negative connotation, but one can interpret it positively. Fundamentally, The Nothingness is beyond negative and positive values. When we change our standpoint in this way, a transformation occurs and the two intersecting parabolas in Figure 1 converge into a circle. The transformed circle contains everything beyond the difference between daily and non-daily, male and female. It is Nothing and at the same time Being. A direct experience of The Nothingness is beyond human words. Posi­ tive and negative, subject and object are contained within the circle of nothingness beyond all differentiation, so that it becomes impossible to ver­ balize or objectify it. Although we cannot verbalize it directly, we can do it with an interpretation of a part of its working, and a fairy tale may serve as that kind of interpretation. The Bush Warblers' Home is a Japanese folk interpretation of the primordial Nothingness. The first and the last scene of the story are identical, namely, nothing has happened. If there is any kind of movement, the starting point and the goal are the same and can be any­ where on the circumference of the circle. Inside, the circle is empty; within it, there is nothing. But if one raises the question, "What is The Nothing­ ness?", our tale provides an answer: "A plum tree; a bush warbler." In yet other variants, the answer is, "The whole process of the growth of the rice plant through the seasons," that is to say, the most important thing in the life of the traditional Japanese community. This means the answer is, The Whole.

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Figure 3. The convergence into a circle Or, if one may compact the process of the tale yet further, it runs as follows: "What has happened?" "Nothing." "What is The Nothingness?" "A plum tree; a bush warbler." This reminds me of mondo dialogues in Zen. Shizuteru Ueda, a Japanese philosopher with a deep experience in Zen, has stated that "questions in Zen are fundamentally expressions of the question, 'What is the Self?'" The Japanese fairy tale does not provide the answer to this question directly, but rather it gives an interpretation of what "the Self" is. Fairy tales are interpretations based on folk wisdom. Modern people are so far detached from this kind of wisdom that something which is essentially needless, the interpretation of fairy tales, becomes necessary. Let us reread The Bush Warblers' Home and Faithful John after having recognized the superfluity of interpretations of fairy tales. The two stories have a different impact: the western one has a form of completeness, which impresses the reader, whereas the Japanese fairy tale seems to be incom­ plete. But if one takes into consideration the feelings apt to be induced in its proper audience, the story is complete. The story cannot be discussed as a whole without an appreciation of the feeling of aware (sorrow) which a Japanese would feel for the female figure who disappears in silence. The western story has a complete form which one can interpret or analyze with­ out any other resources; but if we treat a Japanese fairy tale as an object in itself, separate from the subjective feelings in the reader's mind, its struc­ ture will reject any analysis. This fact makes the interpretation of Japanese fairy tales difficult and puzzles Western investigators. Insofar as Japanese interpreters rely on Western theories, they too find their task quite dif-

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ficult, or decide in the end that, in comparison with western stories, Japanese fairy tales are valueless. The feeling of aware induced in the reader's mind by The Bush Warblers' Home may be explained as a scene of beauty which is awakened by the sudden termination of the story's process just before its completion. A young man meets a beautiful lady. The marvels of her residence are recounted one by one. When one feels that a completion is very near, the tragedy happens through the man's mistake. The figure of the bush warbler disappearing sorrowfully completes our sense of beauty. 5.

A woman who disappears

A Japanese cultural paradigm says that a woman must disappear to com­ plete a sense of beauty with sorrow. A great number of female figures of this type populate Japanese myths, legends, fairy tales, literary works, and dramas. A characteristic example is found in the famous fairy tale A Crane Wife: the heroine simply disappears when her husband breaks the taboo she issued. What pathos we find in this tale! The woman is far from getting angry with the man when her taboo is broken; she just disappears. There are many Japanese stories where the woman has to vanish when a man looks into a forbidden chamber; among the obvious examples, the myth of Princess Toyotama and the Noh play Kurozuka {The Black Grave) immediately come to mind. The remarkable feature of both these stories is that the emphasis is not upon the guilt of breaking the taboo but rather upon the shame of being seen in the forbidden room or having its contents discovered. We cannot find the theme of shame in The Bush Warblers' Home. Akihiro Satake, however, makes a very interesting suggestion when he states in the course of a comparison between The Bush Warblers' Home and a similar story, The Cranes' Paradise, that the taboo in the latter is "not to go out" instead of "not to see." A man invited to the cranes' paradise is told "not to go out" by a woman there. When he observes this taboo, he receives precious cloths. Satake's conclusion is: "The ages of the heroines might have a bearing on the difference between the 'not to see' and 'not to go out' taboos. 'Not to see' is a taboo connected with the sense of shame of a young woman, and 'not to go out' is a reflection of the painful wishes of an old woman." Although it is not directly mentioned, the sense of shame underlies The Bush Warblers' Home like a subcurrent. In the Noh play Black Grave, the sense of shame induced by a broken

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'not to see' taboo is expressed in the extreme. A travelling monk comes to the moor of Adachi and asks a woman who lives there to give him shelter for the night. The woman departs to gather firewood in the mountain, leav­ ing him alone in her home. As she goes out, she asks the monk not to look into her bedroom. The monk, however, breaks the taboo and looks into the room: it is full of blood and decayed flesh, with corpses piled up to the eaves. Terrified, the monk tries to escape, but the woman transforms her­ self into an ogre and pursues him; in the end, however, she is vanquished and made to disappear by the power of the monk's prayers. The woman's parting words are highly significant: "Hide as I did in this black grave, how miserable I became! What misery! How shameful my figure!" The woman was trying to kill the man with the full force of her rancor, yet the emphasis is upon her feeling of shame. Frightening as the scene of horror in the bedroom might be, one can see that the story of Kurozuka has almost the same essential structure as The Bush Warblers' Home. The description of the inside of the forbidden chambers differ completely: one is full of treasure, the other of decayed flesh. These are, however, in actuality two different aspects of the same thing: both forbidden chambers belong to the domain of shame, not to be seen. Seen from the front, the domain of shame is a realm of beauty beyond description; but from the back, it is replete with ugliness. The woman has to disappear from this domain as soon as it is discovered by anybody. One might assume that, since it is connected with the sense of shame, this realm would have been described as a dirty place, but folk wisdom preferred to depict it as a place of beauty. Our recognition of these two sides of existence involves us in a consid­ eration of the beauty of rancor (urami), which backs up that of sorrow (aware). Akiko Baba, whose studies of Japanese demons and ogres (oni) are remarkable for their insight, suggests in an interesting interpretation of The Black Grave that the woman was not originally an ogre but "became an oni because of the sudden womanly feeling of shame that overcame her when her bedroom, replete with pus and blood, was exposed to view." The monk broke his promise, and "by this cruel final betrayal, by the discovery of that most secret place where she had hidden the hoard of sacrificial offer­ ings of her passions, she was driven to the depths of shame and turned into an oni. But is that not almost too beautifully human?" This is the beauty of rancor, and it is something human par excellence. If the feeling of sorrow (aware) occurs at the sudden termination of a process and is directed at

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something disappearing, then the feeling of rancor (urami) looks toward the continuation of a process and is born out of the spirit of resistance to the necessity of disappearing. In The Bush Warblers' Home, the disappearing woman parts with the bitter words: "Nothing is as unreliable as a human. You broke the promise you made me. You killed my three daughters. How I miss them!" Could not this feeling of resentment be construed as showing the vitality of the Japanese common people? The sense of nothingness and the feeling of sor­ row exist in the main stream of Japanese culture. Females, however, need to be sacrified in order to establish that culture. The disappearing women resist this process, and leave behind their bitterness as they fade from the scene. In The Black Grave, the sense of rancor is made to vanish by the power of Buddhist prayer. In fairy tales, however, this sense is not dispelled so easily, because fairy tales are the finest expressions of the folk uncon­ scious. Hence, in the world of fairy tales, we can even expect that the woman has disappeared only to come back to this world again with a newly gained strength. This woman is thought to symbolize the urge to bring something new to Japanese culture. To pursue the woman who disappears from this world sorrowfully and then comes back again is therefore a worth­ while and necessary task. Neumann holds that the ego of modern Europeans is symbolized by a male hero who slays a dragon. We, however, think it worthwhile to pursue through Japanese fairy tales a female who disappears leaving a grudge. In order to consider the difference further, we have to know more about the symbolism of male and female. Neumann thought it suitable in Europe to symbolize the ego — regardless whether a man's or a woman's — by a male figure. But what connotations do male and female have in European sym­ bolism? Sexual symbolism has a long history in Europe, and is highly devel­ oped in alchemical thought. As Jung made clear, alchemy described the process of individuation as projected into that of the transformation of mat­ ters in which the symbol of the union of male and female plays a great role. This is not the place for a detailed treatment of the grand systems of alchemical symbolism, instead a glimpse as Hutin's schema (which is shown in Table V) will suffice. It shows that many counterparts in this world are ordered with the main axis of male and female. The combination of sulphur and quicksilver, highly important in the alchemical process, is nothing but the union of male and female, from which something new will be born.

"FORBIDDEN CHAMBER" MOTIF IN A JAPANESE FAIRY TALE

male semen active form soul fire hot-dry sulphur gold sun leaven

179

female menstruation passive matter body water cold-wet quicksilver silver moon dough

Table V. The sexual dualism in the alchemy (from Hutin's "L'alchimie") Upon looking at Table V, one will notice immediately that Japanese symbolism does not fit into it; for example, the sun is female and the moon male in Japanese mythology. Points that are emphasized in space sym­ bolism in the West, such as the correlations of right-sun-consciousness and left-moon-unconsciousness, do not correspond with what is found in Japanese myths and legends. In symbolism, some areas are universal and some are influenced by cultural differences. Male and female figures are potent symbols, but their meanings differ from culture to culture. One who fails to keep this in mind is apt to make big mistakes in interpreting Japanese fairy tales. Simply following Neumann's schema will oblige one to conclude that many Japanese fairy tales remain in the lower stage of ego development. Considering all the above, it seems to me that the essence of Japanese fairy tales can be seen better through female eyes rather than male eyes. The female in my expression female eyes is not the same as the one resulting after the clearcut division of male and female is made. To divide male and female clearly, as in Table V, is a categorization that is already based on the male principle. But if we look at Table V with real female eyes, there might be a different classification, or no clear classification at all. To look at things with female eyes means, in other words, that the ego of a Japanese is properly symbolized by a female and not by a male. The patriarchal social

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system that prevailed in Japan until the end of World War II obscured our eyes to this fact. In fairy tales, however, 'female heroes' could freely take an active part. The investigation of those female figures will cast much light on the psyche of the Japanese.

Note *

This essay first appeared in a slightly different form in Hayao Kawai: The Japanese Psyche: Major Motifs in the Fairy Tales of Japan, (Dallas: Spring Publications, 1988). Thanks are due to Spring Publications, Inc. through whose permission it is hereby repub­ lished.

Aspects of Japanese Nonverbal Behavior in Relation to Traditional Culture Yasuko Tohyama

This paper consists of 9 sections which are divided into the first half (sec­ tions 1-3) and the second half (sections 4-9): the first half, beginning with a brief introduction to nonverbal communication (section 1), shows my theo­ retical assumption for the system of communication (section 2) and that for cultural influence on nonverbal communication (section 3). Under these assumptions as a basis, the second half examines the relationship between aspects of Japanese nonverbal behavior and elements of traditional Japanese culture as related to clothes (section 5), food (section 6), shelter (section 7), and religion (section 8). Examples selected from TV dramas, movies, and cartoons are presented to illustrate the following hypotheses (section 4): 1. 2.

Much of Japanese nonverbal behavior results from traditional Japanese culture concerning clothes, food, shelter and religion. Although the Japanese life style today is greatly westernized, Japanese nonverbal behavior is still regulated by traditional Japanese culture.

Lastly, background of the results of examination and illustrated hypotheses will be discussed, (section 9) 1.

Nonverbal communication

1.1. Importance of nonverbal behavior in communication Nonverbal communication entails ways in which human beings communi­ cate by means of behavior, rather than via words per se. Nonverbal behavior includes a person's gestures, posture and physical attitude, facial

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expresssions, manner of eye-contact, proximity in which he places himself regarding the other party or parties during communication, physical con­ tact, voice quality, vocalization, and so forth. All these convey various types and amounts of information during human communication, as the fol­ lowing examples illustrate. I wanted to express my thanks, but the words did not come. In silence I looked at his face, and when our eyes met, mine filled with tears. Then tears shone also in his (Dazai 1956). [...]; they smiled, brightly and unanimously, at everything either of the vis­ itors said. Lord Lambeth and his companion felt that they were being made very welcome (James 1970). And at the same time, the hatred he had felt before, mingled with a cold disdain, crept into his heart again. And its manifestations probably trans­ mitted themselves to the hag (Akutagawa 1964).

These nonverbal signs convey a great deal of information, playing an important role in communication. Charles Darwin, the famous biologist, mentions their importance as a means of communication in this way: The movements of expression in the face and body, whatever their origin may have been, are in themselves of much importance for our welfare. They serve as the first means of communication between the mother and her infant (Darwin 1872).

Moreover, R.L. Birdwhistell, who carried out a systematic study of nonverbal behavior, naming the field "Kinesics," states that in a conversa­ tion between two persons who belong to the same cultural area, less than 35% of the message is conveyed by spoken utterances, and the remaining 65% is communicated nonverbally (Birdwhistell 1972b). This statement gives an indication at the importance of nonverbal behavior in daily conver­ sation. 1.2. Brief historical sketch of the study of nonverbal

communication

In spite of its importance, the study of nonverbal communication has not generally advanced as rapidly as verbal studies, perhaps because the impor­ tance of nonverbal behavior in communication was not recognized at the academic level until the two new sciences, kinesics and proxemics, were born in the 1950s. Since then, the study of nonverbal communication has attracted the attention of researchers in linguistics, anthropology, sociol­ ogy, psychology, psychiatry, ethology, etc.

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The main thrust behind advances in the field of kinesics has been R.L. Birdwhistell, who wrote such pioneering works as Introduction to Kinesics (1952), and Kinesics and Context (1972). He defines kinesics as "the study of the visual aspects of nonverbal, interpersonal communication" (Birdwhistell 1972a). This newly born science includes gestures, postures, facial expression, eye-contact, physical contact, the way of walking, etc. as objects of examination. Proxemics was named by E.T. Hall, who wrote The Silent Language (1959), The Hidden Dimension (1966), Beyond Culture (1977), The Dance of Life: The Other Dimension of Time (1983) and other works of anthropological interest. He calls it "the study of how man unconsciously structures microspace," stating that it examines "the distance between men in the conduct of daily transactions" (Hall 1963), body-orientations, territo­ riality, preference of seat position, manipulations of proximity, treatment of time, etc. In addition to kinesics and proxemics, vocalization was studied by G.L. Trager (1958), who paid attention to the communicative value of vocal means other than those dealt with in linguistics. Examples he put forward include the voice for crying or laughing, as well as different features relative to the speaker's gender, age, and voice quality. He calls the study of vocali­ zation "paralinguistics," although some researchers include kinesics and proxemics under the name paralinguistics as a result of taking the word to cover a broader range. In the USA, the term 'body language' has become popular since Julius Fast, an American nonfiction writer, wrote Body Language in 1970. Studies in this field have attracted the attention not only of researchers, but also the general public. Accordingly, the study of nonverbal communication has made greater advances in recent years than was earlier the case. Many papers and books have been published, as the bibliographical work done by Key (1977) or Davis & Skupien (1982) shows. In Japan, books such as Body Language, The Silent Language, and The Hidden Dimension were translated in Japanese in the early 1970s. It can be said that this marks the beginning of Japanese people showing interest in the field of nonverbal communication on an academic level. However, the number of researchers specializing in nonverbal communication in Japan are still very few, and the volume of research and publications still rela­ tively low. In this context, I undertake this pilot study exploring Japanese nonverbal behavior from the viewpoint of its relation to Japanese tradi­ tional culture and the Japanese way of living.

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Assumptions regarding the system of communication

Communication would appear to be much more complex than perhaps it appears at first glance. Abercrombie states this feeling as follows: We speak with our vocal organs, but we converse with our entire bodies: conversation consists of much more than a simple interchange of spoken words (Laver and Hutcheson 1972).

Communication thus can be stated to entail exchange of information by behavioral means. I assume in this section that three kinds of informa­ tion exchanged between participants are involved in face-to-face interaction during everyday life. The three basic types are divided by function, and then further subdivided into five features. After that, as a behavioral means of communication, verbal and nonverbal behaviors will be presented and classified. Then types of information and a kind of behavioral means examined in the second half of this paper will be limited. 2.1. Information Information exchanged between participants in a conversation can be clas­ sified into types A,B, and C. INFORMATION TYPE A is exchanged during dialog, and helps the sec­ ond party understand the first party's opinions, feelings, ideas, ways of thinking, emotions, etc. Content information, which indicates factual con­ tent of the dialog, and Emotional information, which indicates the emo­ tional state of participants, is of this type. INFORMATION TYPE B is used for manipulating psychological distance among participants. It can be subdivided into two categories of familiarity and respect. Familiarity-related information indicates the degree of inti­ macy with the partner, that is, the depth of fondness between participants. Respect-related information indicates the degree of respect belonging to a partner, and may involve assuming a polite attitude if the partner occupies a higher position, status, class, or is senior in age. The opposite is true for people in 'lower' positions. INFORMATION TYPE C is involved in transfer of the floor among partic­ ipants, that is, in transitions where it becomes one person's turn to speak rather than the other's. It is also used to promote the temporal progress of interaction. This type includes one sub-division, turn-taking information,

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which indicates speaker signal for yielding the floor, keeping the floor, etc., and also hearer signals for giving one the floor, not taking the floor, show­ ing the degree of understanding or interest in the speaker's utterances, etc. Each of the above information types A, B, and C is conveyed from the speaker to the hearer using both verbal and nonverbal behavioral means (see Fig. 1). I assume here verbal to mean chiefly the conveyance of Con­ tent information, where as conveyance of emotional information generally involves nonverbal means. These sets of information are intermixed during conversation. Using this information, we understand our partner's opin­ ions, his emotions, his familiarity to us, his social position, his personality, and his intention of yielding the floor during the conversation. We can pro­ ceed with our conversation only by obtaining this information. In the examination of Japanese nonverbal behavior analysed in sections 4-9, I will examine mainly information types A and B among three kinds of informa­ tion assumed here. 2.2. Behavioral means of communication The above sets of information are exchanged by means of behavior, which can be classified into two descriptive divisions: vocal and non-vocal behavior. 'Vocal behavior' includes all actions involved in producing speech, while 'non-vocal behavior' signifies communicative activities other than speech, such as gestures, and posture. In comparison 'verbal behavior' is the actual words used which can be considered as units in language. 'NonSPEAKER

HEARER

INFORMATION TYPE A: Content information Emotional information INFORMATION TYPE B: Familiarity-related information Respect-related information

Verbal Behavior Nonverbal Behavior

INFORMATION TYPE C: Turn-taking information Figure 1 : Assumed exchanges of information during daily conversations

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verbal behavior' is all vocal and non-vocal conversational behavior which is not verbal (Laver and Hutchenson 1972). All activities employed by participants in a conversation can be explained using this fourfold divisions as shown in Table 1. In short, in the system of communication five kinds of information are intermingled. These five items are, in turn, conveyed by behavioral means which can be clas­ sified using the above fourfold divisions. Examples for each division and major field of research are listed in Table I. The examination of Japanese nonverbal behavior analyzed in Section 4-9 is limited in range to the non­ verbal behavior listed under "kinesics" and "proxemics" in the table.

Category

Verbal

Nonverbal

Examples

Major field of research

Vocal (Audible)

Spoken words

Non-vocal (Visible)

Written words

Vocal (Audible)

Voice qualities Vocalization

Non-vocal (Visible)

Gestures, postures, facial expressions, eye-contact, physical contact, way of walking, etc.

Kinesics

Proximity factors, treatment of time and space

Proxemics

Linguistics

Paralinguistics

Style of dress, makeup using perfume, etc. Table 1 : Classification of behavioral means of communication

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3.

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Assumption for cultural influence on nonverbal communication

3.1. Two major hypotheses Two major hypotheses regarding nonverbal behavior have attracted consid­ erable interest from researchers. One is that ways of expressing emotion appear to be universal, and the other is that nonverbal behavior takes on different patterns according to each culture. The former statement was at first made by C. Darwin in his book, The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals (1872), which is the earliest work of modern communication theory. He postulates that major expres­ sive actions are not learned by the individual, but are innate or inherited. For instance, children only two or three years old, or who are born blind, blush with shame. Less common gestures such as shrugging the shoulders as a sign of impotence, or raising the arms with open hands and extended fin­ gers as a sign of wonder are, he states, innate. Picking out these examples, he insists on the universality of body movements as follows: We can thus also understand the fact that the young and the old of widely different races, both with man and animals, express the same state of mind by the same movements (Darwin 1872).

In contrast, E. Sapir insists that "all cultural behavior is patterned," and that normal human beings react in accordance with deep-seated cultural patterns which are not so much known as felt (Sapir 1968). This is the fact that the meaning of some nonverbal behavior is different according to each culture. J. Fast shows an example of a Puerto Rican girl in his book, who was misunderstood and regarded as an insincere student by her American teacher (Fast 1970). In her country, when people talk to each other, they refuse to meet the eyes. This is a sign of respect in her native locale but the American teacher regarded her expression as a sign of insincerity in accor­ dance with his country's custom. As this example shows, there are different interpretations which can be established from culture to culture for the same nonverbal behavior. This kind of opinion is mainly supported by anthropologists, who pay attention to cultural differences, although the uni­ versal hypothesis is mainly supported by ethologists who seek for something in common between man and animals.

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3.2. Assumption for cultural influence on nonverbal behavior This paper does not deny either Darwin's or Sapir's assertion. Both exam­ ples listed above, of children who are born blind and blush with shame, and that of a Puerto Rican girl who was misunderstood because of a culturally different meaning for the same look, are facts. Instead, I wish to propose that cultural influence on nonverbal behavior is much greater than might generally be expected, by showing in the following section some examples of Japanese behavior which are deeply connected with traditional Japanese culture. To show the existence of such behavior in itself, partially supports Sapir's hypothesis, however, this paper doesn't deny Darwin's either. The basic idea of this paper is that both universal nonverbal behavior and rela­ tive nonverbal behavior do exist, yet there is the possibility that both are influenced by culture. I assume the following four classifications of cultural influence on nonverbal behavior. TYPES OF NONVERBAL BEHAVIOR IN RELATION TO CULTURE UNIVERSAL NONVERBAL BEHAVIOR: TYPE 1: Universal due to shared biological makeup. TYPE 2: Originally universal, yet influenced by culture. RELATIVE NONVERBAL BEHAVIOR: TYPE 3: Peculiar to a particular culture. TYPE 4: Relative nonverbal behavior introduced to different culture. Type 1 is universal nonverbal behavior determined by the biological makeup of humans. For instance, the use of a smile to show pleasure or of crying for sadness (illust. 1) are included here.

Illustration 1

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Type 2 is nonverbal behavior which may originally have been universal, yet due to cultural influences, etc., has been changed. Some ways of smiling or crying are included here. For example, people living in other cultural areas feel that the Japanese are always smiling and this is called the Japanese smile. Covering the mouth with a hand or hands when smiling (illust. 2) is also one culturally influenced example.

Illustration 2 Type 3 is relative nonverbal behavior peculiar to a particular cultural area. For instance, the Japanese indicate one's female lover by the little finger (il­ lust. 3) and one's male lover by the thumb.

Illustration 3

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Type 4 is relative nonverbal behavior which is introduced to countries hav­ ing different cultures, and this varies according to each culture. In the case of a handshake, the original behavior (photo 1) is to shake the partner's hand firmly using the right hand while looking fixedly at the partner. Japanese do not shake hands firmly and hesitate to gaze at the partner's eye. Moreover, a Japanese person's handshakes sometimes follows bowing (illust. 4), for Japanese bow in the same contexts that Americans use a handshake, such as during introductions.

Photo 1

Illustration 4

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In this way both universal nonverbal behavior and relative nonverbal behavior are influenced by culture. As was explained above, nonverbal behavior of types 2, 3, and 4 are influenced by culture. The influence of every culture on nonverbal behavior, therefore, is much greater than might be expected. In the following sections, two hypotheses for examining Japanese and American cultural influence on Japanese nonverbal behavior will be illus­ trated using concrete examples of Japanese nonverbal behavior together with photographs or illustrations collected originally for this research. Assumption for the system of communication and that for cultural influence on nonverbal behavior presented in this section will be the framework for this examination. As a limitation, Types A and B as a kind of information, nonverbal behavior studied as kinesics and proxemics as a behavioral means, and Type 3 as a cultural influence on nonverbal behavior will mainly be focused upon in the examination in sections 4-9. 4.

Aspects of Japanese nonverbal behavior in relation to traditional cul­ ture

4.1. Purpose and data The purpose of the analysis presented in the second half of this paper (sec­ tions 4-9) is to explore the relation between Japanese nonverbal behavior and Japanese traditional culture. Elements of culture, clothes (section 5), food (section 6), shelter (section 7) and religion (section 8) have been cho­ sen, because they are deeply connected with the Japanese people's way of living, and customs found in everyday life. We will look at how these ele­ ments of Japanese culture influence and regulate Japanese nonverbal behavior as compared with some nonverbal behavior of Americans. The examination will be based on the two hypotheses originally presented in this section. Examples of Japanese nonverbal behavior occurring frequently during everyday life will be cited from Japanese and American TV dramas and movies recorded on VTR, as well as some cartoon magazines in Japanese. The names of the TV programs, the broadcasting stations, and broadcast dates are: Japanese TV programs: Item 1: "Yuugurete" (NHK) 30/1/1983. Item 2: "Yami no naka ni kaoru" (Fuji) 23/1/1983.

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Item 3: "Tokugawa Ieyasu" (NHK) 16, 23, 30/1/1983. Item 4: "Itsuka tasogare no machi de" (TBS) 1, 8/10/1981. Item 5: "Sasame yuki" (NTV) 20/11/1980. American movie and TV program: Item 6: "Yesterday" (NTV) 10/3/1982. Item 7: "The Adventure of Miss Kate" (NHK) 13/2/1983. Cartoons: "Big Comics" / "Big Comics Original" published by Shogakukan. 4.2. Hypotheses Examination of Japanese nonverbal behavior using the above data were made based on the following two hypotheses concerning Japanese nonver­ bal behavior. Hypothesis 1 : Much Japanese nonverbal behavior results from traditional Japanese culture involving clothes, food, shelter, and reli­ gion. Hypothesis 2: Modern Japanese life styles have been greatly westernized, Japanese nonverbal behavior is still regulated by traditional Japanese culture basically. To illustrate these two hypotheses, concrete examples of Japanese nonverbal behavior will be shown in the order clothes, food, shelter, and religion. At the beginning of each example, a brief introduction of the per­ tinent Japanese cultural feature will be given. 5.

Japanese nonverbal behavior in relation to clothing

5.1. Kimono Traditionally Japanese have worn the kimono. America, as well as Europe, has had a culture of form-fitting clothes of various parts and styles that use zippers, buttons, snaps, etc. for securing. The kimono is made of 'tanmono' (textile fabrics), and the style and size of the kimono almost never vary. The kimono has sleeves and a body. The length of the body is the same from the shoulder to the foot, and individual differences in height are hand­ led by adjusting the fabric around the waist each time the kimono is put on. This way of adjusting the length of the kimono is called ohashori. In the case of a woman's kimono, the only difference in style appears in the length

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of the sleeves, as they hang down from the arm, either to the waist or to the knee. The former style is for married women and the latter for young unmarried ladies. The kimono is worn by overlapping the robe in front of the body and securing it in place using strings and a wide belt called obi. 5.2. Japanese nonverbal behavior regulated by the kimono Compared to western form-fitting clothes, the kimono is unsuitable for active behavior, as the obi easily becomes untied and the kimono dissheveled. The legs can also easily appear through the train of the kimono. This restrictive nature of the kimono influences and regulates Japanese nonverbal behavior, especially that of women. Following are some concrete examples of Japanese women's nonverbal behavior when wearing a kimono. Ex. 1. Adjusting the sides. When sitting up straight on tatami (photo 2) or when sitting on a chair (photo 3) Japanese women wearing the kimono adjust both sides to fit tight around their knees. Also they are careful not to raise the arms to expose the underarm area as this part of the kimono is slit open. The elbows are held close to the body.

Photo 2

Photo 3

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Ex. 2. Aligning the tips of fingers or toes. Photos 2 and 3 also show a feature of Japanese women's behavior, that involving alignment of the finger or toetips. These two examples are part of the basic etiquette of Japanese women wearing the kimono. Ex. 3. Handling an object with both hands. Another aspect of Japanese womanly behavior is the handling of an object with both hands even if this could otherwise be managed with only one. This gesture indicates that the object is being handled carefully. Photo 4 shows a Japanese woman wearing a kimono holding a cup of green tea with both hands. Control of the object is predominantly carried out using the right hand. The left hand is added in order to support the object carefully.

Photo 4 Ex. 4. Hiding one's mouth with hand or hands. Japanese women dislike opening their mouths wide, because this behavior is considered rude and runs counter to the quietude of a kimono, so they conceal their mouths dur­ ing conversation, while laughing and while eating (illust. 5).

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Illustration 5 The above four examples of behavior can be seen typically at a tea ceremony where many women wearing a kimono are requested to behave gracefully. The restrictive form of the tightly wrapped kimono, secured obi, and flap-like sleeves directly influences the movements of the wearer result­ ing in slow controlled gestures that have come to be considered 'ladylike' in women. 5.3. Japanese nonverbal behavior as influenced by western clothing Because of the popularization of western form-fitting clothes, young women of modern Japan usually wear skirts or jeans. Compare a Japanese woman wearing a kimono with a Japanese wearing jeans. The graceful behavior of a woman wearing a kimono makes a complete change to the following behavior: stretching the legs, lifting a hand and waving energeti­ cally, crossing the legs, resting the chin on the hands and so forth. These actions fit the active nature of western clothes. Woman behaving this way in daily life is considered to be the result of the introduction of western clothes, although active gestures have been mostly adopted by young people. If a woman wears a kimono, she can't behave in these ways because of this restrictive nature. It can thus be reasoned that some basic behavioral patterns are regulated by one factor of culture, that of clothing design. Due to the effect of western clothing, the behavior patterns of Japanese women have been changing considerably in recent years. How­ ever, as was assumed in hypothesis 2, the four kinds of behavior mentioned above as Japanese womanly behavior still exist as usual behavior even when

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Japanese women wear western clothing. The behavior of not exposing the underarm is seen when a woman listens to a partner's speech (illust. 6). The behavior of handling things with both hands with care is seen when she pours out tea (illust. 7), drinks tea, serves beer (illust. 8), and when holding the telephone receiver (illust. 9). The behavior of aligning fingers or toes is seen when a woman wearing a dress or skirt sits straight (illust. 10) or when she talks standing with her superiors, and so forth. Despite western clothes, such gestures are still considered feminine and proper.

Illustration 6

Illustration 8

Illustration 7

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Illustration 9

Illustration 10 Hypothesis 2 can also be examined by comparing a Japanese woman wearing a skirt with an American woman wearing a skirt. Let's take exam­ ples from a school classroom. Female students in America may cross their legs or arms or slouch during lessons, and teachers may lean on their desks or sometimes sit on their student's desks when they teach. This is a familiar sight in an American school. Yet even when wearing the same style of clothing as Americans, female students in Japan are not allowed to take such postures. In compari­ son with the students of the past, postwar students may take more relaxed postures; however, many of the students sit straight and don't lean on desks or slouch, and teachers never sit on their own or student's desks when

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teaching. In old times when the kimono was an everyday style of dress, both teachers and students sat straight on tatami during lessons. Such Japanese behavior was appropriate for and controlled by Japanese tradi­ tional clothing, and the norms established at that time still have a strong influence on behavior in classrooms today. 6.

Japanese nonverbal behavior in relation to style of eating

6.1. Washoku Traditional Japanese food and cooking is referred to here as washoku. The predominant manner of eating is to use chopsticks, while in America, for­ mal dining traditionally makes use of a knife, fork, spoon and a napkin. Typical Japanese food includes rice, miso soup, tsukemono (pickles), tofu (bean curd), natto (fermented soybeans), green tea, nori (sea weed), sushi (vinegared fish and rice) and so on. These foods are served using Japanese style tableware such as chawan (rice bowl), hashi (chopsticks), owan (bowl), and kozara (small dish or plate). A typical alcoholic drink is sake (Japanese rice wine) which is made from rice. Sake is usually warmed and served in a small ceramic bottle called a tokkuri, and is poured out into a special cup called an ochoko (illust. 11).

Illustration 11

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The basic difference between the Japanese way of eating and the American is as follows. In washoku-style, food is served in the kitchen into a variety of dishes designated for each guest individually. A reserved attitude is preferable at the table. Thus, to begin eating before the hostess urges taking food, or, in case of the guest, to request another bowl of rice is considered ill-mannered. On the contrary, in American-style eating, the basic attitude is to take and eat the food freely and even pass the food around to others. To enjoy eating and talking in a relaxed mood is wel­ comed. 6.2. Japanese nonverbal behavior as determined by washoku-style eating Now let us examine Japanese nonverbal behavior affected and produced by washoku-style eating. Ex. 1. Behavior while serving guests sake. When an American drinks beer he usually fills his glass by himself, yet the Japanese pour sake for each other. Usually the host firstly picks up the tokkuri and urges the guest to try some. Then the guest holds up his own ochoko, in which the host pours sake. In return, the guest then pours sake into the host's ochoko. This way of serving sake is repeated again and again when a partner's ochoko is empty. This manner of serving sake back and forth is called oshaku. It is not good manners while drinking sake for a guest to ask for another cup of sake or to pour one by himself, though at an informal party held among intimate members, this is not considered so ill-mannered. This custom has also produced the characteristic gesture of lifting one's cup slightly and nod­ ding. This means "that's enough." Ex. 2. Stretching out one's hand. This behavior is part of Japanese etiquette when invited as guests, particularly for tea. It is polite for guests to leave untouched the dishes set before them until they are urged to eat by the host, who uses the following actions. The host extends his hand time and time again while saying "please try some" after offering guests confec­ tioneries or food (illust. 12). In America, it is polite to wait for all members to be seated before beginning the meal. When invited as a guest there, it is not desirable to appear too hesitant, so if dinner is served it is polite to eat enthusiastically and praise the meal highly. Also, it is not ill-mannered to ask for a second helping. Guests are typically not served each portion by the hostess but are free to take their own portions from dishes of food that

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Illustration 12 are passed around the table. So the gesture of stretching out the hand to insist is not conventional in the States. In the case of serving confectioneries at tea time, Japanese guests sometimes don't eat at all, and just take a sip of green tea even though the host urges the guests to try the sweets using an extend hand gesture repeatedly. It is good manners for the Japanese not to touch the food served at all. 6.3. Japanese nonverbal behavior under the influence of western-style of eat­ ing Next let us examine hypothesis 2. I will pick out examples of behavior in which the effect of Japanese customs of eating is strongly present even in this day and age when western food is the usual fare. Ex, a. Serving beer to each other like osake. If two persons order beer, each one gets a small bottle and a glass in America, but in Japan, one commonly gets one large bottle of beer with two glasses. The drinking partners then serve each other (illust. 13, 14). This custom stems from the oshaku way of serving sake. Even if beer is the western beverage, the way of serving it is based on and affected by the style of serving sake.

Illustration 13

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Illustration 14 Ex. b. Western food with chopsticks. Today western food is often served on the table of families in Japan, but quite commonly such foods are not eaten with a knife and a fork but with chopsticks. Moreover, there are several restaurants which serve western food with chopsticks. Ex. c. Hesitation to take food freely. At a buffet dinner party, Japanese hesitate to take food dished out on a big plate, and find themselves more at ease when the host serves food on their plates. On the contrary, Americans prefer taking portions by themselves to being served by the host. That is, Americans set great value on one's own way of eating. Ex. d. Set menus rather than one's own preference. Americans set great value on one's own preference while the Japanese tend to follow their part­ ner's preference. This tendency can be seen in breakfast menus of the two countries. The Japanese like set menus, and guests often can choose from only one, or perhaps two or three set menus when staying in Japanese hotels. On the other hand, in a hotel in America, the customer can select the way the eggs are cooked, the sort of bread and kinds of juice he wants.

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Ex. e. Replacing of a tea spoon in a similar position as chopsticks. After using a tea spoon, it is usually replaced behind the cup on the saucer; the Japanese, however, sometimes put it on the saucer in front of the cup. This arises from the habit of replacing chopsticks in front of the table setting on a special rest. For Japanese people, appearing hesitant and showing reservation have been considered virtues of the past. Therefore, they tend to restrain their own tastes and are willing to follow the lead of their companions. Hosts must urge guests to have a cup of tea, to start eating a meal or have dessert. This Japanese manner or way of eating, which was formed in the old days when western food or manners had not yet been introduced is still alive in today's everyday life. Although Japan has introduced western food, the Japanese have not adopted the American style of eating, such as openly asserting one's own taste, and eating freely and unreservedly. 7.

Japanese nonverbal behavior in relation to shelter

7.1. Tatami Most houses in Japan have a Japanese style room with tatami, while the American counterparts have a western style room with carpeting on which chairs or sofas are placed. A tatami room is a space which can be used for various purposes. For instance, a tatami room can be used as a bedroom if the bedding is laid out at night and can be changed into a living room in the daytime, for it is the custom to put away the bedding every morning; or a low table with folding legs can be set up and used for any number of activities such as eating or studying. Each western room, however, has an individual purpose which cannot be changed easily. In a western room Americans sit on a chair or sofa with shoes on, but the Japanese never enter a tatami room wearing shoes and they sit on a zabuton (cushion) on the tatami. A tatami room, which provides no sitting accomodation other than the floor, produces a sitting-culture, while a western style room complete with chairs and sofas produces a standing-culture. The Japanese have to sit with both legs folded under them on a zabuton placed on tatami; yet in the west­ ern room, Americans can sit on chairs or sofas and this posture is a halfstanding posture compared with the Japanese floor level sitting posture.

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Concerning this Japanese sitting-culture and American standing-cul­ ture, Tamasaburo Bando, one of the most famous kabuki actors playing female roles, mentions the difference between Japanese kabuki drama and western drama regarding acting as follows: in the case of Japanese drama, he delivers his lines looking at a partner from a floor-level position. He acts when seated on tatami, stands for moving, and then again sits for acting. On the contrary, in a western drama, he delivers his lines standing on the same level with men and throwing out his chest even if he acts a woman's part. He stands for acting, sits for a while, and then stands for acting again. The actor's comments give us a good insight into the difference between the Japanese sitting-culture and the American standing-culture. 7.2. Japanese nonverbal behavior produced by tatami-room As examples of nonverbal behavior produced by a tatami-room, sitting behavior and greeting behavior are explained below. Concerning the former behavior, there are three ways for sitting on tatami, namely seiza, agura, and yoko-suwari. Concerning the latter, 'bowing' is a typical Japanese greeting behavior, which is produced by a sitting-culture. The Japanese preference for avoiding eye-contact with a partner, and that for personal distance in face-to-face interaction, stem from this greeting behavior. Ex. 1. Three ways of sitting on tatami. The first one is to sit up with the back very straight (photo 5). This way of sitting is called seiza and it is the most polite way of sitting on tatami by a Japanese wearing either a kimono or western clothes. The other two are relaxed ways of sitting. One for men and another for women. The relaxed style of sitting for men is called agura which means to sit with one's legs crossed in front (illust. 15, 16). The relaxed way of sitting on tatami for women is to just place both legs to the side and sit relaxed (illust. 17), so that it is sometimes called yoko-suwari. When visiting someone's home, it is the etiquette of the Japanese to sit up straight on tatami. The visitor can take a relaxed pose after the host says, "Make yourself at home."

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Illustration 15

Photo 5

Illustration 16

Illustration 17

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Ex. 2. Bowing. This is a typical Japanese greeting behavior. There are three styles, that is, formal, average, and informal. The formal style is made by sitting straight and putting both hands on the tatami with one's head bowed down low (photo 6). The average style is also made by sitting straight, yet by putting both hands on the lap, and adjusting the tips of the fingers (photo 7). The degree of lowering the head is not so deep in comparison with the formal style. The informal style is sometimes made by sitting straight, and sometimes done by sitting in a relaxed way as explained above. The head is slightly lowered like nodding.

Photo 6

Photo 7

Cf. Handshaking. The American standing-culture produces a handshake which is also the typical American greeting behavior. A handshake is to shake the partner's hand firmly using the right hand while looking fixedly at the partner, and to shake two or three times. These two nonverbal behaviors produced by a sitting-culture and a standing-culture, respectively, show clear differences in the way of using eye-contact and that of treating distance.

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Illustration 18 Ex. 3. Bowing, avoiding eye-contact and maintaining distance. In the case of bowing, it is not necessary to meet the partner's eyes and to get closer inten­ tionally. Rather than this, avoiding eye contact and maintaining distance from the partner are signs of showing respect to the partner if he is a person of high standing. In the past a person of humble origin or the subordinate sat at a distance from the superior with his head held low (illust. 18). With­ out permission of the person of higher status, it was forbidden to shorten the distance between the two or to meet the eyes of the superior. These two points concerning eye-contact and distance are of the deep-seated Japanese behavioral patterns which can be seen even nowadays especially between a superior and a subordinate. Cf. Handshaking, meeting eyes and getting closer. On the contrary, an important point in shaking hands is to meet the partner's eyes and shake the partner's hand firmly at a close distance, and sometimes even touching the partner on the arm or shoulder with the free hand (left hand). This form has exactly the opposite character that a bow has. Therefore the Japanese are hesitant to meet eyes and assume a close distance to shake hands and lack firmness in the grip. This may be because the Japanese are unfamiliar with, and hence, uneasy with greetings which involve gazing at each other and which are performed within touching distance of partners.

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7.3. Japanese nonverbal behavior under the influence of a western style room Now let us turn to hypothesis 2. The following are the examples of behaviors, which are still in use among the Japanese despite the introduc­ tion of the western style room. Ex. a. Bowing rather than handshaking. The handshake seems to have been introduced together with the American standing-culture and became one of the popular greeting gestures in Japan. However, the examination concern­ ing the frequency of use of Japanese greeting behavior (Tohyama 1983; Tohyama and Ford 1982a, 1982c) shows that bowing appears in more than 70% of the data, while handshaking was found only in a few examples. Cf. Three styles of bowing in a standing posture. The formal style is to bow down deeply and sometimes hold that position while putting the tips of the fingers or toes in alignment, and the body is tensed up (photo 8). The degree of politeness of this type is equivalent to the formal style of bowing on tatami. This type is used towards a person who is to be respected. As the head is bowed down deeply, the eyes can't meet. It is not impolite, of course. The long length of time the downward bow is held is more polite than looking directly into one another's eyes. The normal style (photo 9) is used frequently in daily life among neighbours of friends, etc. The differ­ ence between the formal style and the normal one is related to the degree of bowing down and that of relaxation of the body or the tips of fingers or toes. In this style, the degree of bending of the back is not so deep com­ pared with the formal style, and the standing body is also more relaxed, yet usually the tips of the fingers or toes are aligned. The informal style is a somewhat abbreviated form compared with the former two styles, that is, the back of the body is bent a little or is not bent at all while only the head bows down like nodding. The standing posture is relaxed. In this type, the head does not bow down, so that the eyes sometimes meet but it is much shorter than the time allotted when Americans gaze at each other while shaking hands. This type is used by young people and also among intimate persons like family or friends. These three types and the basic sitting form on tatami are used in Japanese daily life today.

Photo 8

Photo 9

Ex. b. Avoiding eye-contact in the case of a quarrel. The Japanese custom of avoiding eye-contact has not changed after the introduction of the hand­ shake in which the meeting of the eyes is one of the important factors. One example is found in the case of a quarrel: a Japanese sometimes turns his back upon another person although the latter is making a complaint (illust. 19). Americans never avoid eye-contact when they quarrel. They habitually fix the eyes on the other person. This gazing comes from the position of handshaking, and the Japanese avoidance of eye-contact comes from the form of bowing, because bowing is the posture of lowering the head, so that people's eyes can't meet. This is the every day greeting behavior for the Japanese, therefore, they feel uneasy when someone's eyes are fixed on them.

Illustration 19

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Ex. c. Interpretation of a handshake between man and woman. One more example for hypothesis 2 can be seen in an interpretation of the handshake between young men and women. In the case of Americans, a handshake between lovers would be strange, indicating that the degree of intimacy between the two had lessened, because normal greeting and farewell behavior is to kiss. The distance assumed for a handshake is far compared with the distance assumed for kissing, and correspondingly, a handshake is far less intimate than kissing. On the other hand, in the case of the Japanese, the distance for a handshake is much closer than that for bowing. Furthermore a handshake requires touching the partner, indicating inti­ macy, while bowing does not. Therefore, a handshake is a sign of intimacy for the Japanese. This example, too, shows that even when Japanese imitate an American gesture, they place it in the context of their native repertoire of nonverbal behavior and interpret its meaning accordingly. 8.

Japanese nonverbal behavior in relation to religion

8.1. Shinto gods and Buddhism The Japanese are predominantly believers in Shinto gods and Buddhism, while Americans has predominantly a culture based on Christianity. A shrine is the place of worship for Shinto and a temple is the place of worship for Buddhism. Most Japanese follow the religion of their parents, but selec­ tion of any religion is free and adhering to different religions simulta­ neously is accepted legally and socially. Consequently, there are families in which one member believes in Shintoism and another believes in Christ. Moreover, it is acceptable for the Japanese not to adhere to any religion at all. This tendency can be seen particularly in the younger generation. How­ ever, Shinto gods and Buddha are the main objects of worship in Japan. 8.2. Japanese nonverbal behavior influenced by Shinto and Buddhism One of the typical nonverbal behavior examples concerning religion is a pose of 'joined hands,' putting the hands together in front of one's face and lowering one's head, eyes closed (illust. 20). This pose of praying is com­ mon to both Shintoism and Buddhism. The only difference is that the hands are clapped twice for Shintoism and not at all for Buddhism. On the other hand, the base of American religious nonverbal behavior is forming a cross over the breast, one of the most important elements in Christianity.

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Illustration 20 Ex. 1. Pose of joined hands which has different meanings. In the case of the Japanese, this pose of joined hands can be seen in many places of Japanese everyday life in addition to praying to gods and Buddha. For instance, it is used when a person wants to show appreciation to a partner, saying "On ni kimasu" ("I am indebted to you"), when a person makes an earnest appeal to a person for something, saying "Onegai shimasu" ("I beg of you") or without a word (illust. 21), and when a person begins to eat a meal, saying "Itadaki masu" (loosely, "I receive this meal") (illust. 22).

Illustration 21

Illustration 22

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Ex. 2. Vertical placement of one hand. A variation of the joined hands pose is the vertical placement of one hand in front of one's face, with the thumb towards the face. This is considered to be the omission of one hand from folded hands (Kobayashi 1975) and can be seen in the following contexts: before receiving something, saying "Sumanai-ne" (expressing indebted­ ness) (illust. 23), when a person passes in front of an other person, saying "Chotto shitsurei" ("Excuse me") (illust 24), and when one person parts from an other, saying "Ja mata" or "Ja, shitsurei" ("See you later") (illust. 25).

Illustration 23

Illustration 24

Illustration 25

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Photo 10 In the case of Americans, the pose for praying differs from the Japanese in the height of the joined hands, that is, the Japanese join their hands in front of their faces, but Americans generally fold hands in front of their chests. Moreover, the effect of Christian culture on everyday behavior can be seen in the act of making a cross rather than in this pose of praying. For instance some Americans cross themselves when they hear of some­ one's death or see a terrible sight, and the gesture of crossed fingers mean­ ing "Good luck!" was originally symbolic of the cross (photo 10) (Morris 1979). 8.3. Japanese nonverbal behavior under the influence of Christianity Turning to hypothesis 2, the strong influence of Shintoism and Buddhism on the nonverbal behavior of the Japanese can be seen in the following facts: even though there are Christians in Japan, the gesture of making a cross does not prevail so much; also, if a Japanese is a Christian, he still will use a pose of joined hands, which comes from Shintoism and Buddhism, when he earnestly requests a favor or when he wants to apologize. 9.

Discussions and summary

In this section, I will first summarize the results of the examination pre­ sented in section 5-8, along with two hypotheses proposed in section 4. After that, the background of the proposed hypotheses will be discussed, and finally this paper will be summarized.

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9.1. Discussions — two hypotheses and the results of the examination Along with hypotheses 1 and 2 presented in section 4, I have examined what Japanese nonverbal behavior is by citing examples from nonverbal behavior seen in everyday life and comparing them with the American counterparts. Hypothesis 1 is that many of these gestures are based on and produced by Japanese traditional culture as related to clothing, food, shel­ ter and religion. Hypothesis 2 is that although the Japanese way of living is westernized today, Japanese nonverbal behavior is still deeply influenced by traditional culture. A) Clothes B) 1 > 2> 3> 4>

kimono

inactive style of clothes

Adjusting the sides and not exposing the underarm Aligning the tips of fingers or toes Handling an object with both hands Hiding one's mouth with a hand or hands

A) Food

washoku

reserved attitude is a virtue at the table

B) 1 > Behavior while serving guests sake (oshaku) 2 > Stretching out one's hand A) Shelter B) 1 > 2> 3> 4> 5> 6>

tatami-room

the floor as sitting area

Sitting up with the back very straight (seiza) Sitting by placing both legs to the side and relaxed Sitting with one's legs crossed (agura) Bowing Prefer maintaining a distance for greeting Prefer avoiding gaze to meeting eyes

A) Religion

Shinto gods and Buddha

B) 1 > Joined hands 2 > Vertical placement of one hand Figure 2

praying by using hands

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By examining hypothesis 1, we have already seen that traditional cul­ ture concerning the basic living style (cf. items A in Fig. 2) regulates and produces certain behavioral patterns (cf. item B). The basic living style produces the behavioral patterns I have sum­ marized above. However, if only the basic living style is responsible for pro­ ducing behavioral patterns, then the Japanese would have to behave like Americans in today's everyday life, because an American living style has already been adopted by Japan and as a result the Japanese life style has greatly changed to a westernized one. As we have seen in hypothesis 2, modern Japanese still behave fundamentally like the Japanese of past gen­ erations. As reasons for this tendency, I offer the following two: 1. In the background of the basic living style of each nation, the nature of the individual people exists (see item C in Fig. 3). In fact, human nature is the fundamental element to produce and regulate both the basic living style (item A) and consequent behavior (item B). This human nature, because of its inherited character, cannot be changed readily at the base, so that as a result, Japanese behavioral form has not changed greatly.

C) Nature and custom of the individual people A) Traditional culture concerning basic living style of the society B) Behavioral pattern of the nation Figure 3 In the case of Japanese nonverbal behavior concerning clothes, we can find such Japanese characters as modesty, grace, scrupulousness, and humility, which are different from the American character of relaxing, openness, asserting oneself. The intrinsic nature of the Japanese people has in turn produced a modest style of clothes called kimono, and this nature regulates Japanese behavior as I have summarized in Fig. 3. 2. The other reason is the following Japanese characteristic: the Japanese take in new things easily, however, they modify new things to relate to the base of Japanese traditional culture, customs and way of thinking.

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Nevertheless, even if surface phenomena appear changed because of com­ promising new things with old values, the base does not change. As long as this quality of the Japanese personality does not change, fundamental behavioral patterns will not change to any remarkable degree. The relation between the Japanese nature, basic living style and behavioral pattern can be considered as shown in Fig. 4. Item C is the fun­ damental element to produce and regulate item A and item B. Item A' has already been introduced into Japan and has had much effect on item A, yet item B' produced by item A' has a little influence on item B. The reason of this tendency is item D on the one hand and the unchangeable character of item C on the other. C) Nature and custom of Japanese individuals A) Traditional Japanese culture concerning basic living style B) Behavioral pattern of Japanese

A') American culture concerning basic living style B') Behavioral pattern of Americans

D) Japanese nature: Taking in new, different things easily, yet not changing the basic personality. Figure 4 9.2. Summary of this paper In the first half of this paper, that is from section 1 to section 3, I presented two theoretical assumptions; one is for the system of communication and the other is for cultural influence on nonverbal communication. The former is as follows: it is in the system of communication that three kinds of infor­ mation subdivided into five features, namely Information type A (Content and Emotional information), Information type B (Familiarity-related and Respect-related information), and Information type C (Turn-taking infor­ mation) are mingled with one another, and are conveyed by both verbal

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and nonverbal behavioral means. In the latter, I assume that the following four Types for classifying cultural influence on nonverbal behavior: Type 1. Universal as the same biological make-up; Type 2. Originally universal yet influenced by culture; Type 3. Peculiar to a particular cultural area; Type 4. Relative nonverbal behavior introduced to different cultural areas. Both assumptions were used as the basic framework for the examination con­ cerning Japanese nonverbal behavior analysed in the second half of this paper. As a limitation, type A and B as a kind of information, nonverbal behavior studied as kinesics and proxemics as a behavioral means, and Type 3 as the cultural influence on nonverbal behavior were mainly focused upon in the examination in sections 4-9. In the second half, I analyzed the relationship between Japanese non­ verbal behavior and Japanese culture, based on the following two hypothesis: 1. Much of Japanese nonverbal behavior results from tradi­ tional Japanese culture concerning clothes, food, shelter and religion; 2. Although the Japanese life style today is greatly westernized, Japanese non­ verbal behavior is still regulated by traditional Japanese culture. As a result, we found Japanese nonverbal behavior as it appears in everyday life as a reflection of Japanese traditional culture, especially related to the basic living pattern such as kimono-style clothes (section 5), washoku-style of eating and the consequent etiquette at the table (section 6), living space which has tatami in Japanese style rooms (section 7) and the custom of praying to gods and Buddha (section 8). This cultural influence on nonver­ bal behavior is much greater than might be expected, as I have only touched on the most prominent aspect in this paper. Closer analysis would perhaps reveal more subtle yet recognizable influence on Japanese behavior. Discussions on hypotheses 1 and 2 illustrated using examples from TV dramas, movies and cartoons are the following: as well as the cultural influ­ ence, the inherent Japanese nature is also an important factor to consider for regulating behavioral patterns and relates to the tendency described in hypothesis 2. Moreover the following Japanese nature itself also relates to this tendency: Japanese absorb new different things easily, however they themselves don't change so easily. These discussions shown in Fig. 3 and 4 have not been proved yet by the concrete examination. I dare to say that the points concerning the nature of the Japanese is not easy to discuss in such a simplified manner. Further study from an anthropological or sociopsychological viewpoint is necessary to explore these discussions.

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References Akutagawa, R. 1964. Rashomon and Other Stories, translated by G.W. Shaw. Tokyo: Hara Publishing Co., Ltd. Birdwhistell, R.L. 1952. Introduction to Kinesics: An Annotation system for Analysis of Body Motion and Gesture. Foreign Service Inst., Dept. of State, Washington D.C. Ann Arbor, Mich.: University microfilms. . 1970. Kinesics and Context. Essays on Body Motion Communication. Philadel­ phia: Univ. of Pennsylvania Press. . 1972a. "Kinesics and Communication." Language, ed. by Virginia P. Clark. . 1972b. "Paralanguage Twenty-five years after Sapir." Communication in Faceto-Face Interaction, ed. by J. Laver and S. Hutchenson. Harmondsworth: Penquin Books. Darwin, C. 1872. The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals. Chicago and London: The Univ. of Chicago Press. Davis, M. & J. Skupien. 1982. Body Movement and Nonverbal Communication: An Annotated Bibliography, 1971-1980. Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press. Dazai, O. 1956. The Setting Sun. Translated by Donald Keene. Tokyo: Hara publishing Co., Ltd. Ekman, P., E.R. Sorenson and W.V. Friesen. 1969. "Pan-Cultural Elements in Facial Displays of Emotion." Science, Vol. 164. No. 3875. Fast, J. 1970. Body Language. New York: M. Evans. Hall, E.T. 1959. The Silent Language. New York: Doubleday. . 1963. "A System for the Notation of Proxemic Behavior." American Anthropologist 65. . 1966. The Hidden Dimension. New York: Doubleday. . 1983. The Dance of Life: the Other Dimension of Time. New York: Doubleday. Inoue, T. 1982. Manazashi no Ningen-Kankei (Human Relationships as They Appear through Eye-Contact). Tokyo: Kodansha Pub. James, H. 1970. An International Episode. Tokyo: Kenkyusha. Key, M.R. 1977. Nonverbal Communication: A Research Guide & Bibliography. Metuchen, N.J.: The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Kobayashi, Y. 1975. Miburi-Gengo no Nichiei Hikaku. Tokyo: ELEC Pub. Laver, J. & S. Hutcheson. 1972. "Introduction." Communication Face-to-Face Interac­ tion. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Morris, D., P. Collett, P. Marsh & M. O'Shaughnessy. 1979. Gestures: their Origins and Distribution. England: Jonathan Cape Ltd. Nakano, M. 1973. "Gesture; Comparison between Japanese and English." The English Teacher's Magazine. Tokyo: Taishukan Pub. Sapir, E. 1968. "The Unconscious Patterning of Behavior in Society." Selected Writings of Edward Sapir in Language, Culture and Personality, ed. by D.G. Mandelbaum. Berkeley: Univ. of California Press. Tohyama, Y. 1981. "Gengo to higengo no yoru kaiwa shinkoh mekanizumu no bunseki" ("An Analysis of the Verbal and Nonverbal Conversation Mechanism"). Studia Semiotica, No. 1. Tokyo: Hokuto Pub.

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. 1983. "A Semiotic Analysis of Meeting and Parting Rituals in Japanese and English." Proceedings of the XIIIth International Congress of Linguists. 29. August 4. September 1982, Tokyo. . 1987. "Miburi no fuhenteki kinoh to bunkateki kinoh" (Universal Function and Cultural Function of Nonverbal Behavior). Language in Human Society, eds. F.C. Peng, K. Yashiro and K. Akiyama. Hiroshima: Bunka Hyoron Pub. Tohyama, Y. and L. Ford. 1982a. "Nichibei no aisatsu kohdo no kigohgaku-teki bunseki" ("Semiotic Analysis of Japanese and American Meeting and Parting Rituals"). Studia Semiotica No. 2. Tokyo: Hokuto Pub. . 1982b. "Miburi no nichibei hikaku: miburi no jisho Nipponjin no dohsa hen--" ("A Comparison of Japanese and American Gestures: Towards a Dictionary of Ges­ tures"). Social Behavior and Language Acquisition, eds. K. Akiyama, T. Yamaguchi and F.C. Peng. Hiroshima: Bunka Hyoron Pub. . 1982c. "Aisatsu ni okeru gengo kohdoh to higengo kohdoh no nichibei hikaku" (Comparison of Verbal and Nonverbal Aspects of Greetings in Japanese and Eng­ lish). Gengo: 10th Anniversary Publication. Tokyo: Taishuukan Pub. . 1983. "Nichibei no bunkateki shiten kara mita miburi no ichi bunruihoh" (A Classification of Nonverbal Behavior Based on Cultural Comparison of Japan and the United States of America). Studia Semiotica No. 3. Tokyo: Hokuto Pub. . 1984. "Miburi no chosa ni kansuru hohhohron teki kohsatsu" (Research in Non­ verbal Behavior: A Consideration of Methodology). Studia Semiotica No. 4. Tokyo: Hokuto Pub. Trager, G.L. 1985. "Paralanguage: a First Approximation." Studies in Linguistics 13.

Cosmological Dimension of the Japanese Theater Masao Yamaguchi

1.

The concept of theatrical space in traditional Japan

Theatrical space in Japan represented a space for sacrifice. Saziki, the word for seat, derives from sazuki which denotes the platform altar for the pur­ pose of sacrifice. In ancient Japan, criminals who commited adultery with female courtiers or the physically handicaped, such as albinos, were chosen as stigmatized victims for sacrifice to the gods. They were left on the altar so that they would be slaughtered by wild beasts. Thus the sazuki served as a stage for divine victims. Its purpose changed into a seat for nobles when the original meaning was forgotten and the divinity of the occupant received special emphasis. Today the stage retains this quality of a mediating space with regard to sacrifice; the space for victimization. In a sense, the space for performance started with the idea of confrontation with the negative. It is the privileged place where the life principle is denied, where a confrontation with death occurs. Whatever forms it may take, theatrical space in Japan is not an exten­ sion of everyday space. It is situated at the limits of this world. It can be described as a space for mediation: man and gods; the world of life and the world of death; consciousness and unconsciousness; profane space and sa­ cred space. It is the place where men are dislocated in their consciousness and body from everyday context and reintegrated in a much wider frame of performance identifiable as cosmic reality (asobi-no-kyochi: ludic state). 1.1 Theater in Kagura (Music for gods) A Kagura is the semitheatrical form of performance which constitutes the core of formalized performance in rural Japan. It is thought to embody pro-

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totypical elements of such classical theatrical forms as Nō. There are sev­ eral schools of Kagura which can be defined according to the areas and routes of diffusion. Among these are Ise, Takachibo, and Hiuga in Western Japan and Yamabushi-Kagura in North Eastern Japan. There are three types of space for the performance of Kagura: (i) House as theater: the private home is used as a performance space par­ ticularly with Yamabushi-Kagura, which is performed mainly by itinerant troupes. Yamabushi-Kagura troupes perform on demand for occasions of celebration in individual families, such as the inauguration of a new house, weddings and seasonal rituals. On these occasions the tatamis of a room are removed. The floor is covered loosely with wooden planks in order to form a square platform. The performance space is further defined by enclosing it with strings or rope to which pieces of rectangular paper are attached. The planks on the floor are suitable for stamping. Yamabushi-Kagura troupes also make seasonal visits to individual households. The area covered and protected by them ritually is called kasumi. The same word is used to denote the area of influence exerted by the Yakuza (traditional mafia). There is indeed some similarity between the itinerant Kagura troupe and the Yakuza group. Both exist mainly in urban areas instead of villages or local communities, and both sponge on civilian society.1 Indeed, their existence depends on the threat, spiritual as well as physical, they pose to the local community. This explains the protection and exploitation which local Yakuza groups impose on itinerant performing troupes as well as on others who enter a community from outside for extended periods of work, such as location teams of commercial film com­ panies who may want to use a particular local area for shooting. Both groups create a dense, intensive and dangerous space outside everyday life which is the source of the force behind their performance. They both are treated with reverence and are potentially excluded from the normal pattern of life of civilian society. In this regard they have something in common with the traditional Japanese outcast group, the hisabetsumin, as well as Kabuki performers who were segregated during the Edo period (Yamaguchi 1977). (ii) Temporary theater (Booth): the Izumo Kagura performers of Western Japan raise a special booth for their performances which are given at fixed intervals of at times fourteen years or longer. The booth is usually built on a patch of high ground behind the house of the family responsible for the

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festive celebration. The space, called the kö-dono consists of four main parts: A) the room for trance and transformation B) the seats for the audience C) main stage D) interior space for performance

A

B

C

D E

Space design of Hiba-Kagura At the center of the kö-dono hangs an assemblage called the biakkai. It is said to represent celestial space. The center is connected to several strings called Kamino-michi (the god's path). The area above the perfor­ mance floor (A) can be considered as celestial space. The main stage (B) can therefore be understood as terrestrial space. Outside the playing area, is a ritual fireplace/hearth (C), which symbolizes the underworld.2 We now

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see that the kö-dono forms a cosmological complex. The gods and spirits that are invited by the priests on the festive occasion are thought to descend to earth through the biakkai (a) and kami-no-michi (b). We may interpret the entire spacial structure as resembling the human body, consisting of a head, trunk, and feet. The idea of celestial space {biakkai) is one of the common mediums of expression for divine power, called yama. It has a near equivalent in kabuki called bonten. Occasionally the special kö-dono is not built but an ordinary house is used instead. In that case the interior part of the small space between the roof and the ceiling is used to set up a special altar and to invite the gods. (iii) Formal stage (Kagura-den) : a formal stage built on the side of a Shinto shrine is also used for the performance of Kagura. 1.2 Temple as theatrical space The space of a ritual temple is equiped with interior decorations and a main ritual performance area; thus it can be considered as a theatrical space too. Apart from its use in ritual performance, the temple can be seen as a space of cosmological significance. The Yugyōji temple in Fujisawa provides an excellent example. In an annual ritual called Ittō-e performed on December 24th, there is a central performance area in front of the altar. This performance area is used in the first part of the ritual as a distinct, interior space where the novices receive sacred knowledge one by one. After the withdrawal of the chief priest (Yugyō-shōnin), all the lights of the interior of the temple are turned off and silence reigns in the main hall. This represents the darkness and silence which exists in the absence of the Buddha. Meanwhile the chief priest who went for a bath returns. Taking a ritual bath is considered to be the enact­ ment of death and rebirth in Japan as is the case in Daijö-sai (installation ceremony) where a new king lies on a ritual bed {madoko-obusuma: fetus) takes a bath, and returns to this world as a person transfigured. When the chief priest returns to the stage, the lanterns hanging from the ceiling are relit by striking flint on steel. After these lanterns are relit, the other candles in the interior are lit one by one. The devotees/audience begin to chant the incantation of the Buddha in an articulated tone, slowly and softly at first then gradually louder, ending up in a magnificent chorus rejoicing the restoration of cosmic order.

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A D

D B

D

C

D

A: altar B: mainstage C:lantern D: post This process can be compared with the myth of Amaterasu, the god­ dess of the sun, who withdraws into a cave, leaving the world in chaos and darkness. She returns to this world through the petition and trickery of the other gods, resulting in the return of light to the world. This myth shows structural contrasts, and the synthesis of light and darkness in a narrative structure. The Yugyō temple has been the center of Jishū, a sect that is distin­ guished among other Buddhist sects for its members' competence in com­ municating with the world beyond, through chanting and dancing. Ippen, the founding ancestor/priest, is said to have been endowed with this semishamanistic power by Kumano-Myojin, the god of Kumano. In their func­ tion of itinerant performers and psychopomps, the priests of Jishü became the model of tabi-no-sō, the shamanistic medium formally called waki in Nō theater. They are said to have propagated many mythological narratives of death and ressurection such as the Oguri-högan monogatari, in which Oguri a violent samurai is poisoned to death and wanders around the underworld in the form of a cripple, finally being saved by the devotion of Princess Terute and the grace of the god of Kumano.

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1.3 Shrines as theatrical space Apart from the national temple originally built or patronized by the govern­ ment, Japanese villages did not have a village temple around the 13th cen­ tury. They knew only their local shrine where they performed ritual drama with cult associations. The associations that are usually found in Western Japan are called miya-za. Miya-za is an association organized on the basis of agegroups. Before the introduction of nationally controlled priesthood and the appointment of professional priests to every village or local shrine, shrines in the villages were simple. Rituals were performed by village priests, appointed every year via a rotation system. Many of the miya-za still retain the rich tradition of ritual folk drama. Igomori matsuri (festival of incubation) of Wakuide-gu in Tanakura in Kyoto district is a good example of such a drama. Nowadays the shrine is under the custodianship of a priest appointed by the Central Office of Shintō (Jinjachō). However, on the occasion of immigomori-matsuri, the control of the shrine is taken over by one of the five cult groups (za). Nevertheless, the shrine is only a part of the whole theatrical space, which extends to the whole Tanakura area. The ritual drama enacted is based on the local myth of the founding Goddess of the shrine. There are four za nowadays that take part in the festival: 1. Furukawa-za: the descendants of the ancestor who followed the goddess. Said to have flown from Ise and settled down in the village. They are for­ mally invited to take part in the ritual as main guests. 2. Ozaki-za and Bisha-za: they represent the indigenous group which resists the goddess and the ancestor of Furukawa-za. They take part in the ritual as witnesses along with the associated group of Yoriki-za. 3. Yoriki-za: the group which takes control of the ritual. All the preparation of the ritual is carried out by this host group which supplies the temporary priest as well. The festival is held for three days in the middle of February. However, 60 days before the festival, two messengers run through the mountains making offerings to the 14 hokoras (little shrines) that are found in places the goddess passed after her arrival to the area. This pilgrimage (morimawashi) seems to be an attempt to restore the mythological space

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marked out on the occasion of the arrival of the goddess and restore the world to a primordial time. On the first day of the three day festival, ritual communion takes place in front of the hai-den (building for prayer). It is followed by building, light­ ing, and then pulling down the huge torch that is said to symbolize the mythological serpent, a defeated demonic prince, the trunk of whose corpse is believed to have been buried in the territory of the shrine. This shows how the positive myth of the goddess is interwoven with the myth of the negative element on the occasion of the Igomori-festival. It is worth noting that the expulsion of negative elements can be one of the sources for the creations of dramatic space in Japan. On the second day, the ritual starts with the dedication of miniature tools for agriculture by the shrine priest. This is performed in a small tem­ porary shrine at a place not far away from the main shrine (Nozuka-matsuri). At 10 o'clock in the morning, it is time for a ritual called hichidō-han no torikai (seven-and-a-half-times-messenger). A man from Yoyiki goes formally dressed to the house of the head of Furukawa-za. This is the reenactment of the mythological account in which Furukawa-za, who accom­ panied the goddess, was urged by the indigenous group represented by Yoriki-za to come and settle at the place where the Wakuide-gu is located. This ritual is followed in the afternoon by the formal welcome banquet of the arriving group (Furukawa) by three indigenous groups. The banquet is carried out in an extremely stylized way, as in the performance of classi­ cal theater such as Nō and Kabuki. Moreover, the way in which sake is served reminds one of the conventions for serving sake in Kyōgen. After the formalized banquet, a ritual enactment of the agricultural calendar (ta-asobi: play in the field) is performed by Furukaza-za. It starts with the planting of ritual rice. The primordial type of movement in agricul­ tural labour is presented so that the participants as well as audience can understand that the routine work of daily life originates in the sacred per­ formance that belongs to the holy space. I would like to cut short the explanation of the process of festival here, even though two interesting parts still follow those discussed thus far. What can be seen, however, is the way in which the total space of the village is turned into a kind of theatrical space in which people play the role of mythological personages allocated and distributed according to formal associations (za).

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We should take note of the fact that the word for association (za) was used to denote 4 za of Nō in Yamato at the initial stage of the development of Nō theater. Za which originally meant seat was applied then as the suffix of the name of theater itself.3 Before the establishment of the temple in Japanese villages, the vil­ lager was often visited by itinerant priests who sang myths of wandering heroes. These wandering priests were the prototype of priest-entertainers, story tellers, puppeteers and shamans (itako). It is said that Okuni, mythological ancestress of Kabuki, belonged to such a category. A hut called Jizö-dö to house these people was usually built at the border of the vil­ lage. In a sense this hut was a marginal space where inside and outside ele­ ments were mixed. As a consequence, many strange things could take place. Legends of warriors dying in large numbers, of blind priests being murdered were associated with such places. These were also the places where some prototypes of popular performance were presented. The idea of ambiguous space where life (inside) meets death (outside) seems to be one of the essential images ascribed to the theater down to the present. This explains the reason why early Kabuki theaters were built on river beds where only segregated people could live. Kabuki actors were called Kawara-mono (kawa: river). In a sense the space for the theater was a marked place where transfor­ mations took place. There man could turn into a demon, a dead person, or even a god. It was also the space in which all the otherwise unexplained phenomena among mankind could be made manifest and ultimately driven outside. Whether it be built temporarily or permanently, the area for theatrical performance in traditional Japan supplied a cognitively and symbolically flexible space in the service of the community. Sometimes, it could embody the entire cosmological topos, at other times it could turn mundane space into something totally out of the ordinary. 2.

The basic structure of Japanese theatrical forms

Not a few Japanese commentators have ascribed essential theatrical forms of Japanese theater to the dialectical antithesis between shite (main figure, A) and waki (complementary figure, B). This dialectic has been expressed in slightly different ways.

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The initial antithesis between type A and type B figures was consid­ ered to be that existing between god (kami) and his mediator (modoki). In Gagaky type A was called ninjō and type B called seino-o. The gods do not manifest and express themselves in intelligible language. Therefore, they need an interpreter. Figure B is the one who mediates between the gods and the people. This essential antithesis is retained in the Nō play in which waki mediates shite like a shaman. Historically, figure B is explained as the local demon who battles with the gods and must perform comical mimicry. This explains the comical characterization of the mediator. Plain messages are transmitted only through the vernacular and comical gestures. This contrast explains some of the essential theatrical dichotomies in Japanese. First of all, the contrast between Nō and Kyōgen can be ascribed to the dialectical principle expressed in the opposition between figure A and figure B. The most sacred performance in Nō as well as in YamabushiKagura (ritual music of the cult of the mountain) is known as Okina and Sambasō. Okina is the masked dance of an aged man who performs the introduction of cosmic energy into this world. It is performed in a solemn and static mode. Sambasö is the performance of an anti-god, a reverse fig­ ure who performs in a comical mode. The dancer in Sambasö wears a black mask. He performs the gesture of dissemination which seems to scatter the cosmic energy introduced by Okina onto the stage that constitutes the center of the village world. It is now clear that Okina is a visiting god to this world and Sambasö is the one who transmits the message of the god to the people. A similar antithesis can be observed between ninjö (god) and seino-o (speaker-clown) in Gagaku. Seino-o is called modoki. Modoki is derived from the verb modoku which means to transmit the message of god comi­ cally, so that audiences can understand it better. The concept of dialectic can be applied as well to explain the rise of new theatrical forms in Japan. Out of sangaku (acrobatic performance), dengaku came into existence; out of dengaku came sarugaku (prototype of Nō); out of sarugaku came Nō; Nō alienated Kyögen; out of Nō and Kyögen came Kabuki. Newly arisen theatrical forms were conceived of as alternatives to the established forms which were already regarded as too formal. Everytime new theatrical forms (figure B) arose they integrated popular forms of performance which tended to be excluded from the estab­ lished forms of theater (figure A). It is in this way that a new form (B) man­ aged to transmit the message of the established theater (A) better, because

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it was closer to the tastes of ordinary people and better suited to establish communication. Probably the most sophisticated use of this dialectical structure in theatrical form may be found in Kabuki's use of the dichotomy of sekai (the world) and shukō (the device). Generally speaking, Kabuki texts rotate on these two axis. Sekai is thought to be the horizontal axis, and shukö the ver­ tical axis. Sekai is a stereotyped narrative image which includes the historical period, events and groups of people that are presented in relation to the events. It is based on stereotyped images of history which are based partly on history and partly on ficticious legends. This kind of stereotyped image of history sets the base of verisimilitude (yraissamblance) in the text con­ struction of Kabuki. Certain affairs are associated with a type of develop­ ment of plot, as well as the categories of the people that come to the scene representing structural principles such as good and bad characters, etc. There were a certain number of popular classics such as The Story of the Soga Brothers (Soga-Monogatari), The Epic of Yoshitsune (Gikeiki), The Tragedy of Heike (Heike Monogatari), or The Chronicle of Peace (Taihei-kî) which common people could easily remember. They were the source of the images representing historical reality for the ordinary people. The sekai of Kabuki supplied the text with the verisimilitude which spectators could use easily and immediately to grasp the narrative background of the text itself without having to strain to follow carefully the personages, or the development of the events in detail. In a sense the sekai saved the author the trouble of constructing a plot. This was no doubt a wise attitude toward text construction. A theatrical text always contains a stereotyped level. Some innovative people may try to disclaim this, however, as theater is based on the intersubjective concept of narrated reality. Nevertheless a time understanding of the narrative becomes impossible if authors or audi­ ences ignore the need for stereotyped reality as a base on which to build. By using the sekai as the basis of plot structure, the authors of Kabuki text were able to eliminate the need for explanation of the elements that consti­ tute the sekai, and could devote themselves to making the plot structure more complicated. 4 The sekai is the skeleton of the theatrical text of Kabuki, while the shukö is its flesh. The sekai constitutes a self-sufficient world of historical reality of the past. However, it is not sufficient for a piece of theater to be accepted by the audience. As Kami's (God's) words have got to be trans-

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lated to the people by modoki (mediating narration), the sekai must be translated into the world and reality in which contemporary people live. In a way the relationship between sekai and shukō can be compared with that between lexicon and utterance. Words belong to certain lexical categories in language. However, unless these words are used in actual context through the mediation of the utterances that people use, their meaning cannot be made manifest. Shukö mediates sekai within the context of social reality. Shukö supplies the events, personages and the historical setting of the time in which people live. It is usually explained that because the government (7bkugawa bakufu) prohibited the theater from relating contemporary events to historical events on stage that the sekai was used as a frame for those stories.5 However, this prohibition had its positive outcome. By adding dynamic shukö to the static sekai, thus bringing the sekai down to contem­ porary social reality, the world of the sekai became animated, thus intro­ ducing a heightened vision of the reality of everyday life to the world. Using the scheme above, we can define the essential dramaturgy of Kabuki as the synthesis of the horizontal axis of sekai, historical reality, and the vertical axis of shukö, mundane reality. This type of dichotomy reminds us of the semiotic dichotomy that Jan M. Meijer discusses in the analysis of Chekhov's world (Meijer 1978). The word can to some extent be circumscribed by the combination it can enter into with other words. These combinations are conditioned by the class the word belongs to (verb, noun, etc.) and by its meaning. The combinational possibilities we call valencies. In this paper we dis­ tinguish between vertical and horizontal valencies. In normal speech we mark the combination of words in our utterances as unmarked as possible. If we 'mark' the combination this hampers the progress of what we are saying [...]. In literature we are concerned with finite texts with a considerable degree of organization. [...] Such texts can be considered as a horizontal line of a given length. [...] Some combination into which words enter create valencies that refer to a plane that is different from the strong and that has a structure of its own. Such references are vertical in regard to the progress of the story. We will call them vertical valencies. Parodies and stylization belong to this cat­ egory (Meijer 1978:101-02)

We now can easily identify the sekai as a device similar to that which Meijer has termed horizontal valencies, and shukö to vertical valencies in a semiot­ ic interpretation.

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Thanks to this dialectical device in text construction, the world of clas­ sical reality can be related to the contemporary deeper, marginal, liminal reality. Thanks to Buddhist and Shinto theology, showing the gods man­ ifesting themselves in the initial stages of encounter as disguised person­ ages, Kabuki could easily link a contemporary person with an historical person like Sukeroku, a disguised existence of Goro Saga.6 It was through the device of sekai and shukō that Kabuki could achieve mediation between different levels of reality. Its realization was the fulfil­ ment of the potentiality of theatrical tradition in Japan. 3.

Symbolic dimension of performance in Japanese culture and in theater

3.1 The corporal elements in Japanese theatricality The use of eyes in stylized gazing. The Japanese are known not to use the eyes while talking with others. It is discouraged in normal conversation to look at the eyes of the person with whom you are talking. Psychiatrists in general ascribe this to the anthropophobia of the Japanese people in gen­ eral (Kimura 1982). Therefore the use of the eyes is a highly marked act in the context of daily life. However, in myth, children's games, and in the behavior of the Yakuza, gazing is turned into a 'dense' style of communication. For example, the yakuzas exploit the fact when a person looks them in the eye, they will start some verbal abuse which may lead to a fight. Gazing is used as an excuse to justify the violent theatricalization of their character. Gazing is used also in a well known children's game. There is a game called Niramekko (Gazing at each other) in which children try to look each other in the eyes without laughing. The one who first bursts laughing loses the game. It is interesting to notice that it is only in this game that the Japanese are allowed to gaze at each other. In a Japanese myth, a group of descendants of Amaterasu-ōmikami are said to have descended to earth led by Ninigi no haya no mikoto who meets with a violent god called Sarutahiko. He has a red face with a long nose. This god waits for the descending gods at the cross-roads which separates the earth from heaven. He challenges the descending god by glaring at him. They keep on glaring into each other's eyes. Finally, Sarutahiko is defeated in the battle of eyes. He yields to the celestial god and offers help by serving him as a guide. This mythical account corresponds to the children's game

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and shows the semiotic position of gazing as a marked sign in contrast to the avoidance of staring in daily life as an unmarked sign. Gazing is understood to be a highly positive, expressive act used only by some powerful deity to overwhelm and control evil power, to serve as a challenge or a sign of resistance. Toida, who has made an extensive study of this problem maintains that the beshimi, a Kyōgen mask, with huge eyes and mouth closed tightly expresses the resistance of a local inferior deity to the power of the gods arriving from the central part of the country in order to conquer and dominate the local area spiritually. In Kabuki the eyes are usually extensively used in the stylized perfor­ mance called mie. We will not be overstating the case by saying that the up and down movement of the pupils of the eyes and keeping the eyes widely open at unexpected moments constitute major parts of mie. The style of gazing practiced by the Ichikawa family (perhaps the most prominent family of Kabuki actors) has been taken as the model for nirami (gazing) performance in Kabuki aragoto (violent acting). It was thought to have magical power which could cure epidemic diseases. It is told that the nirami of the Ichikawa's was started by Danjurö Ichikawa first who is sup­ posed to have based his gaze on the style of the violent warrior gods of Buddhism called Hudō. The Ichikawa family traditionally gave a special performance in the January Kabuki program. In this, Danjurö has the right to perform ritual gazing to expel evil influence from the city of Edo. Thus, the city in some sense falls under the spiritual control of the Ichikawa family in so far as theatrical space is concerned. Tetsuya Imao, a specialist on Kabuki, points out that the act of gazing allows one to see beyond that which is visible. He insists that the gaze of those who are well endowed or equipped with unusual power, whether they be actors or politicians, reveals what is hidden and makes the invisible visivible. Imao refers to politicians, because in ancient Japan gazing at the coun­ try from the top of a hill constituted an important aspect of the ritual com­ plex of kingship (Imao 1974). Against this background information, we can reinterpret the nature and function of the nirami of Ichikawa as having the power to make hidden evil forces and demons visible and expel them. The role of the audience. The Japanese theater is distinct from western for­ mal theater because of positive audience participation. The audience can contribute to the theater in two ways. One way is through selective inatten-

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tion, as it is termed by Richard Schechner (after Erving Goffman). Another is the intervention of the audience through stylized shouting (kakegoe). Originally theatrical space was the place for a banquet. People could bring a meal and wine and eat and drink while watching the performance. In a sense, the act of participation in the theater was an extended form of the communion that is carried out during the visitation and in the presence of the gods. During the Tokugawa period, the use of sajiki-seki (a 2 square meter theater box) was usual. It resembled a booth in a restaurant. The audi­ ence could contribute in order to intensify the festive mood. It thus meant that they were able to mobilize not only their eyes, but also their stomachs. Kakegoe is well known to those who have visited Kabuki theater in Japan. At the height of the performance of an individual stage action, the well trained audience members shout the clan name (yagō) of the actor. This activates the stage, if it is done at the right moment. If it is too early or late, it spoils the moment. Origuchi explains the origin of kakegoe as deriv­ ing from the abuse by the audience (seito-no-kyaku) of the performer in the flower festival {hanamatsuri) of Middle Japan. Even today in the hanamat­ suri the rowdy audience abuses the actors and tries to invade the perfor­ mance space, if the performance is weak. They can be seen to represent the chaotic element from the outside world; in a sense the element of nature in contrast to the ordered world of performance {culture). In some villages where Kabuki is performed by the villagers them­ selves, such as Kuromori in Yamagata prefecture, the village community organizes the performance, recruiting the actors and training them. They select the repertory of the year's performance by means of divination. Per­ formance takes place as part of the annual festival. All the villagers take part in the construction of the stage that is erected and taken down every year. In the light of the above we can conclude that the audience in the Japanese theatrical tradition has not necessarily been a passive element. It provides direct and indirect influence either through vocal intervention or patronage. In any case the audience was and still is an inalienable part of the performance as is clearly marked in the case of hanamatsuri (flower fes­ tival).

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3.2 Manifestation of violent divine powers in aragoto Despite the huge varieties of style, there are only two opposed styles for the performance of male characters in Kabuki: aragoto (violent style) and wagoto (gentle style). Ara and wa (= nigi) are structurally opposed ele­ ments in the Japanese way of thinking. N. Matsudaira has made a structural analysis of the concepts of ara and nigi. Together they constitute the con­ cept of god in Japan. In Japanese popular belief, the gods are manifested through two opposing forms: ara and nigi (= wa). At the initial stage the gods appear in a violent form (goryö). Eventually the gods are appeased and finally they settle down as harmonious, soft nigi-tama. In myths of com­ bat, the hero and his antagonist (demon) are opposed manifestations of essentially the same principle. The violent manifestation (goryö) became the object of special attention in popular belief and a special sort of cult called goryō-shinkō developed out of this dialectic. It is said that aragoto was invented by Danjürö Ichikawa first in the 17th century. In a play called Four Young Warrior Gods Depart (Shitenno osana dachi), Danjürö first played the role of Kintoki Sakata, a Heracleian trickster-hero. For the role of Kintoki, he painted his body red, outlined his features with black and red make-up, dressed in a vivid costume, carried a huge axe and moved in a violent manner. Masakatsu Gunji points out that aragoto is derived from the image of ara-hito-gami (violent-man-god). Ara-hito-gami is usually expressed through the goryö cult (cf. "Aragoto no Seiritsu" [Formation of Aragoto] in Gunji 1969). Goryö is understood to be the violent expression of the spirit of a young person who has died a tragic death (Yamaguchi 1977:156). It is interesting to note that many heroes of aragoto in Kabuki have the name Gorō, a name that reminds us of goryo; like Goro Soga in Ya-no-ne (the root of an arrow), Gongoro Kamakura and Goro Shinozuka in Shibaraku (Wait a moment), Samagoro Odate in Oshi-modoshi (Pushing back). These are the names of the arahito-gami (violence-gods) born of Goryö-shinkö in arahito-gami according to Gunji. The most typical performance style of aragoto is called roppō, an espe­ cially exaggerated style of walking taken from the walking style (neri) of the violent movement of the carrier (roppö-shü) of the carriage of gods in festi­ vals. Gunji maintains that aragoto was performed in the early period of Kabuki in association with the gokaicho, a semi-commercial show present-

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ing the main gods of a temple in a spectacular way. Gokaicho usually is undertaken by showing the image of violent Buddhist gods to the public on special occasions. Gunji explains that mie, the style of standing still at the supreme moment of the performance of aragoto, is the extension of the idea of the showing of the pictures of Buddhist gods in gokaicho. A characteristic accoustic sound (tsuke) is attached to aragoto. This noisy sound (ranjō) is made in many folk rituals at the moment of the appearance of gods or demons. When aragoto is performed with two or more persons, it takes the form of combat. A typical combat scene is performed in the style of pulling. Among the things pulled by two parties are grass (kusa-suribiki), an elephant (zō-biki), a carriage (kuruma-biki) a grave digger (sotoba-biki), and a bell (kane-biki). This tug-of-war takes place as part of the drama. The hiki (pulling) is usually explained to have originated in the village festival, in which a village is divided into two opposing camps who stage a mock fight or combat as a form of divination. The tug-of-war is the most popular form of mock combat in the village. Dramatic development of this combat style is observed in hanamatsuri (flower-festival) in which a demon (oni), whose performance is taken to be the prototype of aragoto, brandishes his big axe. The oni in hanamatsuri shows a similarity in make-up and costume. One of the most remarkable aspects of their costume is the thick belt they wear on the shoulder. This thick belt (niō-tasuki) is the symbol of strength and violence for the aragoto actor as well as for the oni of hanamatsuri. The costume of aragoto is characterized by semiotic excess. It can be observed in the exaggerated hair style and chikara-gami (the paper of strength), the thick belt, the extravagant costume, and the three overdecorated swords. Every aspect of aragoto indicates an excess of uncontrolled power. This excess of power is expressed mainly by means of roppō (stylized stamping). We have already noted the antecedent form of roppö in rikisha. However, the late folklorist Origuchi explaines that the roppö was ulti­ mately derived from hembai (ritual stamping) of the mountain cult (Onmyōdō) (cf. "Rikisha to Sono Koi" [The Man of Strength and His Perfor­ mance] in Gunji 1969:148). Hembai is explained as trampling down the local demon which threatens to destroy the spiritual order maintained by the ritual practise of the cult. Hembai can be observed throughout the vari­ ous theatrical forms of Japan such as Nō and Kyōgen. And the stamping movement of the Suzuki method can also be related to this particular tradi-

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tion of performance in which the feet play a major role. It is the tradition in which the expressive power of the lower part of the body is explored and exploited. So aragoto is the style of performance through which the uncontrolled and energetic power (nature) is introduced into the world of order. As the theater itself was originally found in liminal space, the nature of the perfor­ mance of aragoto denotes the transformation of chaotic power into the aes­ thetically articulated theatrical order. In this sense we can state that aragoto is an ambiguous style of performance whose significance can be appreciated only when seen against the background of the totality of the semiotics of Japanese culture. 4.

Cosmological dimension of stage performance

So far, we have seen that the intensified space of performance in Japan is directly or indirectly related to the attempt of disarming everyday reality in order to reintegrate it in an aesthetically reordered reality called theatrical space, whether that space be theatrical or ritualistic. Theatrical tradition definitely prepared the way for disintegrated identity to be reordered through a cosmological frame of reference. This relationship can be observed in the shamanistic setting of Nō theater. However, it is not absent in Kabuki which often seemingly has the appearance of being clad in realis-. tic presentation. We shall be able to observe that some Kabuki pieces express the cosmological structure in a remarkable way. Let us examine a piece called Sakurahime-azumabunsho written by Namboku Tsuruya in the early 19th century: 1. Jikyū, the priest and Shiragiku-maru, are homosexual lovers (homosexu­ ality was common in the world of Buddhism in the medieaval and early modern period). Because of their blocked destiny, they decide together to commit suicide. Shiragiku-maru plunges into the sea from a cliff. However, Jikyü loses courage; thus only Shiragiku-maru dies. 2. Shiragiku-maru returns to this world, reborn as a princess of an aristo­ cratic family in Kyōto. Her father and elder brother are killed by thieves who break into their residence and steal a family treasure (a scroll) without which the continuity of the family cannot be authorized. The princess is vio­ lated by a tattooed thief, but then she is so attracted to him that she has a similar mark tattooed on her arm.

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3. She has a defect. Her left hand has been clenched from birth and cannot open. Her betrothal with Warugoro Imura, a wicked samurai, is broken off because of this handicap. She asks Seigen, formerly Jikyū, who is now a high priest, to pray for her. He comes with his followers and prays for her. Her palm opens revealing a small box with the name of Seigen. Seigen is shocked, because it is the box which Shiragiku had in hand, when they com­ mitted suicide. He comes to the conclusion that Sakurahime is the transfig­ uration of Shiragiku. 4. Sakurahime decides to lead a life of seclusion in a small cottage in Seigen's temple. Taking advantage of her presence, Seigen tries to remind her of her former life, but Sakurahime is not at all interested in what Seigen has to say. 5. One day, Warugoro, Sakurahime's former fiancé, sends Gonsuke, a gigolo, with a letter offering to re-establish their relationship, knowing now that her palm is open. Although Sakurahime refuses to accept the letter she admits Gonsuke into her room, and notes the tatoo on his arm by which she recognizes him as the thief who raped her. She confesses that she fell in love with him after being violated. Then she seduces him. However, Gonsuke's presence is noticed by Sakurahime's attendants, and Gonsuke has to fly. People begin to argue that her lover was the priest Seigen. Seigen does not deny the accusation, because he sees it was a good chance to restore his former love. Because of his attitude Seigen is deprived of his status as a high priest and is expelled from the temple together with Sakurahime. 6. Both Sakurahime and Seigen are seen in ragged attire beside the hut for hinin (outcasts who are expelled from society because of the crime they committed), on the bank of a river. Sakurahime refuses to accept the love of Seigen, for she holds that Seigen speaks nonsense of her former life. She pushes Seigen down to the river. Seigen disappears with a sleeve that he tears from Sakurahime's kimono. 7. A scene at Iwabuchi-anshitsu. Iwaya-anshitsu (a house for mediation) is located at the limits of the town called Hongo. There is a hut called Jizō-dō beside which Nagara, the former attendant of Sakurahime, lives with Zangetsu, a former follower of Seigen. Seigen stays with them. They look after him because they think that a bag carried around by Seigen contains money. They poison him and rob him of the bag. But, to their disappoint­ ment, they find only the small box which Sakurahime had held in her palm.

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They invite Gonsuke to dig a grave. Gonsuke works as a grave digger. Sakurahime is brought to the house by a mediator. Gonsuke finds out that Zangetsu tried to seduce Sakurahime during his short absence and drives the couple away in a rage. Gonsuke decides to send Sakurahime to a whorehouse in Kozukahara that is known as a place of exile, to give her a chance to learn the speech style of a female commoner. (The hut called Iwaya-anshitsu (jizö-dö) plays a very important role in the plot. This is the place where transition takes place: life to death, upper to lower, a princess to a whore, human to ghostly existence, and lightness to darkness. As we have already noted above, the Jizö-dö is an ambiguous, liminal space in vil­ lages and towns. Namboku makes exquisite use of this space in building up a cosmological structure on stage as a space of passage and transition.) 7. While Gonsuke is away, Seigen comes back to life. He rises and runs after Sakurahime with a cooking knife. He cuts his own throat and dies a second death. Gonsuke comes back and takes Sakurahime out. The phan­ tom of Seigen stands under the willow tree in the graveyard and looks toward Sakurahime. 8. In the house of Gonsuke. Several years later, Sakurahime returns to the house, saying that the owner of the whorehouse does not want to keep her any longer, because the customers complain that they see the phantom of a man behind her. By this time, she speaks a mixed style of a princess and a commoner. They started to drink. Gonsuke, being drunk, tells the story of a robbery, the killing of the father and brother and the whereabouts of the treasure. Possessing all this information, Sakurahime pulls a dagger and kills Gonsuke together with his baby she gave birth to. 9. She thus restores her own and the Yoshida family status. The final scene simply presents her in front of Kaminari-mon giving a report of what happended. People have been shocked at this story. Not only at the homosexuality but also at the bold adventurousness of the princess who does not hesitate to kill her lover for the sake of the family name. As a person, she is quite exceptional in contrast to the typical Japanese woman who is thought of as subservient to men. She seems to belong to a class of ambiguous goddesses who appear once in a while in myth and legend. However, if we regard Sakurahime as a heroine whose personality con­ tains opposite aspects of the world, she can be understood as an agentmediator like the trickster figure in myth.

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Sakurahime starts her career in the paradisiac world of the palace. However, she is destined to fall. She uses men, Gonsuke and Seigen, as a mechanism to descend from the world of the place to the bottom, the nether regions of the world. In doing so Sakurahime manages to connect heaven to hell, the positive to the negative. Because of her performance Sakurahime achieves the status of semi-divine heroine. 7 Upperworld Yoshia's Residence (Kyoto)

Kaminari -mon (Asakusa, Edo)

Temple Mundane world

Riverside (Okawabata) Jizödö

Underworld

Gonzuke's house Whorehouse (Kozukagahara)

Semiotic Structure of Sakurahime Azumabunsho [Positive]

[Negative]

Schematic Categories

In Upper-World (Central)

Out Under-World (Marginal)

Spacial Signs: (Architecture)

Whorehouse at Kozukahara Palace of Yoshida Jizö-dö Temple Meditation Hut in Temple Gonsuke's house

Social Signs

Princess Princess' gestures and speech style Hierarchical human relationship (structural) Colorful house and furniture Jizö-dö Ökawabata (ambiguous)

Aesthetic Signs

Whore Whore's gesture and speech style Vertical relationship (liminal) Less Colorful house and furniture

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Namboku-Tsuruya, a playwright in the late 18th and 19th century, started to work for Kabuki when the Samurai regime started to lose its rigid control over urban culture and decadence became a prominent mode of artistic expression. Namboku-Tsuruya was not a well educated or erudite author, but he had a keen sense of the grotesque and mythological aspects of life. He developed his own baroque style in which beauty confronts with ugliness as in Yotsuya-kaidan. This brief background of Namboku may explain why he, among many authors, was so successful in exploiting the cosmological themes which were the resources of the theatrical tradition to which Kabuki belonged. Nam­ boku managed to master the material to make this enterprise possible. He recognized the riches of negative imagery that is to be found exclusively in the marginal areas of a culture, as shows his masterpiece Yotsuya-kaidan (Ghost story of Yotsuya) (Aoyama 1980). We have shown the dynamic and cosmological dimension of Kabuki by taking Sakurahime-Azumabuhshō as an example, partly because this piece was used by Suzuki as part of a piece called On the Dramatic Passions, No.2. The material presented above may give the impression that I want to explain the whole rich tradition of Kabuki with the example of only one play. This of course has never been my intention. Cosmological aspects of Japanese theater can be detected in a variety of dimensions, such as in the spacial aspects, the structure of the theater itself, folk ritual, the nature of performance itself (aragoto vs. wagoto), and the traditional acting style. The textual level is only one level of expression. The theatrical expression of cosmology can be identified even on the level of the political system as has been shown in a recent paper published elsewhere (Yamaguchi 1977). These aspects are all interconnected, and in order to discover the com­ prehensive nature of theatricality in Japan, it is particularly necessary to take into consideration the cosmological level including its many ways of expression. Symbolic anthropology, folklore, history of theater, and semiotics of culture will no doubt make a great contribution, if applied interdisciplinarily, to the study of Japanese theater. Moreover research on the cosmologi­ cal dimensions of Japanese theater will give further clues to the deeper cul­ tural identity as well as universal aspects of the Japanese.

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Notes 1.

Kasumi derives from kasumu, to graze, skim; also to rob.

2.

H. Tsuboi, "Cosmology of Hiba-Kagura," unpublished paper, 1982.

3.

Note, for instance, Kabuki-za (in Tokyo) and Minami-za (in Kyoto).

4.

Non-Japanese, largely because they are not privy to the sekai in Kabuki, often find the complicated plots incomprehensible.

5.

For example, the well-known Kabuki classic Kanadehon Chushinqura (known in the West as The League of the 47 Ronin) was based on an event occurring in 1701, and first performed in 1748. The playwrights moved the events back to the Muromachi Era, a few centuries prior, to escape the censors.

6.

In the 1713 play Sukeroku (or Sukeroku Yukari no Edo Zakura), the 18th century plot is squeezed into the sekai of the Soga Brothers' revenge, which occurred around 1170. The hero, Sukeroku, turns out to be one of the avenging brothers in disguise.

7.

The summary is based on the text abridged by M. Gunji in his presentation of the piece at Kabuki-za in 1981.

References Aoyama, K. 1980. "Tsuruya Nampoku 4-dai no Han-bunka-sozo to shite no Kabuki no Sekai" (The World of Kabuki as Counter-culture-imagination of Nampoku Tsuruya the 4th), Kuraisisu 3. Gunji, Masaru. 1969. Kabuki: Yoshiki to Dens ho (Kabuki: Its Form and Tradition). Tokyo. Imao, Tetsuya. 1974. "Shikaku no Kozo" (Structure of the Perspective). Hokaibito no Matsuei (Descendants of the Beggars). Tokyo. Kimura, Satoshi. 1982. Nohonjin no Taijin-kyofu (Anthropophobia of the Japanese). Tokyo. Meijer, Jan M. 1978. "Chekhov's World." On the Theory of Descriptive Poetics: Anton P. Chekhov as Storyteller and Playwright, ed. Jan v.d. Engetal. Amsterdam: Peter de Ridder Press. Yamaguchi, Masao. 1977. "Kingship, Theatrically and Marginal Reality in Japan." Text and Context — The Social Anthropology of Tradition, ed. R. Jain. Philadelphia: JSHI.

Literary Semiotics of Suburban Houses Toshihiko Kawasaki

At the time not a few Japanese readers regarded Jun'ichiro Tanizaki (18861965) as the most likely candidate for the Nobel Prize in literature. How­ ever Tanizaki died without winning the prize. Instead in 1968, the Selection Committee's choice fell on Yasunari Kawabata (1899-1972). It was a con­ vincing choice after all, Kawabata being another great contemporary author. Tanizaki's great novel The Makioka Sisters1 (original title Sasameyuki, meaning Fine Snow) was written while World War II raged in the Pacific. The novel presents a nostalgic view of prewar peace and prosperity. For this reason it was put under a ban by the militarist government who regarded the literary work as incompatible with the nation's war efforts, so that its publication had to wait until the war was over. The Makioka Sisters describes the life of a well-to-do upper-middle class family living in a com­ fortable semi-western style house in Ashiya, which has the reputation of a top-class suburban residential area in Kansai (the Western Region of Japan). The story covers the prewar period from 1936 to 1941, just before the Pacific War breaks out. It features the two unmarried sisters of a mis­ tress, and ends with their marriages, one blessed and gloriously celebrated by all the relatives and friends, the other clandestine and hushed up by the family. Another celebrated novel by Kawabata, Sound of the Mountain,2 was written after the war. It describes the life of another upper-middle class family, but here the time and locale differ. The story covers the period 1948-1950, shortly after the defeat of the nation. The protagonist's family lives in a suburban house in Kamakura, which holds the reputation of Ashiya's rival in the Eastern Region of Japan. Instead of the subject of marriages, the novel deals with the double divorce of two daughters of a family, one realized the other still in the air when the story ends.

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Despite this schematic contrast, the two novels share a prominant theme: the disintegration of the nation's traditional family system, which took place during the nineteen-thirties and accelerated after the war. In both novels this theme is presented in an elegiacal tone. The Makioka Sisters The house is located in the lovely small city of Ashiya, halfway between the two large properous cities, Osaka and Kobe. The family is called Makioka, and Sachiko is its mistress. (Her husband has taken the Makioka name.) The house is not the mainseat of the family, but a branch house. The main branch of the Makioka family lives in the old ancestral house in the city of Osaka, with Tsuruko, the oldest of the four sisters, as its mistress. (Tsuruko's husband has taken the Makioka name too.) The young unmar­ ried sisters, Yukiko and Taeko, are expected, in accordance with the tradi­ tion, to be living in the main house, but they prefer the branch house, and so live most of the time with Sachiko's family. The branch house apparently enjoyes a peculiar advantage over the main house's nominal prestige. Here Sachiko establishes successfully a branch family despite the relatively small amount she inherited from her father's fortune. She acquires a comfortable modern house in an immensely pleasant locale, and enjoys the company of a loving and understanding hus­ band and a sweet little daughter. The main house is burdened with tradition and has to bear the heavy responsibility for head of the extended family, while the branch house enjoys more freedom. The financial situation of the main house is not rosy because its fortune has visibly decreased due to the vicissitudes of the nation's economy, while the branch house is rather well-off for Sachiko's husband's handsome salary. The family has three maids, and the house is equipped with modern facilities which are rare in prewar Japan. Sachiko's family become friends with their European neighbors. They study English and French, play the piano and other musical instruments, frequent theaters which show European and American films as well as Kabuki, and patronize expensive restaurants specializing in Japanese, Chinese and European cuisine. No wonder the younger unmarried sisters are attracted to this lifestyle. Even though the time is prewar, that is, before the definite end of this Japanese tradition, the traditional prestige of the main house in the extended family system is already in decline.

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The special advantages of the branch house are stressed in the story by the climatic bliss of the Ashiya area: the air is fresh and the temperature moderate as the region has mountains to the north and the Inland Sea to the south; the neighbourhood is cultured, cosmopolitan and hedonistic in a refined way as it is near Kobe, Osaka and Kyoto. Chapters four to ten of Book II describe the great flood which hits the area on 5 July, 1938. The scene is justly famous for the author's stylistic mastery with which he presents an unforgettable picture of that dreadful calamity. The Makiokas too meet with adversity as Taeko is caught by the flood and barely escapes death. The particular incident takes place away from home, and is just one of the many worries this rebellious youngest sis­ ter causes the family. The flood is symbolically significant for it seems to prefigure the 'se­ vere storm' the nation has to weather. But at that time the Makiokas are unaware of the nation's future destiny, and their lovely house remain sig­ nificantly intact: At about one o'clock the rain began to let up. The water showed no sign of receding until about three, when the rain had quite stopped and spots of blue were visible here and there through the clouds. As the sun came out, Sachiko went down from the terrace in the gar­ den. Two white butterflies were dancing over the lawn which was greener and fresher for the rain. Among the weeds between the sandalwood and the lilac a pigeon was fishing for something in the puddles. The tranquil scene carried not a hint that there had been a flood (p. 180; see also p.201).

The "fresher green" and the "pigeon" complete the postdiluvian sym­ bolism. The main house is not doing half as well. First of all, in the preceding year the family had to evacuate their ancestral home in Osaka and were forced to move to Tokyo. The move is due to Tsuruko's husband's promo­ tion to director of the Tokyo branch office of a bank, but this does not alleviate their financial situation. In the strange metropolis the family is deprived of the prestige they have had in their ancestral hometown, although in a sense they enjoy their new freedom, even their anonymity. They rent a cheaply built house, and the large family, with six children and two maids, has to squeeze into this constricted accomodation. On 1 September, 1938, that is to say, less than two months after the flood in Kansai, Tokyo is hit by a fierce typhoon. This too may be read as another sign of the national calamity that looms ahead. (By this time Japan

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has started her invasion of China, and there are three years left before the outbreak of the Pacific War.) During the typhoon Sachiko happens to be on a visit to the main house together with her little daughter. For the first time in her life she experi­ ences real terror. The visit marks the contrast between her own comforta­ ble house in Ashiya and her sister's cheap rented house in Tokyo, which is severely damaged by the ferocious wind: Sachiko thought that in her fright she had been imagining things, but here downstaires she could see that at each fresh gust of wind the pillars and the plastered walls were indeed separated by cracks two and three inches wide — she wanted to say six inches or a foot, watching by the one flashlight. The cracks opened before the wind and close in the lulls, and each time they were wider than before (p.224).

The family has to take refuge in their next-door neighbors' solid house, and wait until the storm is over. Despite this terrifying experience, the now impoverished main Makioka family cannot afford a better house in a more congenial climate. This is at least part of the reason why the younger unmarried sisters are left to Sachiko's care, but the main house remains nominally responsible for arranging proper marriages for them. Especially pressing is Yukiko's case, who is already in her early thir­ ties. Beautiful, looking much younger than her age, but immoderately shy and inarticulate, she needs a great deal of tender care by the senior mem­ bers of the family, preeminently by Sachiko and her husband. Occasions are prepared to introduce her to a marriageable gentleman. But each time she is either too shy, or the family, still unable to forget their past glory, turn the man down. The youngest and independent-minded Taeko brings on further prob­ lems. Her escapades damage the reputation of the family and reduce Yukiko's chances of a respectable marriage. By appearance all the Makioka sisters seem ageless: none of them looks their age. But timelessness is not for mortal beings. Even the much idealized Yukiko is not immutable, as she now has "a trace of a dark spot" over her left eye, which grows more visible as the years advance, in spite of the prolonged medical treatment "by moderate hormone injections." This clouds the prospect of marriage, which worries her relatives. Yukiko's ageing is significant in the story, particularly because people regard her as "a pure Japanese beauty — gentle, quiet, graceful, able to

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wear Japanese clothes." (The youngest sister Taeko acts as a foil to her: active, independent, almost always wearing western clothes.) All these traditional Japanese feminine virtues, the story seems to imply, are more or less dated. It is this sense of passé which creates the overall elegiacal tone of the novel. Yukiko symbolizes a tradition which is becoming outmoded. The Makiokas' attitudes toward the Kabuki might testify to it. Including the most westernized member, they are all enthusiastic about the art, after all there were always chances to see the stage for them, but they are also aware of the painful likelihood that (as Sachiko thinks) "the Kabuki [will] have collapsed by the time [the younger generation] is grown up." Meanwhile the trouble with China (officially it is named an incident rather than a war) drags on. Even though the prosperous Makiokas are lit­ tle affected, changes can be witnessed everywhere. Most painful to them is the loss of their German neighbours, the Stolzes, for the two families have been very close. The business of Herr Stolz deteriorated with the virtual outbreak of the war, and so the family decide to move back home. Bidding sorrowful Auf Wiedersehen, they encourage the Makiokas to come over and visit them in Hamburg when the troubles in Europe are over. But will there ever come a time for their reunion? Afterwards, the next-door house is rented by a nervous middle-aged Swiss and his obscure half-Oriental wife, both of whom turn out to be not very friendly with the Makiokas. Clouds quickly gather over Europe, and the war breaks out in 1939. The Makiokas worry not only over the Stolzes in Hamburg, but also over another European friend of theirs in London, a White Russian divorcee named Katharina Kyrilenko. (The Makiokas are also on good terms with the Kyrilenkos, but Katharina has gone to England all by herself with a firm determination to reclaim her daughter from her divorced English husband, as well as to hook another rich man, both of which she achieved soon.) Sachiko writes to Frau Stolz that "they were gloomy at the thought that they too might soon find themselves in a real war; they could not but be astonished at how the world had changed since the days when the Stolzes were next door, and they wondered wistfully if such happy times would ever come again" (p.460). Thus things are changing, and a world war seems just around the corner. The seemingly paradisal suburban life, which with­ stood even that dreadful flood, now looks more doomed than ever. Shortly after her letter to the Stolzes, Sachiko takes a trip to Tokyo with her husband, and aboard the train she has a hard time getting to sleep:

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TOSHIHIKO KAWASAKI Perhaps she was too tired, however, for there had been an air-raid drill that day and she had found herself in a bucket brigade. In any case, she would doze off and dream of the air-raid drill and wake up only to doze off and dream the same dream again. It seemed to be the Ashiya kitchen, and yet it was a far more up-to-date American-style kitchen, all white tiles and paint, and sparkling glass and chinaware. The air-raid siren would sound, and the glass and chinaware would begin snapping and cracking and break­ ing to bits. "Yukiko, Etsuko, Oharu, this is dangerous," she would say, and flee into the dining room, away from the shiny particles in the air. Cof­ fee cups and beer steins and wine glasses and wine and whisky bottles would be snapping and cracking in the dining room too. This is just as bad — she would lead them upstairs, where they would find all the light bulbs exploding. They would then run into a room with only wooden fixtures — and Sachiko would be awake. She had the same dream she did not know how many times (p.462).

This passage seems semiotically pregnant: it signifies the fragility and vul­ nerability of Sachiko's comfortable life in Ashiya. It also shows that, in spite of her much envied westernized kitchen (equipped for example with a refrigerator which was rare enough before the war) Sachiko unconsciously aspires after an even "more up-to-date American-style kitchen." But simul­ taneously she is aware of a real threat coming from America. In the night­ mare, she has to lead the family into a safer room "with only wooden fix­ tures." In Europe the Germans are on the offensive. London reports about terrible hardships as a result from air-raids, and so the Makiokas are con­ cerned about Katharina, who now lives in her new husband's house in the suburbs of London. Fortunately they hear from her brother that "Katharina herself found the war rather enjoyable" since she "had a deep and luxurious air-raid shelter, and they turned on the bright lights and put records on the phonograph, and danced and drank cocktails." Katharina's air-raid shelter forms a symbolical contrast with Tsuruko's house in Tokyo which cuts a sorry figure indeed in the typhoon, or Sachiko's house in Ashiya which no doubt would prove worthless in case of an air-raid. The Stolzes' removal from the scene signifies, however, an overall les­ sening of German influence in the story. On the other hand American influ­ ence begins to set in, a rather prophetic fact if we consider that the story was written during the war with America. The Makiokas are naturally una­ ware of the change in trend; they still write to their German friends, expres­ sing their hope that they might some day visit Europe, or send their little daughter to Germany for her further study of the piano.

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The American influence appears on the scene from a rather unex­ pected corner. Taeko, the youngest and the most liberated of the sisters, has three successive lovers within the time span of the story. The first one is the young son of a rich jeweller, with whom she elopes before the story actually begins, but the scandalized families manage to separate them. The affair develops in a half clandestine way, and later it is discovered that she has sponged on this frivolous, superficially westernized, good-for-nothing boy for jewels and extravagant clothes. Taeko easily jilts him, when she is caught in the great flood and is rescued by a former shop assistant of the boy's father. He is from a poor family, but is physically strong and indepen­ dent of spirit, which proves the fact that he has worked in California for five or six years, and where he has acquired a skill in photography. It takes no time for Taeko to fall in love with him, although the Makioka family find fault with the man's obscure background and vulgar behavior. Taeko is now learning skills in western dressmaking, so that in future she and her photo­ grapher husband might become independent. Although the man is to die halfway in the story, this is the first occasion in which the Makiokas are exposed to the potent influence from America. After the young man's sudden death and the inevitable end to the affair, Taeko together with her teacher in dressmaking make plans about a sailing journey to France for a more advanced study of fashion design, but the ravaging war in Europe puts a stopper on this scheme. On the other hand, the Makioka sisters' hairdresser and friend Mrs. Itani decides to go to America in spite of the rapidly increasing tension in the Pacific. As this is going to be her second visit to the U.S.A., she intends to study there the very latest designs in hairdressing. But before her departure she makes one final effort to find a husband for Yukiko. The man, the very last one of a number of bridegroom candidates she introduces to Yukiko, is the illegitimate son of Viscount Mimaki, and is aged 44 now. Although illegitimate, the man's family background is illustrious enough to thrill the older members of the Makioka family. But his personal background is a bit disconcerting: he left the University of Tokyo without taking a degree; went to France but achieved nothing there; moved to America and graduated from a not-too-famous state university with a degree in aeronautics; and spent several years more wandering about the U.S.A., Mexico and South America. Back in Japan he has been unemploy­ ed for eight or nine years during which he lived on an allowance from his father, but his amateurish attempt at designing a house in the western fash-

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ion has recently proved moderately successful. Was this kind of erratic career to be welcomed? The Makiokas are uncertain, but they cannot dispute one quality the man possesses: an openmindedness and individualist spirit, which he must have acquired in America. Even Yukiko, in spite of her usual shyness, feels comfortable in the company of this frank man. And when a particular vulnerable subject concerning the Makioka family, the youngest sister's escapades, is finally brought up, Mr. Mimaki does not mind it at all; he declares that he is going to marry Yukiko and not her sister. The idea that a person is an individual rather than a member of his or her family, is supposed to be a prime exam­ ple of western individualism, which the Makiokas appreciate. However, the wedding is after all a family affair. It is to take place at the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, on the 29th of April, the Emperor's birthday, in 1941. Even though the wartime atmosphere increases tension, a sumptu­ ous celebration is planned with all the illustrious guests attending from both families. It can be seen as a last pageant of the establishment of Japan, on the bank of the nation's catastrophe. (Pearl Harbor was to occur seven months later.) Viscount Mimaki acquires a house for the newlyweds near Ashiya, Yukiko's favorite area, and friends organize a job for the bridegroom in an aircraft manufacturing company. Despite all these factors we perceive Yukiko's marriage as a mere temporary measure. It does bring no definite solution to Yukiko's plight. The insecurity and unhappiness of Yukiko is strongly suggested in the famous concluding scene of the story. Yukiko has diarrhea a few days before the wedding and it even persits when she is aboard the train for Tokyo. The novel is thus an elegy for a beautiful but dying tradition. Its origi­ nal title Sasameyuki, meaning fine snow, metaphorically refers to the name of Yukiko, literally a snow child. On the eve of war, the fate of fine snow looks so uncertain that it might be soiled at any moment, or melt away. Meanwhile during the arrangement of Yukiko's marriage, Taeko starts a new affair with her third lover, an even more obscurely-bred young man from an even lower class. He once worked as a bartender on board of a foreign ship and is now employed at a bar in the city of Kobe. She falls preg­ nant by him, but the baby is stillborn just two weeks before Yukiko's wed­ ding. She and her bartender husband rent a room and start a married life with no blessings from relatives or friends except the tacit consent of Sachiko and her husband.

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Was Taeko kicked out of the house for her misbehavior? Or did she repudiate the old house? At any rate, she proves herself to be independent of the older Japan. By implication, it is quite easy to envisage her future life. Having reached the bottom, Taeko has nothing more to lose. Her hus­ band's ambition is to own a bar in the international city of Kobe to cater to foreigners, and Taeko intends to go on with her western style dressmaking. This seems almost to foreshadow postwar life in Japan. Tanizaki, the well-known advocate of the old tradition, no doubt anticipates the inevitable, and is not hesitant to acknowledge its power. Taeko and her lower class husband represent the coming generation of postwar Japan. Semiotically, Japan is pictured like "a tiny bar — a not-toovulgar bar catering to foreigners." The Sound of the Mountain The war is over. For almost three years Ogata Shingo's life stands the peacetime pace. His house in Kamakura, a high-class residential suburb near Tokyo, survives the war intact and is as comfortable as ever. His son Shuichi has returned from the battlefields, safe and sound, marries a beau­ tiful girl, and now the young couple lives with the parents. The old man, aged sixty, is a director of a firm in Tokyo, and his son works for him. As a whole, he appears to be doing rather well. But the exterior is deceiving, for Ogata Shingo has problems. The opening sentence of the novel, which may (as Roland Barthes once said) structurally epitomizes the entire text, is as follows: "Ogata Shingo, his brow slightly furrowed, his lips slightly parted, wore an air of thought." The facial expression, slight though it might be, not only projects his mental problems, but reflects also the troubles he has at home, which in turn can be said to hint at the faults he finds with the state at large. Although at this particular moment Ogata Shingo tries to remember something which he forgot, his forgetfulness indicates the existence of an unconscious bolthole which helps him to escape from the painful reality of everyday life. In the Orient, too, the body is the house of a spirit. Moreover, the state is the body politic and so an enlarged house. (Mircea Eliade might have been pleased to know that the Japanese word for the state is kokka, the compound of koku for country and ka for house.) This Chinese-box structure is of course a version of the macrocosm-microcosm correspon­ dence. So, the troubled state and house tend to reflect each other, and is

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sometimes epitomized by a troubled body such as Shingo's troubled face. For that matter, Yukiko's diarrhea is another, more pronounced symptom of a troubled body-house-state. Sachiko's nightmare of her American-style kitchen shattered to pieces by an American air-raid, is yet another. The troubles Shingo experiences in his house all come from his chil­ dren. First of all, his son Shuichi is spiritually a "wounded soldier" although physically he returns home safe. He is no longer fit to live a normal civilian life. Despite his beautiful wife, he begins an affair with a war widow, who later bears him an illegitimate child. He frequently comes back home in the small hours, invariably very drunk. Kikuko has always been unhappy, but her modestry restrains her from expressing her feelings. She just suffers, and Shingo perceives it, although he too is unable to express his sympathy. But there exists some tacit exchange of feelings between the old man and his daughter-in-law. It indi­ cates love never to be consummated. Shingo's real daughter Fusako is married, lives in Tokyo, and has two little daughters. From the beginning of the story her married life is nearly on the rocks. She often flees to her parents' home with her daughters, seek­ ing shelter from her awful husband, who used to be an alcoholic and is a drug addict now. (Apparently he makes his living by peddling drugs; later in the story he commits suicide together with another woman.) Fusako is irritable and peevish at her parents' home, partly because she experiences her status quo as humiliating, and also because she is jealous of her father's tenderness toward the beautiful Kikuko. Thus Shingo's suburban house is troubled. But it is quite obvious that the misbehavior of the younger male members of the family, and which consequently makes the woman miserable and subsequently the old man unhappy, stems from the postwar spiritual insanity and moral degradation of the nation. The macrocosmic house first lost its integrity. Throughout the story Shingo is vaguely disturbed by two social phenomena which suggests sexual promiscuity at large. One is the abun­ dance of prostitutes (of both sexes) catering for American soldiers. If we remember the friendship between the Makiokas and the cultured European families, we can see that the two stories present pre- and postlapsarian pic­ tures of the Japanese relationship with the West. The other is the rapidly climbing rate of abortion which Shingo not only reads about in the newspapers but also witnesses among his acquain­ tances. To the consternation of Shingo and his wife, even Kikuko has an

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abortion because she does not want to have a baby as long as her husband has another woman. This presents a sharp contrast with Taeko's refusal to have an abortion when she has a child by her lover. The abortion imagery runs through the novel. Kikuko's forehead shows a faint scar caused by the forceps after her mother's failed attempt at abortion. She is the eighth child, and hers has been a difficult birth. So we might say that she has had a traumatic experience when leaving the most comfortable of all houses, her mother's womb. The major theme of the novel is the younger generation's departure from the parents' house. As witnessed in The Makioka Sisters, Japan's tra­ ditional extended family system had already had its heyday even before the war, and the younger members of the family were becoming more indi­ vidualistic and self-assertive. After the war, the disruption of the system accelerates and is total: the extended family quickly splits into nuclear families. Shingo is perceptive enough to see what is happening, and under­ standing enough to accept the inevitable, although he often ponders the responsibility as patriarch of the disintegrating family. In the scene right after the opening, his attitude is almost emblematic. He is on his way home from work, again unaccompanied by Shuichi, who remains in the city to spend the evening with his mistress. As a father, Shingo feels guilty, and wants to do something nice to please the female members of the family, particularly the estranged young wife Kikuko. Stop­ ping by a fishmonger to buy some fish, he decides on whelks, three of them, as there are going to be only three at the dinner table. The fishmonger offers to dress the fishmeat. When the knife touches the fish, the scraping sound disturbs Shingo. He is even more upset by the way the fishmonger dresses the meat after dicing it into pieces: Casually, the man was putting the meat back into the shells, so mixed together, thought Shinto, that it was unlikely to be reassembled in the par­ ticular shells from which it had come. He was aware of very small niceties (pp.12-13).

Shingo instinctively sympathizes with the fish as it is pulled out of its secure and comfortable house, just as Kikuko had been plucked from the womb by the doctor's forceps. Furthermore, one out of the shell, the fish meat is mixed with other fish meat, and will never be able to return to its old home. Semiotically this prefigures the disintegration of the house which the novel depicts, not specifically Shingo's house, but also the state as a house.

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The process of disintegration bewilders Shingo, but gradually he realizes that the advent of the nuclear family is unavoidable. Again and again he convinces himself of the necessity to give the children independence. If Shuichi and Kikuko have their own home to be responsible for, then they should also be able to solve their marital problems by themselves. If they fail, let them fail themselves: It seemed to Shingo quite proper that in postwar domestic law the basic unit had been changed from parent and child to husband and wife. "In other words, the husband-wife marsh," he muttered to himself. "They'll have to have their own house."

By calling the husband-wife relationship a "marsh", Shingo indicates that it is something which is not always pleasant, but which the couple will have to wade through anyway. Kikuko is more and more drawn to Shingo. This of course pleases him, since Shingo has abundant problems with his callous son, hysterical daugh­ ter (who is divorced now and lives in his house together with the two little daughters) and his unsympathetic wife. Nevertheless Shingo keeps encouraging her to leave the parents-in-law and have a separate house with her husband. But Kikuko shows her reluctance everytime Shingo brings it up; she is in tears, as if afraid of being independent. But very slowly she too comes to accept the inevitable. Throughout the novel Kikuko is portrayed as a beautiful woman, with a fine (almost fragile) figure, and a sensitive heart, able to wear a kimono gracefully, well-trained in such arts as flower-arrangement and tea-cere­ mony. She is, in other words, the embodiment of traditional Japanese feminine virtues, and in many respects is comparable to Yukiko in The Makioka Sisters. In Kawabata's novel, too, the author's tone is elegiac. Kikuko's kind of woman is no longer fashionable in postwar Japan. She is passé. Fusako, Shingo's real daughter, acts as a foil to Kikuko. With The Makioka Sisters in mind it may be expected that Fusako will play a similar role as Taeko. Fusako however, does not have Taeko's beauty, nor her social talents nor her artistic talent. Fusako looks plain, has a hot-tempered character, and is irritable and unpleasant especially toward her father. She is deeply resentful of the catastrophic married life she leads, and apprehen­ sive of the divorced life she is going to live from now on with her little daughters.

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And yet Fusako has a far better chance than Kikuko to break away from the old house and be independent, for she has lost practically every­ thing and has reached the bottom; from this position she can only go up. In this respect Fusako resembles Taeko. It is significant that in both novels the principal feminine characters are closed to the past, while in each case the foil commands a better prospect of the future, even though the path to the future may be rugged. The age-old family system has seen its day. Shingo is ready to accept the status quo and the future, but at the same time his thoughts are often directed toward death. That is why he hears the "sound of the moun­ tain" at night in his suburban house, signalling a call from Death. That is also the reason why Shingo yearns, more and more nostalgically for the old house in Shinshu, the most mountainous region in Japan, which his wife inherited from her father. However, the deeper truth is, that a long time ago Shingo was in love with his wife's sister who died young. The more his domestic problems accumulate, the more he thinks about the beautiful dead woman. His soul yearns for the return to Death's country. Shingo's suburban house, though away from the city, is actually placed in the midst of harsh reality: it suffers all the vicissitudes of the world. All the more his nostalgic eye is cast on the prototypal old house in the country. In this respect it differs radically from Sachiko's house in Ashiya, which remains a sunny spot even in the violent storm. In The Sound of the Mountain, Fusako is divorced and Kikuko has an abortion when the story nears the end. Kikuko's relationship with her hus­ band shows signs of improvement now that her husband has broken off his relationship with his by now pregnant mistress. It may of course only be a brief Indian Summer, with a real winter soon to follow. She may also decide to divorce. At any rate, she should leave Shingo's house, either by herself, or with her reconciled husband. Shuichi's former mistress refuses to have an abortion. She is deter­ mined to raise the illegitimate child by herself. Although she accepts the cheque Shingo offers her for his son, she tells him that she will move to another city where she will open a dressmaking shop. So, she too opts for independence, as so many other Japenese women after the war. At the end of the story, the season is late autumn, an elegiac season indeed. The family assembles at the dinner table, on which three trouts are served. Kikuko regrets the fact that there were only three trouts left in the store because the season is almost over. The dinner turns out to be rather

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sacramental, with the three families eating the three fishes. This is in sharp contrast to the opening dinner scene in which the older couple and the estranged young wife share three whelks. The last supper scene symbolizes the disintegration of one extended family into three nuclear families. Shingo is aware of the significance of the occasion, as he says to himself: "They formed three separate factions. Perhaps they should be in three sep­ arate houses." In fact Fusako is so engrossed in the idea of setting up a small house of her own, that she asks her father to give her enough money to open a "street stall," a "drinking place." Shingo promises to consider seriously the request. Meanwhile he has to think of Shuichi's former mis­ tress and her dressmaking shop. It strikes Shingo that women are achieving independence. It is significant that in both The Makioka Sisters and The Sound of the Mountain the story is set against the background of a comfortable uppermiddle class suburban house, and that each novel ends with the dissident member of the family declaring a wish to open a drinking place, whether a bar or a street stall. (In both cases, a dressmaking shop passes in revue.) It is equally significant, that in the final dinner scene of The Sound of the Mountain, Kikuko suddenly proposes to help her sister-in-law in the drink­ ing stall. Her offer comes so unexpectedly that the dinner table falls silent. Is Kikuko ready to leave the house? Shingo throws in his last card: he suggests that the family take a trip to visit the old house in the country, and see the autumn leaves in color. His wife is of course the most willing to go. Kikuko consents merely to accom­ pany the parents. (Seidensticker's English translation misrepresents the scene.) But neither Shuichi nor Fusako show any sign of enthusiasm. Throughout the novel, one symbol is skillfully but still unobtrusively employed: an old furoshiki (large cotton kerchief) which Fusako used to wrap her children's clothes in when she ran away from her drug-addict hus­ band. Shingo notices it as remotely familiar, and asks his wife about it. She replies that it was handed down in the family; it had been used to wrap something specially valuable in at her sister's, and then at her own, and finally at Fusako's wedding. By now Fusako who has lost everything uses the furoshiki to carry her few belongings, such as children's clothes. It can be argued that the furoshiki represents the most impoverished form of the concept of house, since Fusako lost her real house and all worldly goods. Being simultaneously traditional and portable, the furoshiki epitomizes the value which postwar Japan had to rely upon. In the hand of

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a resolutely independent woman, the furoshiki might prove to be far more reliable than the older generation's suburban house, let alone the ancestor's decaying house in the country. Therefore Fusako's furoshiki is emblematic of Kawabata's vision of postwar Japan, just as Taeko's husband's "tiny bar — catering to foreigners" is emblematic of Tanizaki's vision of Japan in the future. The dinner being over, the son immediately leaves the table and the women move to the kitchen. Shingo, left alone, looks absent-minded into the living room and finds the flowers especially arranged by Kikuko in dis­ array. Shingo calls her, but she "apparently could not hear him over the sound of the dishes." With this failure in communication between the lov­ ing father and his daughter-in-law, virtually the first and the last occasion of that kind in the story, the novel ends. Somehow recalling the atmosphere of Yukiko's diarrhea scene which concludes The Makioka Sisters, the scene in which Kikuko temporarily loses her hearing is pathetically nostalgic about the dying past of Japan. Forty years after the war, it may be said that the Japanese are still far more family-oriented than the Europeans or Americans: children depen­ dent more on parents; factories, firms and schools are like so many extended families, all more or less harmonious. So, it may be argued, that the old tradition has not totally disappeared in Japan. Nonetheless many people witnessed the changes, and some realized the tragic aspects. Kawabata committed suicide in 1972.

NOTES 1.

English translation by Edward G. Seidensticker (Tokyo: Turtle, 1957).

2.

English translation by Edward G. Seidensticker (Tokyo: Tuttle, 1971).

The Ghost Trio: Beckett, Yeats, and Noh* Yasunari Takahashi

I call to the eye of the mind — an imaginary triangle: I am of course quoting Beckett and Yeats at the same time. It is Winnie in Happy Days who says, "I call to the eye of the mind [...] Mr. Shower — or Cooker." But then Winnie, or Beckett, is consciously quoting from Yeats's play, At the Hawk's Welly which begins with the chorus singing, "I call to the eye of the mind/A well long choked up and dry [...]." And Yeats's play, in its turn, was writ­ ten immediately after his first exposure to the fascination of Japanese medieval drama, Noh, through the inspired and inspiring mediator, Ezra Pound, who was Yeats's private secretary at the time and happened to be editing Fenollosa's manuscript translations of Noh plays. The point of con­ nection here is the fact that the device of evoking verbally a certain image in the middle of an empty space is a familiar one in both Noh and Yeats. It might be objected that, granting that Noh and Yeats on one hand, and Yeats and Beckett on the other, are related with each other, the link between Noh and Beckett is missing. True enough, and that is exactly what this essay is ultimately all about. Assuming for the moment the existence of such a hypothetical triangle, where should we begin? Theoretically we could perhaps start from any one corner of the triangle, for our discourse is likely to be circular or Ouroboros-like, three snakes with each mouth catch­ ing the tail of another.1 The normal choice, however, would be to start with Yeats and Noh. Looking back upon Yeats's discovery of Noh in the mid-1910s, we realize that it could not have come except at that very moment: the time was truly ripe for him to snatch at this godsend. The use of mask, music, and dance which seemed to him the Wagnerian ideal of total theatre writ small and made austere; a stylized acting, a bare stage and minimal scenery; mythological stories drawn from a long-established cultural tradition; poet-

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lc language; a small cultivated audience capable of understanding erudite literary allusions, and so on — in short, everything was there, in this ancient drama from the Far East — everything Yeats had been aspiring for in his involvement with the Irish dramatic movement. Here was a theatre, miraculously different from the modern European realistic theatre which he detested so much. There was one aspect to Noh, however, which proved of special impor­ tance to Yeats as playwright. The protagonist of his play, The Hour Glass, is a teacher, ironically named 'Wise Man,' who indoctrinates his pupils with the belief that "There's nothing but what men can see when they are awake." Yeats might be said to have been trying ever since his earliest career to disprove that precept, but he could not find out exactly how he should go about it, and his plays up to the 1910s were unsatisfactory attempts at overcoming realism, ineffectual gropings for breakthrough beyond the limitations of symbolism. To put it bluntly, Noh revealed to him tout à coup what had been lacking: A GHOST! — certainly the foremost item in the list of the invisible and intangible anathematized by the Wise Man. The question is: How can one theatrically give the lie to Ibsen, the arch-realist, who did write a play called Ghosts but made it look all so scien­ tific and medical, a matter of syphilis and hereditary disease, a question of cause and effect acceptable to modern rational mind? T.S. Eliot once said that "nothing is more dramatic than a ghost." There lies behind Eliot's half-playful dictum a vast area of problematic, such as the ritualistic origin of drama in general, the shamanistic power embodied by the actor, and other topics which anthropologists make so much of. The point to be stressed here is that, while Noh remains very close to its primitive religious roots, it is at the same time a uniquely refined art form. It is so firmly based upon the time-honoured popular belief in the tor­ ments of the soul after death as well as in the power of a prayer for its release that one is tempted to regard it as a 'ghost play' pure and simple, a superstitious premodern embryonic theatre, and yet the way it mixes mem­ ory and desire, past and present, the living and the dead, the real and the unreal, exhibits a degree of sophistication defying any modern (or post­ modern for that matter) experimental theatre. Zeami, the great playwright-actor-director-theoretician of the four­ teenth century, brought to perfection the particular form of Noh called 'Mugen Noh' (Dream Noh) in which the secondary character (Waki), usu­ ally a travelling priest, meets the protagonist (Shite), usually in the guise of

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a village woman, who in the second half of the play reappears in the dream of the priest, reveals her true identity as the ghost of a long-dead lady, and reenacts the unrequited passion during her lifetime which still now torments her soul in the Buddhist Purgatory. Finally, the ghost disappears as the priest's prayer seems to release her from Purgatorial agonies. Yeats had an occult faith in what he called "dreaming back" whereby the "soul in judgement" (the title of a chapter in A Vision) after death must suffer the agony of re-living its fleshly existence. It is clear how perfectly the religious belief underlying Noh dovetailed into the system of Yeats's longheld occultism. What is also clear, however, is that he could not possibly 'imitate' Mugen Noh, no matter how appealing he found it. He must invent a new form of his own in which the impact of the epiphanic moment, the hierophany, and the action of the ghost "dreaming back" its past would constitute a focal point of drama, just as they do in Noh. The four "plays for dancers" which Yeats wrote under the direct influ­ ence of Noh marked a definite breakthrough in his dramatic career in many ways but most importantly in that they were the first to introduce ghosts or supernatural presences as the central dramatis personae in a truly significant way. In At the Hawk's Well, the Guardian of the well is possessed by the spirit of the hawk and lures the young hero away from achieving his dream. In The Dreaming of the Bones, the closest of the four plays to Mugen Noh in both theme and structure, the ghosts of two lovers who died seven hundred years ago appear to a young traveller, asking him to release their soul from torments because their release is only made possible through the forgiveness which their fellow-countryman bestows upon their sin against Ireland. In the late 1930s, towards the very end of his life, Yeats wrote two plays which demonstrated rather unexpected but even more interesting assimilations of what he had learned from Noh. One is The Words upon the Window-Fane. The scene is set in a spiritualist seance, upon which the spirits of Jonathan Swift and his mistress Vanessa descend quite un-calledfor and make havoc of it. Noticeable here are some radical divergences from the norm of Noh drama. First, the ghost of Swift and Vanessa are invisible: we only hear them speak through the mouth of the medium, an old woman, who gets possessed. The physical absence of the protagonists which sets off their presence all the more powerfully is a bold innovation on the standard Noh convention. The fierce debate which takes place between the two ghosts is also something lacking in Noh, which is essentially non-

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dialectic. Furthermore, the utter un-selfconsciousness of the medium in regard to the ghosts contrasts sharply with the sympathetic attitude of the priest in Noh; the puzzled or resentful reactions of the participants of the seance, with the exception of a young student who remains completely sceptical of the whole thing, are conducive to an ironical 'alienation-effect' which is totally alien to Noh. The other play from Yeats's last period suggesting a link with Noh is Purgatory. Here the protagonists are obviously the old man and his son who quarrel with each other, father finally killing son. One wonders, how­ ever, whether the real protagonists are not the shadows which appear on the lit-up window of the ruined house. Those shadows are the ghosts of the old man's father and mother who, as the old man and the audience realize, are re-enacting, "dreaming back," the crucial scenes in their lifetime. We are made to feel that the tragedy which we witness being acted out by the old man and the boy on stage is a reflection, a continuation of the tragedy which was acted out long ago, and apparently is still being endless repeated, behind that window. Interestingly, in this play, the ghosts are dumb; we see them, we do not hear them — as if Yeats were deliberately making an experiment which is diametrically opposite to the other play. Needless to say, the ghosts in Noh are wonderfully visible and fascinat­ ingly audible: they sing most poetically, they dance out their agonies poig­ nantly and gracefully. Needless to say also, these divergences in Yeats's later plays from the example of the master Zeami are not an artistic sin but a proof of Yeats's creative achievement. He succeeded in 'internalizing' the ghost in his own way so that the audience is made to perceive another drama played out in a space which is invisible or inaudible — an inner space which is to be perceived by "the eye of the mind." Both Noh and Yeats's Noh-influenced plays belong in different man­ ners, to what I would call the 'theatre of the mind.' If one might posit a hypothetical terminal point in this theatre form, it would be a play where absolutely nothing happened because everything had happened already — happened a long time ago. In Yeats's plays, lots of actions still do happen on stage; there always ensue some strong conflicts between protagonists themselves (as in The Words upon the Window-Pane or Purgatory) or between protagonist and secondary character (as in The Dreaming of the Bones) — conflicts which are after all familiar to the Western concept of drama since Aristotle. Noh is a purer form of the 'theatre of the mind' in which hardly any dramatic or conflict occurs between characters; especially

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in Mugen Noh everything is focussed on the re-kindling of memory, on the emergence of a ghost out of the "dark backward and abysm of time." As Paul Claudel said, "Dans le drama quelque chose arrive, dans le nô quelqu'un arrive." We come to the last corner of our triangle. I would submir that Beck­ ett's plays, at least some of them, could be called 'ghost plays' par excel­ lence, and that the 'internalization' of the ghost becomes progressively rad­ ical as he continues to write. The Beckettian theatre is a 'theatre of the mind' with a vengeance. Perhaps alone among all dramatists in Occidental history, Beckett has come close to that hypothetical extreme limit of this theatre form to which I referred. Seen in this context, Waiting for Godot seems to take on a new aspect. To begin with, the play strikes us as a parody (no doubt unintentional) of the Noh drama — to be more precise, of a particular genre in the repertoire of Noh commonly known as 'Kami Noh' in which the protagonist is Kami (god, or spirit) and makes his or her spectacular appearance to the sight of the secondary character. The reason for this hierophany is normally the blessing of the particular place which is the scene of the play and to which the god is linked by some special bond. Godot whom the two tramps wait for in vain is clearly a caricature of deus absconditus who fails to show up. But there is more irony to it. In so far as Godot is a protagonist manquéy and because of his absence, Didi and Gogo, who would be secondary characters in a Noh play, are forced to play the role of protagonists. Even more ironical than this inversion of roles is the fact that Godot, though he does not actually appear on stage, does maintain the whole play. For it is he who, by keeping Didi and Gogo waiting, gives the name and substance to this particular show called Waiting for Godot. In that sense, it might cer­ tainly be arguable that this pseudo-god, Godot, does give a blessing to the place to which he is a sort of patron deity, a place named, as we are told, "The Board" (La Planche), i.e. the 'stage.' ' There is another trait which characterizes Waiting for Godot as an 'in­ verted ghost play.' Godot is neither visible nor audible (expect indirectly through the boy's message), so that it should be possible to say that the ghost, supposing Godot is a sort of ghost, is here more 'internalized' than any ghost in Noh or Yeats's plays. But, on the other hand, Godot is obvi­ ously not a ghost of anybody, of any human being, whereas in Mugen Noh and The Dreaming of the Bones it is definitely somebody's ghost that is in question. Godot is nobody; Blake would have called him "Nobodaddy." He

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is a completely separate existence (or non-existence) in regard to Didi and Gogo. He is elsewhere, they don't know where, but somewhere out there, somewhere beyond here. Godot is transcendental, 'externalized,' just like God himself — which makes us hesitate to call the play a 'parody' of Kami Noh. For, after all has been said and done, the play might possibly be a truly religious offering to a god — no matter what sort of god he may be — which is a rare thing in the history of modern theatre. Be that as it may, the kind of 'externalization' or 'otherness' which we find in Godot soon disappears from Beckett's later plays. That 'stranger' from another world whom we call a ghost becomes more 'internalized' in these plays, recedes further into the protagonist's own mind, until it becomes almost synonymous with memory or consciousness itself. The dramatic conflict which was much in evidence in Yeats is so completely dis­ carded that Beckett's theatre (where 'nothing happens') comes to look even closer to Noh than Yeats's did. That does not mean, however, that Beckett and Zeami share quite the same dramaturgy. On the contrary, before examining the actual modes of Beckettian 'internalization,' we should stress one point that radically sepa­ rates them, namely the inversion of roles which we observed in Godot. The protagonist in Mugen Noh is always a ghost who appears, recounts and reenacts its past in the presence of a priest, seeking absolution and release. In Beckett, it is often the other way round; basically, the protagonist is an old man or woman who is discovered on stage right from the beginning of the play, and it is this human protagonist who is in need of release or affirma­ tion or consolation from a ghostly voice which tells the story of the pro­ tagonist's own life to him/her. The typically Beckettian drama may be said to consist in the interaction, or rather the lack of interaction, between the protagonist and the ghost who emerges, or sometimes fails to emerge, from his/her memory and consciousness. Within this general pattern, there are of course infinite variations. Krapp is the first Beckettian hero to listen to his own voice coming from somewhere outside himself, a tape-recorder in this case. The ghost, his past self, hides itself in, and emerges from, the recorded tapes, which are the extension of the protagonist's mind. He reacts to the ghost in various ways, laughing with, and at, it, getting nostalgic about it, cursing it, and refusing to acknowledge his life as a failure in defiance of it. But all these reactions are absurd and useless because it is only too clear that Krapp cannot com­ municate with the ghost, i.e. with the machine. And the fact that he con-

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trois the switch of the machine only emphasizes the gap that yawns between his present self and his past, ghostly self. The final impression the audience gets is of the utter desolation of Krapp's mind, unrelieved and unconsoled by the ghost, which, by the way, of course has no intention of consoling him, being as it is a mere collection of mechanical voices recorded long ago. In the radio play, Embers, Henry does communicate, to a certain degree, with the voice of his former wife, Ada, whom he has evoked with his own will-power. This looks exceptionally positive for a Beckett play, though Ada's voice finally departs, forsaking Henry and leaving him dis­ consolate. Croak of Words and Music is just as powerful, or as powerless, as Henry, being able to order Words and Music to tell a story but unable to face it out — a difference here from Embers, for Henry tried to detain Ada while it is Croak who sneaks away. The Opener of Cascando, on the other hand, sounds much more confident in his power to 'open' the story about Woburn at his will; he certainly sounds satisfied with the ending of the story told by Voice and Music, saying approvingly at the end, "Good!" But what a bleak story it is, and what a sad man, this Woburn, obviously the alter ego of the Opener. And the story is not really ended: "[...] we're there [...] nearly [...] just a few more [...]." In the television play, Eh Joe, the protagonist is utterly passive against the ghost, the voice of a woman, which talks to him from some unaccountable space outside but which at the same time seems to proceed from his own mind, "the penny farthing hell," as the voice spitefully calls it. And the story told by the voice is such that Joe is ruthlessly made aware of an affair in his life which he has perhaps unconsciously chosen to remain ignorant of. Play and Not I are exceptional in that they reverse the usual Beckettian structure: in both, the protagonists are ghosts, being (probably, in the case of Not I) dead. They are also similar in having a special presence on stage functioning as a 'listener' to the ghosts; the 'spotlight' in Play and Auditor in Not I. But it is a proof of Beckett's insatiable inventiveness that the former reminds us of a pitiless inquisitor while the latter looks like a com­ passionate confessor somewhat resembling the priest in Noh. In That Time, the protagonist is again listening to his own voice, in fact three voices talking to him about three different periods of his own life. The old man is a far more passive victim than Joe and the play looks like a court-martial with a defendant subjugated to torturing interrogations. The mood changes completely in Ghost Trio, which, literally using Beethoven's work of that title, dramatizes, in a 'minimalist' way, what Wordsworth calls

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"still, sad music of humanity." The protagonist, being neither aggressive like Krapp nor passive like Joe, is just waiting for someone, like Didi and Gogo for that matter, but much more intensely; besides, that someone is apparently his beloved woman, sharing nothing with Godot except the ina­ bility to appear. The man "think[s] he hears her," but it proves to be illusory, till finally a boy arrives with a negative message from her. Thus, one is sur­ prised to realize how much this play is a condensed and 'internalized' re­ make of Waiting for Godot. Another television play,... but the cloud ..., on the other hand, allows the close-up of the beloved to appear on the screen, albeit fleetingly, and even to utter a few words. But the man knows only too well from his past experiences how precious few are the chances of her answering his 'begging of a mind, to her, to appear, to me.' Her appear­ ances fall far short of real epiphany, and his 'perturbed spirit' remains unpacified. Rockaby and Ohio Impromptu tempt us to feel as if the Beckettian heroes were at last given their 'quietus,' as if they were finally allowed to 'give up the ghost' — in both the idiomatic and literal sense of the words. Rockaby ends with the voice of the dying old woman saying (not exactly 'to' but) 'about' her, "[...] fuck life/stop her eyes/rock her off/rock her off." In Ohio Impromptu, Reader reads to Listener a story which tells of a woman who has been sending her messenger to a man to read him a story. This 'dear' woman, who we have reason to believe is a 'ghost' because she is in all probability dead, finally says to the messenger, "No need to go to him again." All these plays painfully demonstrate how impossible to Beckett a Cartesian confidence in rational basis of ego has become and how difficult, too, a Proustian hope for a 'privileged moment.' (It is to be remembered that Beckett started his literary career with a poem on Descartes and a book on Proust.) Consciousness is more irrational and far less almighty than Descartes thought, and memory is more 'involuntary' and far less redeeming than Proust dreamed. On the other hand, Beckett cannot have the kind of religious faith in after-life that Zeami had nor the kind of occult system which Yeats had. All that Beckett has in common with Zeami and Yeats seems to be a faith in the sheer indestructible persistence of con­ sciousness.2 Yeats's "dreaming back" is replaced by Krapp's re-play of the tapes and the 'Da Capo' repetition of Play — which, by the way, also remind us of the punishment of Belacqua who must stay in Dante's Purga­ tory for as long as the span of his earthly life.

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What makes the matter more complicated in Beckett is that his charac­ ters are invariably committed to telling stories about themselves, and they do so in a very insidious sort of way. They pretend them to be mere fictions, denying, like the Mouth of Not /, the identity of the teller and the told. It is as impossible to pinpoint the identity as it is to overlook the resemblance. As is typically shown by Rockaby and Ohio Impromptu, there are stories inside stories inside stories. A ghostly voice keeps talking about another ghostly presence, which keeps talking about yet another one, and so on, a structure somewhat reminiscent of the fictions of Borges. This chinese-box structure is of course inseparable from the theme and structure of Beckett's 'ghost plays' which I have analyzed. They are part of his strategy to subvert or deconstruct, if you like, the Cartesian identity of the self, blurring the distinction between self and the other and creating a deeply disturbing schizophrenic ambiguity. Beckett sees through the superficialities of reason and daylight; he is inescapably drawn to twilight, that twilight which, as Yeats sang in his poem, "The Tower," dissolves the clear-cut outlines of daylight world and makes everything "seem but the clouds of the sky/When the horizon fades." We know that Beckett has bor­ rowed a phrase from this poem for the title of his play. The final question that remains to be asked is: this twilight, this ambiguity, this erosion of identity — is it a sign of pessimism, nihilism, and despair? Not necessarily. Twilight is traditionally (especially in Japan) the time of the day when ghosts are wont to appear. It is the time propitious for epiphany, the time when "the eye of the mind" gets particularly sharpened. Yeats's twilight, which can of course be traced back to the 'Celtic twilight' of his youth, may denote an aspect of tedium vitae but is actually a symbol of a state of mind in which the human psyche is prepared for insight and revelation. With Beckett, twilight has surely grown darker, and his work may look saturated with the imagery of darkness. But as one's eye-sight gets used to his 'dark' world, one realizes that the typically Beckettian colour is not so much 'black' as 'grey.' And if Beckett's whole literary and theatri­ cal endeavour, as I see it, consists in "making a ghost of the Western man {homo europeus)," the implications need not be totally negative. Rather, it seems to me that Beckett's theatre should be interpreted as representing a unique search for what Artaud called "le double du théâtre," we may recall, quite aptly, that 'le double' can mean a 'ghost.' Furthermore, it is a common knowledge in the history of religious and mystical thought both East and West that via negativ a is an indispensable step to a final affirma-

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tion, and it would be wrong to make of Beckett an 'apostle of negation,' even though one feels certain that Beckett himself will never reach that final affirmation, that he will never take his "No's knife" away from "Yes's wound." Let me recapitulate my theme: 1400, in Kyoto — Zeami arrives at the definition of the ideal of Noh theatre as 'yugen,' a word extremely difficult to translate into other languages. Etymologically it could mean anything dark and obscure, but what it really implies is the beauty of twilight rather than the terror and despair of utter darkness. This twilight would be for Zeami a metaphor of mental awareness at its deepest. It is out of this depth that he succeeds in creating a number of ineffably beautiful and haunting theatrical ghosts. 1913, in London — Yeats and Ezra Pound are watching a young Japanese dancer named Michio Itoh demonstrating for them some basic dance techniques of Noh. Trying later to analyze the fascinating effect of simple and slow movements of the body, Yeats writes that the dancer "was able to recede from us into some more powerful life [...] he receded but to inhabit as it were the deeps of the mind." I would suggest that 'the deeps of the mind' into which the dancer receded could also be where a ghost would inhabit and emerge from. 1981, in Columbus, Ohio — the first performance of Beckett's play Ohio Impromptu is approaching its end. Surrounded by thick darkness, and completely still, Reader is reading aloud to Listener the last page of the book. It tells of two figures, one who reads, the other who listens, sitting motionless in dark twilight (to be precise, 'dawn' that 'shed[s] no light'). Finally, David Warrilow, as Reader, utters a few words which sink into our minds with unforgettable reverberations. I shall simply quote them leaving it to you undecided whether Beckett is here consciously echoing Yeats or it is a pure coincidence: "Profounds of mind. Buried in who knows what pro­ founds of mind. Of mindlessness.3 Whither no light can reach. No sound [...]."

Notes *

This essay first appeared in its original form in The Cambridge Review, Volume 107, Number 2295 (December 1986); thanks are due to its editor through whose permission it is here republished.

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1.

Another image which may not be irrelevant is a linear one: the lush green pinetree painted on the back-panel of the Noh-stage, transformed into the bare thun­ der-riven tree of Yeats's Purgatory, is resurrected ambiguously as the tree of Wait­ ing for Godot — a strange metamorphosis of the mythological 'axis mundi.'

2.

Of course Zeami would never have used the Japanese word, 'i-shiki,' a modern word coined from Chinese as the equivalent of the English 'consciousness.' The word he did use was 'tamashii' or 'tama,' which is closer to Yeats's 'soul.'

3.

In his French version, Beckett translates 'mind' as 'conscience' and 'mindlessness' as 'inconscience'.

A Semiotic Approach to the Role of Paritta in the Buddhist Ritual" Tamotsu Aoki

0. J. Kristeva (1981) proposes that there are various 'languages' besides the language in the narrow sense of the word, namely verbal language, 'ges­ ture language,' 'musical language,' 'visual language' (and I would very much like to add in this connection 'ritual language') are some of the exam­ ples. She says about gesture language that while there is no doubt about it being a system of signification, it is very difficult, at least at the present stage, to specify the constituent elements of this 'language.' The most important point she makes about gesture language, however, is that it func­ tions as a source of 'significance' rather than simply as a means for signify­ ing something else. It is a locus of emergent signification. Kristeva refers, among other examples to the myth of the Dogons in which the god Ona is described as having created the world by pointing, and quotes with approval P. Oselon's statement that gesture language is not simply a lan­ guage, but an act and that it involves one in deeds and even in things and events. Gesture language, she says, represents modalities like command, suspicion and prayer, but it is incomplete as to grammatical categories like nouns, verbs and adjectives. All this raises the question whether gesture language is really a system of communication or it is a practice — a locus for the generation of significations. The linguistic model would serve the pur­ pose only if the former was the case. If, on the other hand, the latter is the case — which apparently it is — then gesture language, together with other languages, can be understood as representing a process of the generation of a communication system which is beyond the scope of applicability of the linguistic model. Understood in this way, gesture language assumes special significance for semiotic study. Since gesture language plays a privileged role in ritual,

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the line of thinking developed by Kristeva will have vital significance for the study of 'ritual language.' It goes without saying that ritual language involves not only gestures, but also verbal language, sounds and even silences. But there is no doubt that it is a locus of the generation of the sub­ ject and significations of a communication system. Furthermore, it is also clear that ritual language is not simply a 'language.' It involves participation in things and events. Ritual not only tells something but does something. The aim of the present paper is to analyze the mechanism of ritual language in its 'doing' aspect in terms of the Kristevian notion of 'language' and com­ munication. 1. It is generally understood that the ritual should be regarded and described as an act. In spite of the fact, however, that the ritual is com­ posed of both acts and language, the other side, namely, the linguistic aspect of the ritual has not been paid sufficient attention to until quite recently. If the ritual is a 'language' in the Kristevian sense, this aspect of the ritual cannot be neglected. Moreover, the 'language' of ritual does not seem to be, as in daily language, simply producing utterances. It clearly plays a functionally more significant role than that. The problem of com­ munication in ritual thus becomes a particularly interesting topic of research. A pioneering study in this line was R. Finnegan's work (1969) on the speech act in the Limba. Making use of J. Austin's notions of 'perfor­ mative utterance' and 'illocutionary act' (Austin 1960), she demonstrates that a number of apparently nothing more than formulaic utterances in the daily conversation of the Limba people do in fact constitute an act, an active participation in the events of the real world and that this performa­ tive force is fully realized by those people. Finnegan's perceptive study offers a fruitful turning-point in the study of ritual. The traditional approach tends to regard the utterances in ritual as 'symbolic' or 'expressive' and thus to relegate the whole problem to the sphere of insolubable mystery. Cassirer, for example, contends that the force of language is displayed through the 'intensifying function' charac­ terizing mythical metaphor, and he posits this as a distinctive feature of mythical thinking. Mythical thinking is then contrasted with discursive thinking and the contrast is further reinterpreted in terms of rational think­ ing and mystical thinking. It is assumed that these two ways of thinking are characteristic of civilized and primitive society (or of illiterate and literate society) respectively. Ritual language is thus considered to be the product

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of the early stage of human civilization — something qualitatively different from the function of language in civilized society. Finnegan's study thus demonstrates that the notion of performative utterance has a universal applicability, thereby implying that the qualitative contrast posited between the function of language in 'civilized' society and that in 'primitive' society is an invalid one. It even seems to me that Austin's notions will prove much more effective when applied to ritual language. Austin distinguishes three kinds of utterance: 'locutionary,' 'illocutionary' and 'perlocutionary.' Of these, the first one is a simple act of 'saying' something. The second and the third kinds of utterance, on the other hand, involve 'doing' something as well as 'saying' something. In the illocutionary utterance, the speaker is 'doing' something in 'saying' something; in the perlocutionary utterance, he is 'doing' something by 'saying' something. In either case, the utterance involves some sort of 'performance' of an act. Such performative utterances are classified by Austin into five types: 'verdictive' (as in giving a sentence in the court), 'exercitive' (as in ordering someone), 'commissive' (as in promising something), 'behavitive' (as in thanking someone), and 'expositive' (as in replying someone). As for Austin's scheme, let me just point out that his classification should not be taken as implying exclusive categories. In the actual utterance, on the con­ trary, more than one categorization normally applies to a concrete instance. A difficulty about the notion of performative utterance is that such an utter­ ance cannot fulfil its function unless certain conditions are satisfied. For example, if the speaker is not sufficiently qualified or not sincere. The utterance will fail to fulfill the performative function for which it is intended. But this enables us to stipulate the following: 'If conditions are duly fulfilled within a certain frame for action, a performative utterance will not fail to exercise its performative force.' It will then be immediately clear that the ritual is very likely to offer exactly such a frame. There will, as a rule, be no question of an utterance being insincere in ritual, for example. In the com­ munication framed by the metacommunication, 'This is ritual,' the utter­ ance is unmistakably associated with a certain performative value; it is always backed with a metamessage, 'This is sincere.' It is the purpose of the present paper to discuss 'ritual language' from this point of view. 2. The present object under consideration is a Buddhist ritual. There are various kinds of Buddhist ritual which are most commonly and frequently conducted in Thailand and Sri Lanka. In either land, Pali is the language

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used in such rituals and not Thai or Sinhara, the languages used in daily life. I have chosen a particular Thai ritual called ngan than bun for analysis. This particular ritual represents the standard of Buddhist ritual while the other Buddhist rituals can be considered as variations of this one. The corres­ ponding ritual in Sri Lanka is called Pint ritual; it differs slightly from the Thai ritual, but its function is approximately the same as that of the latter. In the following analysis, I am going to concentrate on the Thai ritual. Than bun means 'to do good deeds.' More specifically 'doing good deeds' in this case means that one behaves properly in accordance with the Buddhist moral disciplines — which is the way to nirwana, the ultimate goal for the Buddhist. For those ordinary people other than the monks, than bun is the source of everything good in the world and all people endeavor to do than bun on all sorts of occasions. The than bun ritual, in fact, represents the public form in which than bun is done. The aims of the than bun ritual are varied, but many of them are associated with mundane profits. This suggests that the ritual represents the merger of the major tradition (Buddhism) and the minor tradition (worship of spirits). The than bun ritual is sometimes conducted within the Buddhist tem­ ple, but in most cases it is conducted in private homes. When conducted in private homes nine monks are normally invited. The hall of the house is used as the place for the ritual. The arrangement of the place is shown in Fig. 1. The monks are seated with a big fan in hand which is about the size

Figure 1

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of their face. From the palm of the Buddha statue placed on the platform is drawn a white thread called saisin. It is held, on the one hand, by the monks and on the other, it is drawn around the ritual place and the house. In front of the head monk a basin is placed filled with water with candles beside it. The invited family members, together with their relatives and friends are seated in a row facing the monks. The seats for the monks are raised some­ what higher than those for the family and the invited guests (thus suggesting the locational division between the sacred and the mundane). The master of the house, who is the client of the ritual, steps forth and seats himself in front of the head monk. So far, the preparation. Now starts the ritual. The whole process is divided into four parts. In the first part, the master of the family asks the head monk to give him five precepts. He first makes three bows to the Buddha statue, lights two can­ dles and utters the prayer for giving him the precepts. His utterance consists of expressing his wish to have precepts given to him and declaring his belief in Buddha's teachings. Each part is uttered three times and punctuated by three bows. After this, he moves still closer to the head monk, now ready to receive the five precepts. The five precepts, namely, 'Do not kill,' 'Do not steal,' 'Do not commit lechery,' 'Do not boast about yourself' (as hav­ ing been enlightened), and 'Do not drink alcohol,' are given by the head monk one phrase after another. In giving the precepts, the head monk plays the role of the Buddha incarnated. After giving the five precepts, the head monk turns to the master of the family and others who are present and tells them that the five precepts just given will lead them through practice to glory bring them wealth and success and purify all their deeds. This uttered in a solemn tone, the head monk again playing the role of Buddha, while the audience listens to him with their heads bowed down. Next the head monk proceeds to call in the supreme deva Salanpati and asks for the pro­ tection. When the head monk's prayer is over, the petitioner (i.e. the head of the family) bows three times and enchants Asa Dana Paritta, purporting to ask for protection from misery and hardship. Here ends the first part of the ritual. The first part of the ritual can be described as an interaction between the head monk and the petitioner in terms of an exchange of performative utterances in the Pali language. It consists of the following stages: (i)

The layman's illocutionary act ('commissive' utterance). The petitioner's utterance is purported to make clear his firm belief in the

TAMOTSU AOKI Buddhist teachings. His utterance therefore counts as a performative act and this function of his utterance is duly supported by a series of bowing and other accompanying bodily gestures. The petitioner implies in his utterances his readiness to receive the precepts as a de­ vout Buddhist; hence his utterance counts as of 'commissive' type. (ii) The monk's illocutionary act ('exercitive utterance') and the layman's illocutionary act ('behavitive utterance'). The head monk gives pre­ cepts and the petitioner receives them in the form of repeating the same utterance. Here are two different types of illocutionary acts involved. The exercitive on the part of the holy and the behavitive on the part of the laity. Notice that in spite of the fact that the same utterance is made by either party its illocutionary type, is different depending on which party makes the utterance. This point is worth emphasizing, because in the previous studies on the topic the differ­ ence in illocutionary force deriving from the different points of view has not been given due attention. (iii) The head monk's illocutionary act ('verdictive' utterance). After giv­ ing the precepts, the head monk tells those present that these will lead to glory, bring them wealth and success and purify all their deeds. Notice that this is not a mere explanation. The words uttered are those of Buddha (who speaks through the head monk) and as such they cannot be vacuous. They represent an authoritative pro­ nouncement of what counts as truth. (iv) The silence on the part of the petitioner and others who are present. While the head monk gives the precepts in the form of a verdictive utterance the lay audience listen to the verdict in silence with their heads bowed down to the floor. This posture of the audience repre­ sents, in fact, the highest degree of pious devotion shown by the Thai people. It is most appropriate to the occasion of receiving the sacred words. The silence, together with the prostrate posture with which the sacred words are received, implies the readiness to comply with them and implement them. This point will be discussed again later. (v) The head monk's perlocutionary utterance. The head monk requests the presence of the supreme deva Sahanpati and asks for his protec­ tion and help. This deity, by the way, is not originally related to Buddhism. He is rather a deity in the Brahman-Hindu religion, but has been introduced into Buddhism as one who can support and implement Buddha's teachings in the mundane world, because

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Buddha himself, as the enchanted one, is above the mundane. Thus, asking for the presence of this deva can be considered a sort of per­ locutionary act. At the same time, the utterance with which the head monk asks for the deva's presence has a strong performative charac­ ter. (vi) The petitioner's perlocutionary utterance. The petitioner then utters Ara Dana Paritta which purports to ask for protection from misery and hardship. This is a prayer directed to all higher deities, including Buddha, Sahanpati and other devas and has a perlocutionary charac­ ter. (vii) The silence on the part of the head monk. The response to the petitioner's prayers is the silence on the part of the head monk. The silence with which the head monk, as one who represents the holy, listens to the prayer, implies that the prayer will be granted. Among the seven stages into which the first part of the ritual is analyzed, special attention should be paid to (iv) and (vii) above. At these two stages, we have no verbal act. But from the analysis given in the above, it is quite clear that the silence which characterizes these two stages, also has a strong performative character. Thus in the exchange between the holy and the lay partner, the silence as well as the utterance function performatively. This implies further that 'saying' cannot be considered separately from 'doing' in the ritual process. 3. The second part of the ritual consists, almost exclusively, in the chant­ ing of the Paritta by the monks. The lay audience listen to it in reverent posture throughout. This is the central part of the whole ritual. The chanting of the Paritta is stated by the third of the nine monks pre­ sent. Hiding his face with the large fan, he chants a Pali text requesting all the devas to come from the corners of the world to the ritual place, thereby to ensure the purification and the safe protection of the place. This, there­ fore, has a character of the perlocutionary act on the part of the holy part­ ner. The attentive silence on the part of the lay audience implies also a wish for the fulfilment of what the monk purports to bring about. When the third monk's chanting is finished, all the nine monks then chant in unison the text (the same one chanted in the first part of the ritual) professing to this firm belief in the teachings of Buddha. This has an illocutionary effect of ensuring that the Paritta, which is now to follow, is based on the authority of Buddha. Here again 'saying' and 'doing' go together.

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Then follows the chanting of the Paritta in unison. The Paritta is a series of sutras for use in the ritual. These sutras have been accumulated in the course of the practice of Buddhism in society and a considerable number of them are not quite clear as to their origin or derivation. The Paritta consisting of seventeen kinds of sutra is normally chanted in the thai bun ritual. The seventeen sutras can be classified into three types: (i)

(ii)

Those which preach that by praising and believing in the power of 'three treasures' (i.e. Buddha, Damma, Sanga) of Buddhism one can remain free from evils and disasters. Five of the seventeen sutras belong to this type. For example, the first sutra chanted in the ritual goes like the following: "Look at the One who has freed himself from the dirt of worldly worries. He is the Buddha. [...] I pay homage to Buddha, the supreme Being, by whom [...] we are led to victory and success [...]." Those which praise Buddha himself and preach that the way to salva­ tion lies in him. There are six sutras of this type. One goes like the following: "The king whose heart is full of mercy toward who live by virtue [...] All troubles will be removed by referring to this truth

(iii) Those which praise Buddha who resisted all evil temptations and threats in the course of his enlightenment. These derive from the nar­ ratives on Buddha's life. Six sutras are of this type. The most rep­ resentative of these six sutras goes as follows: "Evil Mala on the elephant, brandishing weapons in his several thousand hands, shouts at his soldiers. The King of Muni (i.e. Buddha), however, subdued him by letting him hear Damma. May the victory be granted to all those who listen to Damma!" And so the sutra goes on recounting how Buddha was able to subdue the evil powers one by one which stood in his way. The last part of this sutra says: "What has just been recited is a set of four praises about Buddha's victories over the evil powers. This must be duly recited daily. Then there will be no disas­ ter and the wise ones will obtain the bliss of enlightenment!" This part thus offers an account of what it means to recite the Paritta. The second part of the ritual consists, as described above, of almost entirely a verbal act, i.e. chanting of the Paritta by the holy partners. The lay partners simply listen to the chant. Since the chanting of the Paritta pro­ ceeds in the frame of understanding that evils and disasters will be removed

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by listening to it, it counts clearly as a perlocutionary act on the part of the chanting monks. Letting the lay partners listen to the Paritta will lead them to salvation. Notice that there is nothing in the chanted contents which characterizes chanting as an illocutionary act. Notice also that here again the silent listening on the part of the lay partners is also of performative character: by listening to the Paritta, they will be brought to salvation. 4. The third part of the ritual is constituted by an act called dana. Dana means an act of giving in general. In the present Buddhist context, it means giving alms. It must be noted that here again the word implies the act; dana in an ideational, abstract sense, separated from a concrete gift, is simply unthinkable. In the ritual under discussion, the monks are treated to a meal and are presented with gifts (utensils for daily use) together with a remuneration. This is the counterpart of the giving of immaterial things (i.e. precepts) from the monk to the audience. We thus have an instance of symbolic exchange here: the monks' act of receiving dana from the audience means at the same time that the latter have been attributed good deeds by the former. Dana is followed by the fourth part of the ritual characterized by bles­ sing and consecration. It starts with the head monk's recitation of a brief sutra text. Then comes the recitation by all the nine monks, while the audi­ ence listen to it with their heads bowed down deeply. The sutra recited states the good deeds are attributed to the dead as well as to the living and that the wishes of the living will be fulfilled. Then another sutra text is recited by the nine monks, while the petitioner empties the water in the copper urn beside him into the jug. This act of removing the water is said to ensure that the petitioner can attribute good deeds to a particular dead person. The Paritta recited at this point is a well-known one. It is as follows: "May all the curse be removed, all the illnesses be cured, all the dangers be excluded, so that you may live happily for ever [...]." After a further recitation of a brief sutra text, there comes a recitation of a Paritta called "For those few who will be blessed." This tells the audi­ ence that all the evils will be driven off through the three treasures of Buddhism and all kinds of bliss will be obtained. While this Paritta is recited, the head monk goes around sprinkling lustral water on every member of the audience. This act of sprinkling water is understood as an

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act of realizing what is stated in the Paritta. The utterance of words and the act go together; one cannot be dissociated from the other. When the sprinkling of water is finished, there is a shift to another Paritta, called "On the Force of the Three Treasures." This Paritta is con­ cluded with the prayer that all people may be blessed by the force of the Three Treasures. At the end of the whole ritual, still another Paritta, called "Supreme Bliss," is recited. This consists of two parts, the former saying in effect, "All good bliss will be granted and all devas will give protection. May you remain safe for ever through the power of Buddha," and the lat­ ter, "All bliss is here granted. All devas protect it. May you remain safe for ever through the power of Buddha." The recitation is concluded with the praise of the power of the Three Treasures. This is the end of the than bun ritual. We see that in the latter half of the ritual process, the recitation of the Paritta is again accompanied with an illocutionary force. The Paritta pur­ ported to send bun to the dead is recited by the monks while the petitioner shifts the water from the urn to the jug. The implication that bun shall be sent to the dead arises jointly from the illocutionary force attributable to the verbal act (which is the recitation of the Paritta) and from the nonverbal act of removing the water. The next Paritta, "May all the curses be removed [...]," can also be interpreted as an illocutionary act; the monks who utter it are representing Buddha, hence the words they utter should in fact have the effect of bringing about the desired state. The Paritta that comes next, "For those few who will be blessed," also counts, in the frame of the Buddhist belief as an illocutionary act of the verdictive type, while the Paritta that follows it, in combination with the sprinkling of the water, has a perlocutionary force, since it serves to dispel all evils. The final two Parittas of benediction, when seen as uttered by Buddha himself, have also an illocutionary character. Notice the double role of the monks. On the one hand, they are an incarnation of Buddha and in this capacity the Paritta they recite assume an illocutionary character. They are, on the other hand, mediators between the holy and the lay people; in this capacity they bring the force of the Three Treasures to the human beings and so far as this is concerned, their utterance counts as a perlocutionary act. Thus the recitation of the Paritta, as a speech act, changes its character, depending on which role the monks assume.

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It must be pointed out that any act in the ritual process we have described has its specific aim defined in the process. To call the sprinkling of the water as magical, for example, will explain nothing. In the context of the present ritual, the sprinkling water has the function of conveying the force of the verbal utterance, thereby mediating the transfer of bun. If the ritual process is analyzed in this way in terms of the notions of speech act, it is clear that the recitation of the Paritta counts a performative utterance and the whole ritual process consists of a series of illocutionary and perlocutionary acts. The ritual has its own clear logic. 5. In the preceding sections, we have analyzed the than bun ritual in terms of Austin's notion of speech act. We have demonstrated that the Partitas, recited by the monks in the course of the ritual, consist of both illocutionary and perlocutionary acts and that far from being vaguely sym­ bolic in character, as is frequently claimed in the previous studies on the utterances in the ritual acts, they are strictly and logically integrated into the entire ritual process. An approach like this has the merit of avoiding direct imposition of the researcher's theoretical framework on the object for research and turning the attention to the shared foundations of the par­ ticipants' linguistic reality. In performative utterances, the question of who utters is a very important one. An utterance acquires a strong performative effect only when it is produced by somebody who is institutionally authorized to do so. This is exactly the case with a religious ritual such as we are now considering. The Paritta represents Buddha's words and the monks who recite the Paritta are doing so with the same authority attribut­ able to Buddha. But to be authorized to act as representatives of Buddha, the monks are in turn expected to constantly lead a life characterized with austerity and hard work. Although Austin's notion of performative analysis seems, on the whole, to be very well applicable to the analysis of the ritual process with which we are now concerned, there is one point which still remains to be explicated and which seems to have an important bearing on the way we interpret the function of language in ritual. The point in question is the fact that in the than bun ritual, the recitation of the Paritta in general and lin­ guistic exchange between the holy and the lay partners in the first part of the ritual are both conducted in Pali. Pali was a language in use at the time of Buddha in Northern India; it is, however, a dead language now. It greatly differs from any other Ian-

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guage now in current use in the Buddhist region of the area and no one except monks and academic specialists are able to use it. It is exclusively the language of the sacred sutras, understood and used by the monks in their ritual process. The lay petitioner simply memorizes and recites certain phrases, usually without knowing the exact meanings of the words he utters. The Partitas, recited by the monks, are above the understanding of the lay participants. What matters is that they take part and listen rather than question the validity of what is said. If the lay participants do not really understand what is being communicated by the monks, there will be no question of a series of performative acts being effectively conducted here. But if the actual process of the ritual is observed closely, it will be found that there is a very closely related exchange of meanings between the two parties. Any observer of the process will certainly be struck with a highly tense atmosphere in which the exchange is made. It is in fact impos­ sible not to suppose that there is a meaningful exchange going on between the reciting monks and the listening laymen. Between the two parties, there is obviously a tacit agreement as to what is being enacted. But if this agree­ ment does not derive from the common understanding of the contents of the Partitas, then what is it that works to produce this ritualistic tension? It would be appropriate to consider the points made by Tambiah (1970) in this connection. He makes four points concerning the significance of the Buddhist ritual: (i)

The Buddhist ritual functions as a metaphorical transformation, com­ bined with a metonymicai transformation mediated by a series of acts (sprinkling of the sacred water, etc.). The language of the Partita serves to evoke the great achievements of the past. To this mechanism the physical acts give an operational or technical reality. It is through this that makes it possible to transform Buddhas' aban­ donment of the world into man's mundane victory. (ii) Although this is the logic behind the recitation of the Pali text and the accompanying acts, it is not neccessarily understood both by the holy and the lay participants. The latter in particular need not, and do not understand Pali. (iii) The mystical force of the sacred words plays an integral part in the Buddhist ritual. This is believed in by the holy and the lay participants and their belief is founded on three factors. Buddha, as the enlightened teacher for all mankind, 'Danma,' which stores his words

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in their undefiled forms, and 'Sanga,' a group of selected people who transmit his words. The interaction between the holy and the lay participants which con­ stitutes the Buddhist ritual reflects the mutually favoring relationship between the monks and the laymen. The former pursue the goal of enlightenment by leading an ascetic life; the latter, as donors to the former, link themselves with the mundane world.

The analysis by Tambiah is in general to the point. There is, however, one point which escapes his notice, namely, the performative force implied in the recitation of the Paritta. The force attributable to the Paritta does not consist, as Tambiah claims, in its 'magical power,' but in the highly perfor­ mative character of the recited language. Notice the pursuit of a dichotomous purpose involved in the recitation of the Paritta in the than bun ritual. This can be represented schematically as follows: public meaning - the Buddhist doctrine - reasonable - monks - the holy private meaning - magical - unreasonable - petitioners and attendants - the lay people

There is a discrepancy between the goal pursued by the holy participants and that pursued by the lay participants. On the side of the holy partici­ pants there is nothing unclear about what they recite, namely, to praise Budhha's virtue. This is of course in line with their practice as Buddhist monks. On the side of the lay participants, there is the pursuit of all kinds of unreasonable goals — unreasonable, at least, in the light of the Buddhist doctrine — recovery from illness, pursuit of promotion and worldly plea­ sures, expulsion of evil spirits, to give a few examples. But it must be noted that all these represent the practice of Buddhism in the eyes of the laymen. Even if they are nothing but the satisfaction of worldly desires, the laymen have no doubt about their belief that these will not be realized without Buddha's help. Nothing can be realized outside the frame of Buddhism. The Pali language used in the than bun ritual has thus a paradoxical role. Since it is a language unintelligible to the lay participants, the same words uttered in the Paritta recitation are received and understood at two different levels. This has a crucial meaning in the than bun ritual. For the lay participants, the language is unintellible, but there is no doubt that it represents the holy words initiated by Buddha. This belief gives them the

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conviction that by listening to it, they will certainly have their wishes realized. Thus to them the Paritta is not something to be understood, but something to be held in reverence. The sacred words of the Paritta belong to a different dimension from the mundane world, hence they can evoke a strong wishful expectation on the part of the laymen that their prayers will certainly be answered. This results in a paradox: in the than bun ritual the performative force on the part of the lay participants consists largely in the incommucability of the real force of the speech act associated with the reci­ tation of the Paritta by the monks. Moreover, there is a strong perlocutionary force implied in the silence with which the lay participants listen to the recitation of the Paritta. It is something which we might call 'performative silence.' This paradox can be explicated in the following way. The recitation of the Paritta functions as language on the part of the holy participants and as 'language sound' on the part of the lay participants. To the latter, the Paritta assumes an ambivalent character; it is a verbal message, but since this verbal message is unintelligible, it is both listened to as a piece of lan­ guage and received as a sequence of sounds. Notice that this ambivalent character of the Paritta enables it to mediate between the sacred and the mundane, integrating the pursuits of different goals on the different planes into a whole ritualistic process. Thus Tambiah's claim that the sacred words of the Paritta fail to exercise their full force because of their unintelligibility is clearly not to the point. On the contrary, it is the ambivalent character of the sacred words which makes it possible for them to exercise their mediat­ ing force. It is recalled that Needham (1967) drew our attention to the fact that certain sounds (especially, percursive sounds) have a strong mediating power — to be able to shift the boundary between the sacred and the mun­ dane, the world beyond and this world, the seen and the unseen, and so forth. We may add to this that there is a strong performative force in silence. Silence is also an act, and is hence capable of exercising an expres­ sive force. One can talk about 'expressive silence.' Thus the relationships among words, sounds and silence can be rep­ resented as follows. r the sacred/holy - words - performative utterances \ the Paritta

sounds - mediating function the mundane/lay - silences - performative silences

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Through the mediation of the Paritta as sounds, both the sacred words on the part of the holy participants and the silence on the part of the lay partic­ ipants come to count as acts leading to the pursuit of the goals of the two parties. Here silences are functionally equivalent to words; both count as acts. 6. In applying Austin's speech act theory to the study of the than bun ritual communication, we have gone much beyond the previous approaches of this kind. In particular, we have been able to make clear the performa­ tive force of silence and the mediating character of sounds. There are a number of important implications we can derive from the consideration we have been making. We have to pay attention to the fact that there are two types of speech acts involved in the ritual — i.e. illocutionary and perlocutionary and that either type may be exercised on the part of the holy or of the lay participants. Each of the speech act in the ritual is closely related to others and it is impossible to consider one independently of the others. A ritual act, seen as a speech act, is endowed with a meaning and a goal. Such a meaning and a goal may be specifically defined by con­ vention or left to the interpretation of the participants. In either case, a ritual act is associated with an effect, either in the external world or in the internal experience of the participant. In the 'ritual language,' this associa­ tion is guaranteed by its strong performative character as well as the metamessage it carries, namely, This is the truth.' The seen and the unseen are thus mediated by the language' of the ritual.

Note *

Translated by the editor.

References Austin, J.L. 1960. How to Do Things with Words. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press. Cassirer, E. 1925. Sprache und Mythos. Leipzig. Finnegan, R. 1969. "How to Do Things with Words: Performative Utterances among the Limba of Siera Leone." Man 4, No.l. Kristeva, J. 1981. Le langage, cet inconnu. Paris.

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Needham, R. 1967. "Percussion and Transition." Journal of Royal Anthropological Institute II, No.4. Tambiah, S.J. 1970. Buddhism and Spirit Cult in Northeastern Thailand. Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press. . 1973. "Form and Meaning in Magical Acts: A Point of View." Modes of Think­ ing: Essays on Thinking in Western and non-Western Societies, eds. R. Horton & R. Finnegan. London.

'DO-language' and 'BECOME-Language': Two Contrasting Types of Linguistic Representation Yoshihiko Ikegami

0.

Introductory

1. In one of the plenary sessions of the International Conference on Japanese Culture held in Kyoto in 1973, the late Dr. Kojiro Yoshikawa, Professor Emeritus of Chinese Literature, Kyoto University, gave a talk on 'Specific Features of Japanese Literature.' I was among the audience and there was one point in his talk which both puzzled and interested me. Dr. Yoshikawa was referring to an English translation of a well-known tanka (a traditional Japanese poetic form with 5-7-5-7-7 syllables) in Man'yoshu (an 8th century anthology containing more than 4500 tanka). The original (to­ gether with an approximately word-for-word gloss) and an English transla­ tion of it are given below: Wakanoura ni shio michi kure ba kata o Wakanoura Bay in tide flowing come when lagoon OBJ nami ashibe o sashsite tazu naki wataru erase reedy shore for heading crane(s) crying go across (An English translation: As the tide flows into Wakanoura Bay / The cranes, with the lagoons lost in flood, / Go crying toward the reedy shore.) Dr. Yoshikawa's comment concerned specifically the final half line of the original {tazu naki wataru), for which the corresponding English translation reads, 'The cranes go crying." He said categorically, "The phrase 'nakiwataru' is put into English as 'go crying,' but we doubt if this translation suf­ fices" (Nihon PEN Club 1973:177).

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If Dr. Yoshikawa had merely been claiming that the English transla­ tion of the whole poem made a different impression on him from the Japanese original, there would have been nothing to be surprised at. It is in fact a commonplace to point out that a translation of a poem in another lan­ guage fails (almost inevitably, especially in the case of a translation into a typologically very different language) to completely reproduce the whole range of literary effects implicit in the original work. What seemed to me to be peculiar was that Dr. Yoshikawa was questioning the translation of a very specific portion of the poem, tazu naki wataru T h e cranes go crying,' and so far as this specific portion of the text is concerned, the translation in question seemed to me to be literally quite correct and in fact, perhaps the only conceivable one. 1 Dr. Yoshikawa said nothing about the specific difference in effects between the original and the translation and one can only guess what he had in mind. The clue to it is found in the preceeding portion of his talk in which he was discussing certain linguistic expressions of time in Japanese. He referred to such Japanese expressions as harumeku (literally, haru 'spring,' meku 'become' — 'it becomes spring,' 'Spring comes') and yusareba (literally, yu 'evening,' sare < saru 'come,' ba 'when' — 'when the evening comes') and said that in spite of the fact that these expressions are apparently applied to the same events as are referred to by the English expressions, 'Spring comes' and 'when the evening comes,' what they really connote is very different from their apparent English counterparts. According to Dr. Yoshikawa, the Japanese expressions do not simply mean a particular time period like 'spring' or 'the evening'; they convey to him all the delicate sensations that accompany the gradual shift in the sea­ son or the time of the day — growing mildness or chilliness in the air, increasing brightness of the sun or gradually thickening dusk, to give a few examples — which he said he could almost feel "through his skin." Dr. Yoshikawa also speaks in some other writings of his about the keen sense of transition or shift (suii, in Japanese) which characterizes the traditional Japanese literary taste, and it is apparently this sensation that Dr. Yoshikawa was associating with the Japanese expressions he cited. While English expressions like 'Spring comes' and 'The evening comes' imply that something called 'spring' or 'evening,' which has hithertofore stayed somewhere else, shifts its place and comes to where the speaker is (physically or psychologically) situated — just as the expression 'John comes' implies that a person named John, who has hithertofore stayed

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somewhere else, moves to where the speaker is (physically or psychologi­ cally) located — the Japanese counterparts do not remind one of such mov­ ing individual entities; they refer to the gradual shift (suit) in the whole cir­ cumstance in which one finds oneself and which one experiences oneself.2 With this in mind we can now come back to the point we were discus­ sing a short time ago, namely, the alleged discrepancy in effects between the original Japanese expressions (tazu nakiwataru) and its English transla­ tion ('the cranes go crying'). To rephrase in my own words what Dr. Yoshikawa presumably had in mind, perhaps the following claim was being made. The impression the reader gets from the English expression, the cranes go crying, is that the focus of attention is being laid on the cranes, which are viewed as they move from one side of the picture to the other. The Japanese expression, on the other hand, focuses on the whole scene as it changes with the shifting location of the flying cranes, rather than specifi­ cally on the cranes. The impression one gets here can be compared to view­ ing a slow-motion film or a series of pictures taken in close succession, where one sees the whole scene gradually changing. It is true that the cranes still shift their position as time goes by, but one is no longer concen­ trating on the flying cranes alone, but is seeing the whole scene as it gradu­ ally changes with the shifting position of the cranes. It is the whole scene (in which the cranes are involved as a part) rather than specifically the cranes that is in focus here. The contrast being proposed here can be generalized as one between 'focus on the individuum' and 'focus on the whole event.' This contrast is also correlated, in the example discussed above, with the contrast between 'change in locus' (of an individuum) and 'change in state' (of the whole scene). The English expression focuses on the cranes as they undergo a change in locus; the Japanese expression concentrates on the change in state of the whole scene, of which the cranes constitue only a part. It is also to be added that the twofold contrast applies, in the particular example above, not only to visual effects but also to auditory effects as well. The English expression gives a straightforward impression that the crying sounds from the cranes (one can compare the situation to an orbiting artifi­ cial satellite issuing a series of signals) — the cranes, in other words, are represented as the source of the sounds. The Japanese expression, on the other hand, gives the impression that the crying sounds of the cranes fill the whole scene; in other words, the whole area resonates with the crying sounds. 3

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It will be helpful to illustrate the point above with another simpler example. In Yukiguni ('Snow Country'), one of the most celebrated novels by Yasunari Kawabata, the 1968 Nobel Prize winner for literature, the first sentence of the work reads as follows: Kunizakai no nagai tonneru o nukeru to, border of long tunnel OBJ pass when yukiguni de atta. snow-country was An approximately literal translation of the sentence would be something like 'On passing the long tunnel at the border, (it) was a snow country.' The sentence impresses the Japanese reader immediately as a beautiful prelude to what is going to follow in the novel, but the reaction of a western reader who knows some Japanese is typically that of bewilderment. He asks him­ self, "In the first half of the sentence, there is a verb nukeru ('pass'). But what is it that passed (the tunnel)?" The sentence makes no mention of it. Also in the second half, we are told '(it) was a snow country.' But what exactly is characterized as a 'snow country' is not made explicit at all. Very interestingly, the sentence in question is rendered in the Japanese translation by the American Japanologist, E.G. Seidensticker as follows: The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.

The English translation is quite explicit about the agent of 'passing the tun­ nel' — namely, the train, of which, incidentally, no mention is made in the original Japanese expression. The image which a Japanese reader will have of Kawabata's sentence in question is a sudden change of scene — that is, from a rather dark, narrowly confined space in the tunnel to a wider white perspective of snow covered country. It is true that a train is involved in the scene (as will be apparent from the ensuing description in the novel), but the train is no more than a single component and is submerged, as it where, in the whole scene. The representation is made in terms of a change in state of the whole scene. The English translation, in contrast, singles out and focuses on a particular component, namely, a train in motion; the represen­ tation is clearly in terms of a particular individuum, undergoing a change in locus. Thus here again we have one and the same scene represented in Eng­ lish with a focus on an individuum (in this case, the train) in motion and in Japanese in terms of the whole scene undergoing a change in state, with no particular entity involved being in focus. The contrast in the way of rep-

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resentation is more clearly felt in the present example than in the previous one, because the Japanese sentence suppresses the grammatical subject which would bring a certain entity in focus.4 Coming back to the first example, we have suggested that the flight of the cranes from one side of the scene to the other is apprehended as a change in locus in English with special regard to the flying cranes — the cranes GO from one side of the scene to the other. Japanese, on the other hand, seems to suggest the same scene as a series of successive changes in state — one state changes to (or BECOMES) another, and then still another, as time passes. It will be instructive to refer, at this point, to what the American lin­ guist, Benjamin Lee Whorf (known for his thesis of linguistic relativism) once said about Hopi, one of the American Indian languages: [...] in their [that is, Hopi's] own language, there are no verbs correspond­ ing to our "come" and "go" that mean simple an abstract motion, our purely kinematic concept. The words in this case translated "come" refer to the process of eventuating without calling it motion — they are "even­ tuates to here" [...] (Whorf 1936).

Here Whorf denies the existence of a verb meaning 'come' or 'go' in Hopi and states that a situation referred to as 'coming' or 'going' in English will be represented as 'eventuating.' (It is interesting to note that Whorf is apparently having a difficulty in representing the exact semantic value of the Hopi verb in question.) It seems to me that the contrast Whorf talks about quite closely paral­ lels the contrast between GO and BECOME as different modes of apprehending an event discussed above with reference to English and Japanese. In other words, Whorf also seems to be referring to a contrast, similar to ours, between representing an event in terms of a change in locus (that is, 'going' and 'coming') of a particular agent and representing an event as a whole in terms of a change in state (where the individua involved are submerged in the whole scene). If we may assume that this interpreta­ tion is correct, then there is a good possibility that the contrast we have posited is not confined to English and Japanese, but is really of a more gen­ eral character. It may point to a possibility that there are two contrasting orientations in the way in which an extralinguistic event is linguistically rep­ resented (with naturally a gradience in between). In fact, we may posit this as a hypothesis. It is the purpose of the pre­ sent paper to illustrate this point by referring to a number of contrasting lin-

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guistic features of English and Japanese and to suggest that the hypothesis will be fruitful in understanding the typological orientations of human cul­ ture. 0.2. A hypothesis. The hypothesis we propose is the following: (i)

There is a contrast between (1) a language which, singling out an individuum, places the focus on it and (2) a language which focuses on the event as a whole, the individua involved in it being submerged in the whole.

This version of the hypothesis concerns an individuum which may be sing­ led out of the whole event and given the focus. We will supplement this with an assumption about the nature of such an individuum. We assume that an individuum is more likely to be focused upon if it is animate rather than inanimate, if it is human rather than simply animate, and finally, if it is a human being acting as agent rather than one not acting as agent. With this assumption in mind — which I believe demonstratively as well as intui­ tively plausible enough — (i) can be reformulated as follows: (ii)

There is a contrast between (1) a language which focuses on 'the human being (especially, one acting as agent)' and tends to give linguistic prominence to the notion and (2) a language which tends to suppress the notion of 'the human being (especially, one acting as agent),' even if such a being is involved in the event.

(ii) introduces a new notion, 'giving linguistic prominence to' as a concrete manifestation of 'being focused on.' I assume that a linguistic expression can be made prominent in two ways: (1) by thematization and by subjectization and (2) by being obligatorily rather than optionally selected. By 'thematization' is meant that the expression in question is placed at the beginning of the sentence, that is, as the 'theme,' about which something (that is, the 'rheme') is predicated. By 'subjectization' is meant that the expression in question grammatically governs the predicate verb (for exam­ ple, by requiring a concord in number). It is assumed that a linguistic item in focus tends to be thematized and furthermore, subjectized. As fre­ quently happens in English, thematization and subjectization may go hand in hand. Another parameter we have posited is the contrast between

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obligatory and optional selection of a linguistic item. An obligatory item is assumed to be higher in the scale of linguistic prominence than an optional item. Consider, for example, the general obligatory nature of the subject in English with a highly optional status of the subject (even when it refers to a human agent) in Japanese. With these assumptions in mind, we are going to see in the following sections the contrastive ways in which an individuum, a human being, and finally, a human being as agent are represented in English and Japanese. 1.

Linguistic representation of the individuum

1.1 'Discrete' vs. 'Non-discrete' An individuum is by definition something characterized by a relatively high degree of discreteness and identity. If we compare, in reference to the scale of discreteness, an individuum, a collection of individua and a continuum, it is immediately clear that the notion of discreteness decreases, as we go from the individuum, to the collection of individua and further to the con­ tinuum. The distinction between these three stages are linguistically marked in English in terms of the contrast between the singular and the plural form (for example, a stone vs. stones) and of the contrast between the indefinite article and the zero form (for example, a man vs. people, a drop of water vs. water). Japanese, on the other hand, has neither the grammati­ cal contrast between singular and plural for nouns nor, for that matter, the indefinite and, the definite article to acompompany them. The Japanese nouns are thus always potentially ambiguous as to whether they refer to a continuum or to a collection of individua or to a continuum — which means that their reference is blurred extensionally in contour. Not only are the Japanese nouns thus potentially vague in extensional reference, but also the Japanese speakers like to represent the extension vaguer than is actually the case. Consider expressions like the following: (1)

(2)

Futatsu hodo kudasai. two about give 'Give me about two.' Sono hen wa do desu ka. that area around topic how is question 'How is somewhere around that?'

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(1) is heard, for example, when a polite old lady is buying two postal stamps. She prefers saying 'about two' to saying just 'two' because the former seems to sound less peremptory. (2) is uttered, for example, when the discussion leader asks one of the panelists for his opinion in the sense of 'What do you think of that point?' The lack of discreteness has an effect on the extent to which the iden­ tity of the individuum is made specific. For example, it is probably a univer­ sal feature of language that the personal pronouns show more (or at least, not fewer) formal distinctions in the singular than in the plural. In English, the singular (but not the plural) pronouns for the third person have differ­ ent forms as to gender. The contrast between 'male' and 'female' is thus apparently evaluated as more relevant when the pronoun refers to an indi­ viduum than when it refers to a collection of individua. Consider further the English sentences below: (3)

a. * Let's ask this. b. Let's ask these.

(Halliday and Hasan 1976)

In referring to a person, (3a) is not acceptable, but (3b) is acceptable as referring to a group of persons. Thus the singular form has more specific reference than the plural form; in the plural, the contrast between humans and non-humans is neutralized. The lack of the contrast between the singu­ lar and the plural in the nouns will therefore very likely involve the obliter­ ation of qualitative specificity of the things referred to. In fact, the Japanese speaker likes to obliterate qualitative (as well as quantitative, as we have already seen) specificity. To give just one example, the following is a fre­ quent, almost formulaic expression used when asking someone if he or she is willing to have a cup of tea (or coffee or some kind of soft drink): (4)

Ocha demo nomi masen ka. tea or something drink not question 'Wouldn't you like to drink tea or something of the sort?'

The Japanese preference for the 'sort of type of expressions is man­ ifested in translation. English sentences like (5a) and (6a) will sound better in a Japanese translation if this or that in the originals are rendered 'this sort of or 'that sort of ' in Japanese: (5)

a. I didn't expect John to say this.

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b. John ga John SUBJ yososhite expecting '(I) didn't (6)

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konna koto o iu to wa this sort of thing OBJ say complementizer topic inakatta. was not expect that John would say this sort of thing.'

a. You can't say this. b. Sonna koto o itte wa ikenai. that sort of thing OBJ saying topic is no good '(Your) saying that sort of thing is no good,' 'You mustn't say that sort of thing.'

The same preference is also observed in the translation of the relative pro­ noun: (7)

a. ... spectacles {which) you can daily see in a big city b. ... okina machi de mainichi mirareru yona kokei big city in daily can be seen sort of spectacle 'spectacle(s) such as can be seen daily in (a) big city.'

An English teacher teaching English to Japanese college students once told me that he often wondered why Japanese students use the word such very frequently in their English compositions. For the Japanese speakers who want to express themselves in English, such is a very attractive word because of the way it refers vaguely to the thing talked about. With the word such, not only the qualitative specificity is blurred (that is, 'sort of' rather than 'this, that'), but also the contrast as to number (that is, this, that vs. these, those) and the contrast as to remoteness (that is, this, these vs. that, those) are neutralized. It is interesting to note that in Halliday and Hasan (1976), the English demonstrative pronouns are classified in terms of the contrast between 'demonstrative reference' and 'comparative reference' as in (8) below. The Japanese speaker would prefer classifying the scheme as in (9), where such goes with this and that rather than same and other. To him, such is a 'mild' or 'less sharp' variant of this and that.5 (8)

(9)

THIS I SAME OTHER THAT SUCH ITHIS SAME SUCH THAT OTHER

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1.2 Mono vs. Koto In relation to the Japanese predilection for expressions with semantically blurred edges, it will be useful to consider the meanings of the two Japanese words, moto and koto. Both words belong to the basic vocabulary of Japanese and are very frequently used. Either of them is translated as thing in English. For example: (10)

(11)

Sonna mono wa shiranai. such thing topic don't know '(I) don't know such a thing' Sonna koto wa shiranai. such thing topic don't know

(10) is uttered, for example, when one is told of a recently invented new article for the first time. (11), on the other hand, is uttered when one is told for the first time that a new invention was made by somebody. The distinction between mono and koto can also be illustrated by the following example: (12)

One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This, of course, Alice could not stand. (Halliday and Hasan 1976)

The demonstrative this, according to Halliday and Hasan, refers either to 'a pencil that squeaked' or to 'the squeaking of the pencil.' In the former case, the reference is made to mono, while in the latter, the reference is made to koto. It may appear that mono and koto correspond to an 'object' and a 'proposition' respectively. While this can serve as a first approximation, one must bear in mind that koto, unlike a 'proposition,' need not consist of a subject and a predicate. It is very often the case that koto lacks what would correspond to the subject in a proposition. (The discussion of the flying of the cranes in the early part of this paper will help to give an idea.) For further reference, here is a passage from the Japanese grammar book written by B.H. Chamberlain (1889) — one of the most important early Japanese grammars written by a non-native speaker — where the author discusses the distinction between mono and koto: While koto denotes "a thing of the mind," "a fact," "an act," mono denotes a tangible, material thing or a person, [...]. This distinction between koto, "an abstract thing," and mono, "a material thing," must be clearly kept in mind, if the student should avoid constant misapprehen­ sion. Thus onaji mono means "the same thing," "the identical article,"

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whereas onaji koto means "the same sort of thing," — the quality, pattern, etc. being the same, but the actual article a different one.

What is interesting about Chamberlain's account is that onaji mono and onaji koto is contrasted in terms of the translation, 'the same thing' and 'the same sort of thing' respectively. Koto is thus understood as the intensionally blurred counterpart of mono. As will be well expected from the discussion in section 1.1, Japanese has a predilection for the koto type of expressions rather than to the mono type. Consider the way in which an English sentence like (13) is likely to be translated into Japanese: (13)

Instead of a pointing finger, the image of an arrow has been adopted.

The English expresssion, 'a pointing finger' is couched in the mono type of expression, where a finger (a 'thing' in the sense of mono) functions as a 'peg' on which the act of 'pointing' hangs. In translating the sentence into Japanese, it is possible to represent it in the mono type of expression paral­ lel to the English original, that is, sasu yubi, but the expression does not sound quite idiomatic. A more natural expression will be to represent it in the koto type of expression — something which roughly corresponds to say­ ing in English 'instead of [the] pointing with a finger.' This tendency to prefer the koto type of expression accounts for the lack of the relative pronoun in Japanese — a linguistic feature which is often alleged as a deficiency in the Japanese language by those who see the 'logical' character of the Indo-European languages in the use of the relative pronoun. The fact that the relative clause construction has never been developed in Japanese is simply a natural consequence of the conflict between the kototo-orientedcharacter of the Japanese language, on the one hand, and the essentially mono-oriented character of the relative clause construction. The function of the relative clause construction is to focus on a mono entity involved in the event to be described, take it out of the frame of koto event, give it a special grammatical status as 'antecedent' and hang on it as a subordinate clause the remains of the destroyed koto event. In the following example, 'a party of graduate students' (a mono) has been singled out of the event reported (a koto), resulting in the restructuring of the syn­ tax in terms of the antecedent and a subordinate relative clause: (14)

I remember a party of graduate students to which I was invited at the University of Chicago many years ago.

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A literal Japanese translation reproducing the relative pronoun construc­ tion of (14) would sound unidiomatic. On the other hand, English also offers here a choice of the koto type expression as in (15): (15)

I remember that I was invited to a party of graduate students at the University of Chicago many years ago.

In (14), a mono (that is, 'a party of graduate students') is the object of what I remember; in (15), on the other hand, a koto (that is, 'I was invited [...] many years ago') is the object of what I remember. The favorite Japanese sentence type here closely parallels (15), a koto type expression where mono (that is, 'a party of graduate students') remains part of koto instead of being singled out and focused on. It is interesting to note that instead of the mono type relative construc­ tion, Japanese has traditionally a peculiar koto type quasi-relative construc­ tion. Compare the following two sentences: (16) a.

Koko here b. Koko here iru. is

ni at ni at

oiteoita hon ga nakunatte iru. placed book SUBJ gone is hon o oiteoita no ga nakunatte book OBJ placed nominalization SUBJ gone

(16a) involves a rough equivalent of the English relative construction and translates approximately as T h e book I placed here is gone.' (16b), on the other hand, involves a clause, I placed the book here, which, nominalized by the particle no, functions as the subject of the predicate 'is gone' — thus, That I placed the book here is gone,' to translate literally. Another pair of examples is given below, where the construction in question occurs in the object position: (17) a. Michi de naiteita kodomo o tasukete yatta. street on was crying child OBJ helping gave b. Michi de kodomo ga naiteita no o street on child SUBJ was crying nominalization OBJ tasukete yatta. helping gave (17a) is roughly equivalent to 'I helped a child who was crying in the street.' (17b) translates literally as 'I helped that a child was crying in the street,' with the nominalized clause, that a child was crying in the street functioning

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as the object of the verb helped. It will not be difficult to see that the (a) and (b) constructions are mono- and koto-oriented, respectively. Hon ('the book') and kodomo ('a child') are mono's in question; in the (b) sentences, they constitute simply a part of koto (linguistically represented here as a subordinate clause). In the (a) sentences, they are raised out of the subordinate clause into the main clause as head of the relative clause. Although the (a) construction is clearly the more logical of the two — the subject of 'is gone' or the object of 'I helped' normally represents a con­ crete thing (mono), there is a tendency in Japanese to regard the (a) con­ struction as more or less too 'top-heavy.' The (b) construction, on the other hand, is a traditionally favorite one. in Japanese. This type of construction does not constitute a tightly built sentence structure, but results in a loosely related, flowing sequence of clauses — a well-known stylistic feature which characterizes old Japanese verse and prose. The Japanese liking for expressions with semantically blurred edges is further seen in the relative looseness with which reference is made by the pronoun. In English, if the same pronoun is repeated, it is reasonably assumed that one and the same referent is involved throughout. In Japanese, however, it often happens that the reference by the same pro­ noun vacillates between an object (mono) and the circumstances (koto) in which the object in question is involved. Thus in a celebrated passage in Kinosaki nite, a novel by Naoya Shiga, the author finds a dead drone beside a beehive on the roof and is impressed by the contrast between the stillness of the dead drone's body and the busy motion of the actively working drones around the hive. Then follows a series of sentences which in a rough English translation run something like the following: It really gives one an impression that one is in the presence of a dead being. It remained as it was for the following three days. It struck me as really still. [...] It was really still.

It is by no means easy to reproduce the stylistic effects of the original in the translation, but the point is that the successively employed pronoun is vague in its reference: it may refer to the dead drone (mono) or to the still­ ness (koto) surrounding the dead drone. In fact, it almost seems that the effects of the passage owe not a little to the vagueness of reference. While Japanese is definitely koto-oriented, submerging mono in koto, English has a tendency to focus on mono, singling it out of koto. We have already discussed the function of the relative construction from this view-

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point. Another manifestation of the tendency is the application of the grammatical transformation of 'raising.' Compare the (a) sentences below with the corresponding (b) sentencess: (18) a. b. (19) a. b.

John happened to find the book. It happened that John found the book. John seems to be ill. It seems that John is ill.

The (b) sentences involve a koto construction ('that John found the book' and 'that John is ill'). In the (a) sentences, 'John' (a mono) is taken out of the koto frame and foregrounded as theme and subject of the sentence. Logically, the (a) sentences are odd, because what happens or seems is not 'John' (a mono) but 'that John found the book' or 'that John is ill' (a koto). The illogicality, however, is overridden by the desire to foreground the mono notion. It is to be noted that the (a) construction is historically a later development and that English goes farther than its cognate languages in favoring this construction — (18a), for example, cannot literally be trans­ lated into German. A sentence like John is easy to please (corresponding to It is easy to please John) can also be adduced in this connection. 2.

Linguistic representation of the human

In 1., we have seen that in the linguistic representation of an event, one type of language (here illustrated by English) focuses on a particular individuum involved in it, while the other type (illustrated by Japanese) focuses on the event as a whole (koto), submerging in the whole an individuum that may be involved in it. If we ask what kind of individuum it is that attracts our attention most, the answer will certainly be that it is a person rather than something other than a person. In 2., we will see if the two types of language differ in the parallel way in the linguistic representation of the human. 2.1 BE-language and HAVE-language One relevant point in connection with the linguistic representation of the human is the typological contrast between 'BE-language' and 'HAVE-lan­ guage' (Issatschenko 1974). A BE-language is a language which employs BE (the English verb be or its equivalent) in the representation of posses-

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sion, while a HAVE-language is a language which has a special verb HAVE (the English verb have or its equivalent) for the linguistic representation of possession. English is a HAVE-language, as seen from (20): (20)

John has two children.

Japanese, on the other hand, is a BE-language. A Japanese sentence cor­ responding to (20) will be the following: (21)

John ni wa kodomo ga futari iru. John at/to topic child SUBJ two be

A literal translation of (21) is something like 'At/To John are two children.' The contrast between the two types of language can be represented schematically in the following way. In order to represent a situation in which Y possesses X, a BE-language uses scheme (ii) and a HAVE-lan­ guage scheme (iii) below: (ii) (iii)

WITH Y BE X Y HAVE X

(WITH in (ii) is intended as a general marker for 'contiguity,' which may be realized as at, on, in, or with in English, for example.) It is clear that (ii) is essentially a formula for representing spatial exis­ tence and derives from (i) below: (i)

X BE WITH Y

(i) means 'X is in contiguity relation to Y,' where X is something which exists and Y something in relation to which X's existence is predicated. In case both X and Y are inaminate ('chair' and 'table,' for example), (i) serves as the unmarked representation for the spatial existence of X in con­ tiguity with Y. In case Y is a human being, however, Y is likely to attract more attention than X and consequently, to be thematized in the linguistic representation. The result is (ii). Furthermore, the whole situation is now likely to be reinterpreted in terms of 'X belongs to Y' or 'Y has X.' (Con­ sider, for example, a case in which X is a bag and Y is a person named John.) Thus the notion of possession is derived from that of spatial exis­ tence. It is clear that the transition is mediated by the focus on the notion of the human. But this is as far as the BE-language goes in the linguistic representation of possession. The HAVE-language goes one step further. Y (representing a person) is not only thematized but also subjectized. It is no longer semantically a

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location at which (or a thing in relation to which) X finds itself or syntacti­ cally, an adverbial phrase. In (iii), Y represents a possessor semantically and the grammatical subject of the sentence syntactically. Thus the promi­ nence given to the human term is higher in (iii), a formula current in the HAVE-language than in (ii), a formula for the BE-language. Coming back to the Japanese sentence (21) referring to possession, it is to be noted that the sentence is basically structured on the formula for rep­ resenting spatial existence. Cf. (21) with (22) below: (22)

Heya ni wa mado ga futatsu aru. room in topic window SUBJ two be 'In the room are two windows.'

The Japanese expression for possession, in other words, is a transfer from the linguistic representation of spatial existence. In English, the tendency is exactly the opposite. Compare the English sentence (20) referring to pos­ session with the following: (23)

The room has two windows.

(23) is a transfer from the linguistic representation of possession. Thus, while in Japanese the notion of spatial existence is predominant and expands itself into the territory of possession, it is the notion of possession which is predominant and expansive in English. Since the crucial difference between the notion of spatial existence and that of possession is that the focus is on the human term in the latter, English (or the HAVE-language in general, for that matter) can be characterized as giving more prominence to the notion of the human than Japanese (or the BE-language in general). 6 2.2 Human vs. mono/koto The contrast between English and Japanese in their respective emphasis on the notion of the human is seen in a number of their favorite expression forms. In the following pair, we see a contrast parallel to the one we have discussed in the previous section: (24) a. I have a temperature. b. (Watashi wa) netsu (I)

ga aru.

topic temperature SUBJ is

The Japanese expression (24a) says simply, '(As for me), (there) is a temp­ erature' or 'A temperature is (with me)'; it is not obligatory to make

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explicit the person who has a temperature. The sentence would sound impersonal to an English speaker. In contrast, English has a way of highlighting the notion of the person involved in the situation. Consider the following sentences: (25) (26)

We are closed today. We are sold out.

Either of these sentences, found as a notice on the door of a store, would strike a Japanese speaker as odd. What is closed or what is sold out is not 'we' at all, but something like 'our store' or 'our goods' respectively. But English prefers highlighting the human element involved, so much so that the resulting expressions here are, strictly speaking, illogical. The same can be said about a sentence like John ran out of money, to which the corres­ ponding Japanese sentence will read something like '(As for John), money became null.' An expression like the following will strike the Japanese speakers as saying too much of the person concerned: (27)

You have stains on your coat.

Japanese would represent the same situation as something like 'On (the) coat are stains,' leaving no reference to the person concerned. English seems to be going farther than its cognate languages in the emphasis it lays on the personal factors. The following sentence is taken from a book with a title, Speak you English?, a collection of wrong English sentences used by the native speakers of German: (28)

I raised the hand, but the teacher did not see it and so did not call upon me.

Assuming that the situation described is that of a classroom, the sentence does sound odd. English would expect my hand instead of the hand (as it would be in German). Sometimes the contrast is not between the human and the nonhuman (mono) but between the human in English and koto in Japanese. Corres­ ponding to English sentences like (29) and (30), Japanese would prefer to say something like 'I don't understand what you say' and 'What he said was certainly right.' (29) (30)

I don't understand you. Huxley once wrote, "Advertising is one of the most interest­ ing and difficult of modern literary forms." He was certainly right.

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Similarly, instead of saying accepting him as in the following example, most of the Japanese speakers, if they spoke in English, would represent the same situation as accepted it: (31)

He asked her to marry him and she accepted him.

Rather than singling out a person involved in the event, the Japanese pre­ ference here is again the koto type expression (either 'his request' or 'mar­ rying him'). The Japanese preference is nicely manifested in the following peculiar but perfectly idiomatic way of saying 'Do you love John?': (32)

Anata, John no koto suki? you John of koto love

(32) says in effect, 'Do you love John's koto? The psychology behind this way of saying things is that 'love John' is felt too direct and straightforward; 'John' is therefore wrapped in koto, so that the reference to him becomes indirect. Consider also the following pair of sentences: (33) a. I think you are not right. b. I don't think you are right. The pair is discussed by grammarians in terms of 'negative raising,' that is, the negation, which originally concerns the propositional content (or koto), that is, 'you are right,' is taken out of the subordinate clause and attached to the main clause, I think. Instead of attaching itself to the propositional content (or koto), the negation is attributed to the judgement made by the human agent. English prefers this latter way of expression, where the nega­ tion is related to the subjective personal judgement, while the Japanese preference is, at least traditionally, the former, where the negation con­ cerns what is believed to be a fact. It will also be interesting to consider in this connection the function of the modal auxiliaries in their 'epistemic' uses. Consider the following pairs of expressions: (34) a. b. (35) a. b.

John may be ill. It is possible that John is ill. John must be ill in bed. It is certain that John is ill in bed.

It will be immediately clear that the (b) expressions are koto-oriented, while the (a) expressions, which involve modal auxiliaries, are person-

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oriented. In fact, as the history of the language testifies, modal auxiliaries derive from main verbs which originally applied to persons. In other words, the development of the modal auxiliaries is nothing other than a process of foregrounding the human subject involved in the epistemic situation — and this is what has characteristically taken place in English. Japanese, on the other hand, employs the (b) expressions; this is the case when English sen­ tences like (34a) and (35a) are to be translated. Thus in the linguistic representation of the human, the contrastive ten­ dencies in English and Japanese are consistent with those in the representa­ tion of the individuum in general: English tends to foreground, and Japanese, to background the notion. 3.

Linguistic representation of the agent

The most characteristic state of a human being will undoubtedly be the one in which he is acting as 'agent,' that is, acting on his own will and power. When he is not — for example, when he is lying asleep or falling from a tree — he is scarcely better than an inanimate thing. In the present section, we will examine if the two contrasting tendencies we have already checked with regard to the linguistic representation of the individuum and the human also manifest themselves in the linguistic representation of the human as agent. 3.1 Agentivity and causativity An agent is one who performs an action. The action he performs may either be 'intransitive' or 'transitive.' The distinction between the two types depends on whether or not the action originating from the agent goes over to and affects someone or something else. If it does not, as in the case of a person breathing, singing or dancing, it is 'intransitive' (and typically rep­ resented linguistically with an 'intransitive' verb); if it does, as in the case of a person touching, stroking or striking someone or something, it is 'transi­ tive' (and typically represented linguistically with a 'transitive' verb with its grammatical object referring to the person or thing affected). We will posit here the notion, 'degree of agentivity,' and assume that the 'transitive' agent is higher in the degree of agentivity than the 'intransi­ tive' agent, since in the former the effects of the agent's action go over the confines of the originator and affect another, while in the latter the effects

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are contained within the confines of the originator. Thus in the act of breath­ ing, no one else in particular is normally affected, but in the act of strik­ ing, there is someone (or something) to whom (or to which) the act is directed and who (or which) is affected by it. Some of the 'intransitive' actions can be directed, and linguistically, such cases are represented typi­ cally by adding a prepositional phrase. Thus in sing to a person, the essen­ tially intransitive act of singing is directed to another person, but the degree to which the person is affected is clearly lower than in the case of a typically transitive action like 'striking a person.' In an expression like dance with a person, where the prepositional phrase does not represent a direction, the implication of the action being directed, and concomitantly, of the action affecting another, is still weaker; it can be located between 'breathing' and 'singing to a person.' We thus have a serial arrangement like the following: (36) (37) (38) (39)

John John John John

breathed (deeply). danced with Mary. sang to Mary. struck Mary.

One further stage can be added to this series. Compare the following sen­ tence with (39) above: (40)

John struck Mary dead.

The crucial difference between (39) and (40) is that the latter refers not only to an act of striking (just as (39)), but also to the effect produced by the agent's (that is, John's) act on the patient (that is, Mary). In other words, the verb strike in (40) is not simply a transitive verb of action but a verb of causation. Since a causative verb implies the achievement of a cer­ tain result (intended or unintended by the act), the agent who acts as causer (as in (40)) shows a higher degree of agentivity than the agent who does not (as in (39)). We can thus posit the following stages with increasing degrees of agen­ tivity: I. II.

III.

Intransitive (for example, John breathes): not directed to and not affecting another Intransitive with a prepositional phrase (for example, John dances with Mary, John sings to Mary): weakly directed to and weakly affecting another Transitive with an object (for example, John struck Mary): directed to and affecting another

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Causative-Transitive with an object and an object complement (for example, John struck Mary dead): directed to and affecting another, causing it to undergo a change

With this scheme in mind, we will now address ourselves to the prob­ lem of linguistic representation of the agent. We will argue that English and Japanese show here again contrasting tendencies, English toward a higher degree and Japanese toward a lower degree of agentivity. Before entering into a discussion of specific points, two questions, one by a linguist and the other jointly by two psychologists, are adduced below as testifying to a gen­ eral tendency recognizable in the Indo-European languages in this respect: Quite a few of the present day Indo-European languages agree with Eng­ lish in using an actor-action form as a favorite sentence type (Bloomfield 1933). In Indo-European languages, the model used for connoting states of affairs and articulating them linguistically is the human action model. A total event is basically articulated into agent, action, and object; the relation­ ships between these are portrayed in sentences in which the vehicles for the referents are related to each other through a "syntax of action" (Werner and Kaplan 1963).

Both quotations talk about the agent (or actor), together with the associated notion of action, as central to the sentence structure of the IndoEuropean languages. Werner and Kaplan are more specific in formulating the basic structure as Agent-Verb-Object, thus suggesting that what is in question here is 'transitive' action, that is, an action proceeding from the agent and going over to and affecting someone or something else (a process which is called by Werner and Kaplan 'syntax of action'). Now an interest­ ing fact in this connection is that the Japanese word koi, which is usually used to translate the English word action, does not so much remind the Japanese speaker of a 'transitive' kind of action as of an 'intransitive' kind of action — someone doing gymnastics or jogging, for example. If to an English speaker the typical action is 'transitive,' so to a Japanese speaker the typical action is 'intransitive.' Also to the English speaker, the 'transi­ tive' verb seems to be primary; the 'intransitive' verb, on the other hand, as suggested by the morphological derivation of the word, refers to an imper­ fect kind of action, that is, an action which fails to reach and affect another. To the Japanese speaker, the 'intransitive' verb is primary; the 'transitive' verb is a verb which has an object optionally added to it. The difference in linguistic consciousness is very suggestive. It may very well imply that the

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notion of agentivity generally functions more conspicuously in English. The first point to be discussed is the causative and related expressions. There are two main causative constructions in Japanese: (41) (42)

John John John John

wa topic wa topic

Mary Mary Mary Mary

o kosaseta. OBJ come-cause-past ni kosaseta. DAT come-cause-past

The two constructions contrast in just one point: the causee is represented with the postposition o ('object'-marker) in one type and with the postpo­ sition ni ('dative'-marker) in the other. The difference in meaning is deli­ cate; it does not show up clearly in the English translation: 'John made mary go' will apply to either. Without detailed discussion, it can be pointed out that the two constructions differ slightly in the degree of peremptori­ ness with which the causation is made. The first construction implies stronger peremptoriness, and the second somewhat weaker. The semantic difference can be defined in a little more explicit way by positing two vari­ ables: 'John's control (over Mary)' and 'Mary's independence (from John).' In either of the two constructions, both of which are causative, 'John's con­ trol' naturally overrides 'Mary's independence.' But while (42) implies that Mary's independence is virtually reduced to null, (41) seems still to leave some room for Mary's independent decision. We can represent (41) and (42) in the following way: I. II.

John's control > > Mary's independence John's control > Mary's independence

It is possible to conceive of two constructions which count as reverse counterparts of the two above, namely, III. IV.

John's control < Mary's independence John's control < < Mary's independence

Illustrative examples are the following: (43) (44)

John John John John

wa topic wa topic

Mary Mary Mary Mary

ni DAT ni DAT

kitemoratta. coming-get-past korareta. coming-passive-past

Literally, (43) will be something like 'John got "coming" from Mary.' The sentence is constructionally parallel to 'John got a book from Mary,' and

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the implication is that John in some way asked Mary to come and Mary agreed and did so. Mary's decision to come is assumed to have been made on her own (she could have declined the request) and hence 'Mary's inde­ pendence' is superior to 'John's control' here. (44), literally translated, would be something like 'John was come by Mary.' The construction is called ukemi ('sufference') in traditional Japanese grammar and is generally used to translate the English passive. But it is really not equivalent to the passive, because ukemi can be applied to an intransitive verb (unlike the English passive) and also normally has an implication (unlike the German passive of an intransitive verb) that the subject is adversely affected. A pre­ supposition for (44), for example, is that it was undesirable for John that Mary would come; the sentence asserts that Mary came nevertheless and implies that John was adversely affected by Mary's coming. In this case, Mary is assumed to have acted quite on her own and John had no control over her. 7 Thus we have in Japanese a series of constructions along the scale of the subject's control over the object ranging from the maximum (I) to the minimum (IV). And it goes without saying that the notion of 'con­ trol' here is closely related to that of 'agentivity.' If we turn to the causative expressions in English, we will find a differ­ ent picture. The most important causative verbs in English are make, let, get, and have. (45) (46) (47) (48)

John John John John

made Mary come. let Mary come. got Mary to come. had Mary come.

The verb make is the typical verb of agentive causation: it implies the causer's actively working on the cause, and corresponds apparently to stage I for the Japanese causative expression. The causative verb let, as in (46), represents 'permissive' (rather than 'agentive') causation: that is, Mary was ready to come and John did not prevent her from doing so (or more schematically represented, did not cause her not to come). Since the causer here is not actively working on the causee, the former's 'control' over the latter is not maximally strong. However, on the assumption, real or simply attributed, that the causee is ready to be acted on, the meaning of let can sometimes come very close to that of make. Dictionaries assign the interpretation 'to cause, to make' to let in such uses as let a person know and let a person understand, where the causer's control over the causee can be quite high.

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The causative use of get interestingly parallels the construction of type III defined for Japanese. (47), for example, looks as if it can be analyzed semantically as 'John got [Mary came]' (that is, 'John got Mary's coming' or 'John got "coming" from Mary'). Essentially the same analysis can be applied to (48) if we assume that the causative verb have has a dynamic (just like get) rather than a stative (that is, 'in possession of') sense. It is to be noted, however, that in spite of similarity in construction the meaning of the English causatives get and have are not confined to stage III, but tend to go beyond that toward implying a higher degree of the causer's working on the causee. The tendency is more marked with get, which often implies overcoming some sort of difficulty, while have, probably because of its rela­ tively stative character, remains more modest. In either case, English sen­ tences with the causative get or have strike the Japanese speaker as ambigu­ ous: sentences like (47) and (48) can be interpreted as corresponding either (41: stage I) or (42: stage II) as well as (43: stage III). English, here again, seems to be characterized by a tendency toward higher agentivity. Coming back once again to the Japanese causative, we find that the notion of the causer's control of the causee is generally weaker than in the case of their English counterparts. The Japanese causative construction of type I as well as of type II seem to the English speaker (cf. Chamberlain 1889) to be used to represent not only 'agentive causation' but also 'permis­ sive causation.' Thus sentences like (41) and (42), for example, may corre­ spond semantically to (45) (agentive causation: 'John made Mary come') and (46) (permissive causation: 'John let Mary come'). One further point worth mentioning, which is not usually noted, is that unlike the English causative, the Japanese causative sentences may sometimes not imply that the result intended by the causer is achieved. Thus while an English sen­ tence like I was made to say my opinion unmistakably implies that I said my opinion, the Japanese counterpart need not, so that it is possible to say something like T was made to say my opinion, but I didn't say anything.' The implication here is that the would-be causee is acted on, but the same causee may not act in the way the causer intends to cause him to act. It may even happen sometimes that the meaning of the Japanese causative is so weakened that it is applied to a situation which can as well be represented in terms of ukemi (stage IV above, that is, the subject being adversely affected). Consider the following example:

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(49)

309

Sono hahaoya wa kodomo o senso de that mother topic child OBJ war in shinaseta. die-causation-past T h e mother caused the child to die in the war.'

What is really referred to by (48) is that the child of the mother in question was killed in the war. The same situation could very well be represented in ukemi as follows, since the mother was actually one who suffered a loss of her child: (50)

Sono hahaoya wa kodomo ni senso de shinareta. that mother topic child DAT war in die-passive-past T h e mother had her child die in the war.'

The following expression is often quoted as a favorite way of reporting what happened in the battle, as used by the stout warriors in the old days: (51)

Teki ni wagami o isasetari. enemy DAT my body OBJ shoot-causation-past '(I) caused the enemy to shoot my body,' '(I) let the enemy shoot me.'

What really happened is that the warrior in question was wounded by an arrow shot by his enemy — a situation in which he was a sufferer rather than a causer and which might properly be reported in ukemi ('passive'). The proud warriors, however, preferred representing the situation as if they had intentionally allowed the enemy an opportunity of shooting them. The same reluctance to own the defeat is quite rightly attributed by Benedict (1946) to the announcements made by the Japanese military headquarters on the unfavorable military situations during the Second World War: [...] the Japanese go on to make the claim [...] that everything had actively willed by themselves alone; nobody had put anything over on them. "We should not think that we have been passively been attacked but we have actively pulled the enemy toward us" (Benedict 1946).

While thus in Japanese the causative can semantically be very much weakened — showing that the notion of agentivity tends to be blurred or suppressed, English in several respects shows clearly a contrary tendency. Compare the following expressions: (52) (53)

rock a baby (in the cradle) — rock a baby to sleep strike a person — strike a person dead

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(54) (55)

sing to a baby — sing a baby to sleep dance with a girl — dance a girl weary

In each pair, the first expression involves a verb referring to a directed action and it affects someone or something represented as grammatical object. The second expression involves the use of the same verb referring to a causative action which not only affects the goal of the action, but also causes the affected object to undergo a change in state. The second expres­ sion in each case, therefore, represents a higher degree of agentivity. In each case, the second expression is historically a later development — a clear indication of the preference of intensified agentivity in English. Compare also the following pairs, in which different complement types (a that-clause and an infinitive) are selected: (56) a. b. (57) a. b.

John John John John

asked that Mary leave. asked Mary to leave. reported that Mary is a liar. reported Mary to be a liar.

Both the (a) and the (b) expressions can refer to the same situations, but as has been pointed out (for instance, by Riddle 1975), there is a semantic dif­ ference. In each pair, the (b) expressions imply a greater degree of involve­ ment on the part of John, the agent, in what was performed. (56b), for example, suggests that John was acting more directly on Mary in asking her to leave; similarly, (57b) suggests that John's report was based on more direct evidence, perhaps his own personal experience. Here again, histori­ cally, the (b) expressions with stronger implications of agentivity are a later development. It is also to be added that the English causative construction has fol­ lowed exactly the same path in its development. In Old English, the typical causative construction was the following: (58)

ic dide þæt he cume.

The literal transcription of (58) is T did that he come,' that is, T acted in such a way that he might come.' It is to be noted that the subject here is an agent but can hardly be characterized as causer. This construction with thatclause was later replaced by the accusative with infinitive construction: (59)

I caused him to come. / I made him come.

Since either sentence in (59) implies that the intended result (that is, his

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coming) was attained, the new construction connotes a higher degree of agentivity than the earlier one. Compare next the following pairs: (60) (61)

ask a favor of a person — ask a person a favor beg of a person to do something — beg a person to do some­ thing

In each pair, the first expression represents the affected person in terms of the genitive-equivalent preposition of; in other words, the person in ques­ tion is represented as a 'source,' from which a response is elicited. The sec­ ond expression, on the other hand, has the affected person either in the dative case or in the accusative case; thus he is represented either as a goal to which the act is directed or as a patient receiving a full impact of the agent action. The second expression, in other words, connotes a higher degree of control exercised by the agent. And here again, the second expression, which implies a higher degree of agentivity, is historically a later development in English (Ikegami 1987). As a further point relevant to our present concern, there is an interest­ ing semantic discrepancy between the verbs of action in English and those in Japanese. Specifically, this concerns those verbs which refer to a goaldirected action, that is, an action with an intention of producing some effect on the patient. If we compare the semantically corresponding English and Japanese verbs, three possibilities will be found: first, both the English and the Japanese verbs imply the achievement of the intended goal (as in the case of kill and the corresponding Japanese verb: if X kills Y, Y dies); sec­ ond, neither the English nor the Japanese verb necessarily implies the achievement of the intended goal (as in the case of invite and the corres­ ponding Japanese verb: if X invites Y, Y may or may not come); and third, the English verb implies, but the corresponding Japanese verb does not imply, the achievement of the intended goal (as in the examples to be dis­ cussed below). A very interesting fact is that a foreseeable fourth possibil­ ity, that is, a possibility that the Japanese verb implies, but the correspond­ ing English verb does not imply, the achievement of the intended goal, is not realized. Whenever there is semantic discrepancy, it is the English, and not the Japanese verb, which implies the achievement of the intended goal. Thus in the following examples, the English sentences are clearly contradic­ tory and unacceptable; the Japanese sentences, on the other hand, are quite acceptable at the colloquial level (Ikegami 1985):

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(62) a. I burned it, but it didn't burn. b. Moyashita kedo moenkatta. burn-past but burn-not-past '(I) burned (it), but (it) didn't burn.' (63) a. I thawed it, but it didn't thaw. b. Tokashita kedo tokenakatta. thaw-past but thaw-not-past '(I) thawed (it), but (it) didn't thaw.' (64) a. I boiled it, but it didn't boil. b. Wakashita kedo wakanatta. boil-past but boil-not-past '(I) boiled (it), but (it) didn't boil.' Since the successful achievement of the goal is associated with a higher degree of agentivity and since there is apparently no case in which the Eng­ lish verb does not, and the corresponding Japanese verb does, imply the achievement, the contrast in this respect can again be interpreted as refer­ ring to the tendency toward greater agentivity in English. Further evidence pointing to the same tendency can be adduced from the way in which the contrast between 'direct causer' and 'indirect causer' is made in English and Japanese. The notions of 'direct causer' and 'indirect causer' can be illustrated by a sentence like John built a house. Two interpretations are possible for the sentence: either John worked and built a house by himelf (in which case John was a 'direct causer') or John asked someone else and had a house built for him (in which case John was an 'in­ direct causer'). In the case of building a house, the corresponding Japanese sentence also has the same two interpretations. There are other cases, how­ ever, in which there is a discrepancy between the English and the Japanese sentence, and whenever there is a discrepancy, the contrast is such that the English sentence has only the direct-causer interpretation, while the corres­ ponding Japanese sentence allows either the direct- or the indirect-causer interpretation. Compare the following sentences: (65) a. I cut my hair. (direct causer) b. Kami o katta. (direct or indirect causer) hair OBJ cut-past '(I) cut (my) hair.' (66) a. I repaired my watch. (direct causer)

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313

Tokei o naoshita. (direct or indirect causer) watch OBM repair-past '(I) repaired (my) watch.'

Since the direct causer implies direct working on the object, he represents a higher degree of agentivity than an indirect causer, and the English pref­ erence for direct-causer interpretation is again a manifestation of its inher­ ent tendency toward greater agentivity. Seen from a different angle, the contrast also means that in English the direct causer is generally clearly demarcated and distinguished from the indirect causer, while in Japanese the notion of the former is blurred and tends to merge with that of the lat­ ter. (Cf. Ikegami 1982). The final point about the problem of agentivity concerns the rhetorical figure of personification. Two quotations are given below, one from the Japanese author, Soseki Natsume (in my English translation) and the other by the English Japanologist, Basil H. Chamberlain: Whenever I come across an instance of personification (like Pity cries), I am nauseated by its artificiality and snobbishness. I have come to a conclu­ sion that personification is something to be detested. [...] It looks as if a monkey is trying in vain to look like a feudal lord by placing a crown on his head (Natsume 1906). Another negative quality (of Japanese) is the habitual avoidance of per­ sonification — a characteristic so deep-seated and all-pervading as to inter­ fere even with the use of neuter nouns in combination with transitive verbs. Thus this language rejects such expressions as "the heat makes me feel languid," "despair drove him to commit suicide," ...etc. One must say, "being hot, I feel languid," "having lost hope, he killed himself," ... and so on, [...] (Chamberlain 1939).

In spite of the fact that the first quotation represents a Japanese view of English personification and the second, an English view on the difficulty of personification in Japanese, both the quotations agree, interestingly enough, in suggesting that Japanese tends to avoid the rhetorical figure of personification. The difference between English and Japanese in this respect again derives from the different orientations of the respective lan­ guages. Personification arises on the basis of the 'actor-action' sentence type: an inanimate or an abstract expression is placed at the 'actor' position in the sentence which is usually occupied by an expression referring to a human agent. English has far less difficulty with this rhetorical operation because the 'actor-action' construction is its favorite. For Japanese, on the

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other hand, the 'actor-action' construction is no favorite; hence the unnaturalness of the figure of personification. A Japanese speaker will be surprised to be told that the English speakers do not find a sentence like What made her do so? particularly personified. For a Japanese speaker, there is a big difference between Who made her do so? and What made her do so? 3.2 'De-agentivization' of the agent In contrast to the English tendency to emphasize the notion of agentivity, Japanese has a way of weakening or even effacing the notion. One linguistic means serving this purpose is the 'locationalization' of the agent, that is, the agent is not represented as a person who acts, but as a location in which the act takes place. This is most clearly observable in the use of honorific language. Consider the following example (cf. also Hartmann 1954): (67)

Tennoheika ni wa, mizukara ine no nae o emperor at topic by oneself rice of young plant OBJ oue nari mashita. honorific-plant become polite-past

The whole sentence refers to the annual ritual in which the emperor prays for a good crop by planting rice seedlings in the paddy in the Imperial Palace. In planting rice seedlings by himself, the Emperor is of course act­ ing as agent, but the Japanese sentence represents the same situation in terms of the Emperor as a location in which the planting of rice seedlings takes place. Sentence (67) literally means Tn the Emperor, (it) became (to) the planting of rice seedlings' or somewhat more idiomatically, Tn the Emperor, the planting of rice seedlings came to pass.' The Emperor is de­ prived of all his agentivity — 'de-agentivized' as it were — and the event is represented not in terms of someone DOing something, but in terms of something coming to pass — BECOMing something. The agentivization is quite in accord with a general trend of honorific language, namely, to try to avoid direct reference to the person to be honored. The interpretation in terms of a location in which something takes place can further be extended. In contrast to the 'subject'-'predicate' rela­ tion in English, the dominant structural sentence pattern in Japanese is 'topic'-'comment.' The topic is typically indicated by the postposition wa,

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and there is a good sense in which the topic phrase in Japanese represents a 'location' in the widest sense of the word. Consider, for example, an often discussed sentence like (67): (68)

Zo wa hana ga nagai. elephant topic trunk SUBJ long

The sentence corresponds semantically to the English sentence, The elephant has a long trunk, but literally transcribed, the Japanese sentence — which Whorf (1942) once characterized as 'having two subjects' — says something like 'As for (the) elephant, (its) trunk (is) long.' It is possible here to consider the topic phrase (referring to '(the) elephant') as repre­ senting a 'place' or a 'location' in which the state of 'the trunk being long' exists (or, to use a somewhat more commonsensical expression, the propo­ sition that the trunk is long is valid). The 'place' or 'location' is clearly metaphorical in this case, but it can be literally a 'place' or 'location.' Con­ sider the following sentence: (69)

Tokyo wa hito ga oi. Tokyo topic people SUBJ many

The sentence, which means 'In Tokyo, there are many people,' has exactly the same structure as (68) and the topic phrase refers literally to a place. In fact, it is possible to make the locational implication explicit by supplying the postposition ni: (70)

Tokyo ni wa hito ga oi. Tokyo in topic people SUBJ many

Sentence (70), which rephrases (69), shows the close relationship between the topic phrase and the adverbial phrase referring to a location. (And since it is by nature adverbial, the topic phrase can easily be suppressed when suf­ ficiently recoverable from the context.) Also it goes without saying that the word topic derives from Greek topos or 'location.' The locational character of the Japanese topic postposition wa is paral­ leled, in a more refined way, by the postposition ya, called 'cutting word,' used in the traditional poetic form haiku. It is called 'cutting word' because the function of the postposition ya is to 'cut' or separate the preceding phrase from the ensuing portion of the text. Its function is really that of pre­ senting in focus the location or circumstances in which a certain state of affairs is found. (In the English translation, it is often transcribed by an ex­ clamation mark.) Thus:

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(71) (72)

Furuike ya kawazu tobikomu old pond ! frog jump in Shizukasa ya iwa ni shimiiru stillness ! rock in infiltrate

mizu no oto. water of sound semi no koe. cicada of voice

In (71), the old pond is literally the location at which the frog's jumping in takes place. In (72), the stillness is the circumstances (that is, an 'abstract' location) in which the sinking into the rocks of the cicadas' voice takes place. The artistic language shows here in a magnified form the function of the topic (as 'topos') in daily language. There are further verbal means available in Japanese which serve to express the notion of agentivity. One of them is the use of the auxiliary verb, reru or rareru. In the traditional Japanese grammar, this auxiliary is said to imply jihatsu (lit. 'self-arising'), that is, something takes place with­ out no deliberate involvement on the part of the person in question. This meaning comes out typically with a verb referring to a mental or emotional state, as in (73): (73)

Watakushi (ni) wa so omowareru. I to topic so think-spontaneity T somehow think so,' 'So it seems to me.'

Here the auxiliary has the effect of turning the meaning of the verb approx­ imately from 'to think' to 'to seem.' (Notice that it is possible to locationalize the thinking subject by assigning the goal marker ni to it.) Quite expectedly, the same auxiliary is widely used in honorific language, too, where the notion of agentivity tends to be suppressed. (74) can refer to the same situation as (67): (74)

Tennoheika ni wa, mizukara ine no nae o emperor in topic by oneself rice of young plant OBJ ue rare mashita. plant spontaneity polite-past

Another favorite means of suppressing the notion of agentivity is the verb naru used as a sort of quasi-auxiliary: (75)

Watakushitachi wa konotabi kekkonsuru koto we topic now marry nominalization ni nari mashita. to become polite-past '(It) has become (that is, come to pass) that we are now get­ ting married.'

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By using the verb nam ('become') as a superordinate verb governing the clause 'we get married,' an implication is given that the event in question is a natural (and almost inevitable) consequence beyond the control of the two persons involved. The suppression of agentivity in this way is here associated with an implication of modesty and hence of humiliating oneself in relation to those to whom the sentence is addressed. This implication in turn is associated with that of 'respect' and again quite expectedly, the verb nam plays an important part in honorific language. Sentence (67), already discussed, is a case in point. The various linguistic means of suppressing the notion of agentivity reflect the general tendency of the Japanese speakers to behave not so much on their own as in accord with the group or the circumstances in which they find themselves. This has been pointed out by a number of foreign observers. K. Singer (1973), for example, talks about the Japanese obedience to that "constant force of direction that is to the soul what grav­ ity is to bodies," assuring cohesion of the group by inclining individual wills in the same direction and thus creating "an order dictated by impersonal requirements." Similarly, in I. Ben-Dasan's (1972) ironical characteriza­ tion, "To move forward in silence and to establish directions of action with­ out being aware of doing so are inherent aspects of the Japanese characters and part of the hidden Japanese genius." 3.3 Effacement of the agent The extreme degree of suppression of the notion of agentivity is the total effacement of the agent — the state of 'egolessness,' about which much has been talked in relation to the doctrine of Zen. To a Portugese, W. de Moraes (1925), who came to Japan first as a naval officer and then got mar­ ried and stayed in Japan until his death, the European emphasis on 'self' is in clear contrast to Japanese 'impersonality'; he describes the latter as "not participating in all aspects of nature as a positive agent." The American anthropologist, R. Benedict, in her well-known book, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword (1946), quotes the definition of 'muga' (that is, 'no-self,' 'egolessness') by the Zen philosopher, T. Suzuki as "ecstasy with no sense of I am doing it." She describes the state as one in which "a man 'loses him­ self." In such a state, "the expert loses all sense that T am doing it'," and then "the deed completely reproduces the picture the actor had drawn of it in his mind." The German philosopher, E. Herrigel (1948), who came to

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Japan and learned the art of archery in order to understand the notion of 'egolessness' in Zen, wrote about his experiences in his highly interesting book, Zen in der Kunst des Bogenschiejiens (1948). The Japanese master of archery tells him to train his mind so that he can remain 'egoless' when he is going to shoot. The master's teaching seems to the Western philosopher nothing but a logical contradiction — without a self-conscious agent, there can be no goal-directed action. The following is a piece of conversation he had one day with his master: Eines Tages fragte ich daner den Meister: "Wie kann denn 'uberhaupt der Schuβ gelöst werden, wenn 'ich' es nicht tue?" "Es schieβt," erwiderte er. "Das habe ich schon einige Male von Ihnen gehört und muβ daher anders fragen: wie kann ich denn selbstvergessen auf den Abschuβ warten, wenn 'ich' gar nicht mehr dabei sein soll?" "'Es' verweilt in höchster Spannung." "Und wer oder was ist dieses 'Es'?"

It will be very tempting to know what the master's answer was to the last question. Characteristically enough (as do all Zen masters), he replied that instead of pursuing fruitless theorization further, the important thing was to practice and to understand the notion only through practice. 4.

Some concluding remarks

In the foregoing sections, we have seen how English and Japanese behave contrastively in the way in which they linguistically represent an event. English tends to focus on the human being acting as agent and likes to rep­ resent it prominently by linguistically thematizing and subjectizing it as an obligatory syntactic element. The dominant scheme of representation is 'someone DOing something.' The focus in Japanese, on the other hand, is on the event as a whole. The representation it prefers is in terms of 'BECOMing' and the human individual, if any is involved, tends to be suppres­ sed and merged with the environment. If the image of the individuum is dominant in the former, it is the image of the continuum which is dominant in the latter. In some of my previous papers, I suggested that we have here two lin­ guistically contrasting types and proposed to call them 'DO-language' and 'BECOME-language' respectively. The 'DO-language' is so called, because of its focus on the agent and what he does. The term 'BECOME-language,' on the other hand, is not as satisfactory. Although BECOME implies lack or suppression of agentivity, it does not sufficiently imply the focus on the

'DO-LANGUAGE' AND 'BECOME-LANGUAGE'

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event as a whole, because the verb become can take a human individual as its subject just like the verb do. The Japanese verb naru would be more appropriate to represent what I have in mind, because it can leave inexplicit who or what becomes something. But in default of a better term, I shall be content with the English word. 4.1 Accusative-language and ergative-language In order to give a better idea of what the BECOME-language is, it will be helpful to compare it and the DO-language with the pair of linguistic types called 'accusative' type and 'ergative' type. The accusative-language is one which typically manifests the following two constructions: Nominative 4+ Verb 4+ Accusative Nominative 4+ Verb The two constructions are contrasted in that the first contains a transi­ tive verb (with its object in the accusative case) and the second an in­ transitive verb (without any object following it). The two constructions have in common 'Nominative + Verb'; this, therefore, constitutes an obligatory part of the construction, while 'Accusative' is an optional ele­ ment. This seems to imply that the accusative type language constructs its sentences essentially on the action (represented by the verb) done by the subject (represented in the nominative) affecting or not affect­ ing the object (represented in the accusative). In the accusative type language, in other words, 'someone DOes something' is the semantic portion to be represented obligatorily. The accusative type language, therefore, seems to have potential affinity with the DO-language. (And in fact, English is at the same time an accusative type language and a DOlanguage.) The ergative type language, on the other hand, has typically the fol­ lowing two constructions: Ergative +I+Verb +- Nominative (or Absolutive) Nominative (or Absolutive) + Verb Common to the two constructions is the portion, 'Nominative (or Absolu­ tive) + Verb,' which represents a process something (in the nominative or absolutive case) undergoes. The optional element is Ergative, which repre-

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sents the initiator of the process. For the ergative type language, therefore, the basic feature is to represent an event in terms of 'something BECOMEs' and the initiator of the process, whether in the capacity of the causer or the agent, is an optionally represented element. The ergative type language, in this resembles what I call the 'BECOME-language,' but an important difference must also be noted. In the BECOME-language, it is not only the causer or the agent, but also something affected by it that tends to be suppressed; the individua involved tend to lose their identity, so that we end up with a continuum. With this proviso, it will be instructive to refer to certain features which have traditionally been attributed to the ergative type language and which can just as well be applied to the BECOME-language. Consider, for example, the 'passive' character of the ergative type language. 8 If we set up a series, 'Transitive, Active' - 'Transitive, Passive' - 'Intransitive,' we will notice that the notion of agentivity decreases as we go from the first to the third. There are certain clear cases in which the DO-language prefers the active, transitive construction, while the BECOME-language prefers the intransitive construction, in referring to one and the same event. Thus speaking about someone who was killed in an accident, English normally employs the passive, transitive construction (as in (76)), while Japanese represents the same unhappy accident by the intransitive construction (as in (77)): (76) (77)

John was killed in the accident. John wa jiko de shinda. John topic accident by die-past 'John died in the accident.'

The use of the passive, transitive construction in Japanese would imply in this case that John was the victim of a calculated act of murder. The intran­ sitive construction, as in (77), will exclude the implication of some agent's involvement, although in fact one is involved. Similarly, in the following pair, Japanese uses an intransitive form (with the auxiliary of 'self-arising,' already referred to in the previous section): (78) a. John was born in 1950. b. John wa 1950 nen ni umareta. John topic 1950 year in become born-past The passive, transitive form is also very commonly used for verbs of emo­ tion in English as in be surprised, be delighted, be worried, etc.; these strike

'DO-LANGUAGE' AND 'BECOME-LANGUAGE'

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the beginning Japanese students of English as strange curiosities, because they use intransitive verbs for the corresponding situations in Japanese. 4.2 Images of motion: locomotion (change in locus) vs. transition (change in state) In connection with the two types of language — one in which individuum is foregrounded and the other in which it is backgrounded and submerged in the whole — it will be instructive to note that there are two types of motion. Compare, for example, an instance of motion in which a person walks from one place to another, on the one hand, with an instance in which a person practices gymnastics, standing in one place, bending and stretching his arms and legs. In the former, we have an instance of 'locomotion,' that is, 'change in locus' — the kind of motion which is usually thought of when the notion of motion is discussed. In the latter case, on the other hand, certain bodily parts undergo changes in locus, but those parts are not separated dis­ cretely from the person, who as a whole remains stationary. Motion and no motion coexist here; if we concentrate on certain parts, we see instances of change in locus, but if we concentrate on the whole (that is, the person as a whole), what we have is certainly not an instance of change in locus, but rather one of change in state — a person assuming successively different forms and postures. We see that the distinction between 'change in locus' and 'change in state' can be blurred and what mediates the shift from one category to the other is the shift of focus from the individuum to the whole. The shift is facilitated when the individuum in motion is part of something else — in other words, in proportion to the degree to which the individuum loses its discreteness. Thus, consider further the motion of the waves in the ocean. It is true that a given point in the watery substance is making an upward and downward movement — an unmistakable instance of change in locus. But since this point has no autonomy as a discrete individuum in the whole body of sea water, it is not at all foregrounded. What we see is the change of form of the surface of so much body of water that our eye can encompass — an instance of change in state rather than of change in locus. We can thus set up a scale with 'change in locus' at one pole and with 'change in state' at the other. The former pole is characterized by a discrete individuum undergoing a change and the latter, by an nondiscrete con­ tinuum undergoing a change, and the whole scale is characterized by an in­ creasing loss of discreteness on the part of the entity undergoing a motion.

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There is, however, another important aspect in which the above scale can be viewed. Under certain circumstances, the motion of an individuum may also be interpreted as a change in state rather than as a change in locus in spite of the fact that there is physically no loss involved in the discrete­ ness of the individuum in motion. This will happen when the individuum in motion is no longer foregrounded, as it usually is, as a figure against the ground. The individuum will then be part of the background (against which it has been seen moving); it is merged with what has hitherto been its background, and what lies before the observer is a whole scene — a scene of which a part is changing. What the observer sees, then, is a change in state rather than a change in locus of the individuum involved. Consider, for example, the rising of the moon. The moon has a reasonably clear out­ line and is thus a discrete individuum. If the focus is laid on the moon, then what is seen is a change in locus made by the moon as an individuum. But on being confronted with the same scene, the observer may be interested in the whole scene. The moon is then only a part of the whole scene and the shift of the moon's position will be seen as a change in state of the whole scene rather than as a change in locus of the moon. The reinterpretation will be the easier in proportion to the decreasing discreteness of the entity in motion. Thus a puff of smoke rising through the air will be viewed read­ ily in terms of change in state rather than of change in locus. Now one of the points that have emerged in the course of the discus­ sion in the present paper is that English has a tendency, in linguistically rep­ resenting an event, to focus on the individuum involved in the event, while Japanese tends to focus on the event as a whole. Reduced to the problem of motion, this means that English tends toward the 'change in locus' pole, and Japanese toward the 'change in state' pole. One is reminded of the dis­ cussion of the flying cranes at the beginning of this paper. In the writings on Japan by foreign observers, one sometimes finds remarks concerning the Japanese interest in 'motion.' In comparing Japanese and Chinese poetry, Singer (1973) says the following: The Japanese poem does not so much evoke a world of form and color as embody movement. It recalls the swinging of a bough that a bird has just left, or the flight of wild geese about to disappear in the clouds, or the inexorable thrust of a blade towards the body.

An interesting point is that although Singer is talking about 'movement,' what he cites are not so much instances of movement in the sense of change in locus. To the Japanese mentality, they are rather instances of movement

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which will readily be apprehended as changes in state. In the first example, we have a shift from a scene in which a bird sits on a branch to one in which the same branch is swinging with the bird no longer in the scene. Similarly in the second example, we are not interested in the flight of wild geese as such so much as in the way in which wild geese gradually disappear behind the clouds. There is a set of interesting linguistic evidence supporting the above argument. In English, as in the following examples, verbs of motion (that is, referring to a change in locus) are often used in reference to an instance of change in state (that is, in the sense of 'become'): (79) (80) (81) (82) (83) (84)

John came to life. The house went to ruin. John's dream came true. John went crazy. The well ran dry. John fell ill.

Expressions like these are normally impossible in Japanese, where the verb naru ('become') will have to be employed to represent the same situations. In Japanese, on the other hand, exactly the reverse could happen, the verb naru ('become') being employed to refer to an instance of change in locus. Consider the following examples (both of which are in archaic style): (85)

(86)

Otonosama no onari. feudal lord of honorific-becoming 'The (feudal) lord's becoming.' Sekiyama o mo uchikoete, Otsu no ura ni narinikeri. Sekiyama OBJ also going over Otsu of bay to become-past 'Going over Sekiyama, (it) became (to) Otsu Bay.'

The first is a set phrase used by the herald announcing that the lord is com­ ing. In this and the following example, a person's 'coming' is linguistically represented in terms of the 'becoming' of a scene involving the agent. We have talked about such contrasting pairs of notions as 'change in locus' (or 'locomotion') and 'change in state' (or 'transition'), 'focus on the individuum' and 'focus on the event as a whole,' 'goal-oriented' and 'pro­ cess-oriented,' 'emphasis on agentivity' and 'suppression of agentivity' and so forth. It is now hopefully sufficiently clear that there is a close relation­ ship among all these pairs of notions. On the one hand, we witness a force at work to 'articulate,' to distinguish the figure from the ground, to give

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autonomy to the individuum vis-à-vis its environments, to contrast the sub­ ject (esp. the acting subject) with the object (esp. the acted-on object). What we find, on the other hand, is that the working of such a force is sup­ pressed. Here we witness an inclination to remain unarticulated and to be merged; the figure is not clearly distinguished from the ground, the indi­ viduum is not necessarily contrasted with the object. This picture of two contrasting types, emerging from the features of language, is very interestingly parallelled by the pictures we witness in other fields of culture: the 'analytic' vs. 'synthetic' (or better, 'non-analy­ tic') ways of thinking (often attributed to the difference between the West and the East), the 'self-assertive' vs. 'non-assertive' pattern of behavior, 'man-oriented' vs. 'nature-oriented' philosophy and religion, 'individualist' vs. 'totalitarian' social and political organization, and yet a host of more specific examples referred to in my Introduction to the present volume. It is an interesting question whether one can legitimately talk about 'correla­ tions' for all these cases. Intuitively, there is certainly something that suggests possible relationship. It is at the present stage not sufficiently clear, however, what is to be adduced in order to demonstrate that what we have here is really a case of correlation or an instance of homology — a problem which is too hazardous to be incorporated within the scope of the present paper and has to be left for further future research.

Notes 1.

I leave for the moment the question of the article and the plural marker which are supplied in the English translation — these are the results of linguistic choices obligatorily required by the grammar of the English language.

2.

If one may coin an expression like 'it springs,' where it is an impersonal subject (as in it rains) and springs is a verb meaning 'becomes spring,' one can come closer to the general implication of the Japanese verb harumeku.

3.

This interpretation is helped by the possible ambiguity of the verb wataru, which can refer to a sound reaching out far and wide as well as an agent moving from one place to another.

4.

The important point, however, is that the two contrasting ways of viewing things we are talking about are not correlated with, but work over and beyond, the mere presence or absence of the grammatical subject. In the first example about the fly­ ing cranes, the Japanese expression has the subject explicitly represented; as we have discussed, however, the image of the scene associated with the Japanese

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expression is intuitively not the same as the one associated with the English expression. This incidentally suggests that the function of the subject in Japanese is semantically different from that in English. 5.

The fondness for vagueness in the Japanese mentality is well noted in the follow­ ing words by K. Singer (1973): "Nothing is more alien to their [that is, Japanese] souls than pure radiance and the blazing light that forces clarity and distinctness on everything."

6.

It is also to be noted in this connection that the modern Indo-European languages, which are generally HAVE-languages, were formerly BE-languages. (Latin, for example, represents a transitional stage.) The development of the verb HAVE is an interesting chapter in the history of the Indo-European languages. It certainly correlates with man's growing consciousness of his self and the concomitant strongly anthropocentric orientation.

7.

This suggests that the Japanese ukemi is closely related to causation and is quite unlike the passive (as in English), which is the counterpart of the active.

8.

The 'passive' character was attributed to the ergative type language, because in it the agent can remain suppressed, just as the agentive phrase is very often suppres­ sed in the passive sentence of the accusative type language.

References Benedict, R. 1946. The Chrysanthemum and the Sword. Boston. Bloomfield, L. 1933. Language. New York. Chamberlain, B.H. 1889, 2nd ed. A Handbook of Colloquial Japanese. London. . 1890; 1939, 6th ed. Things Japanese. London. Halliday, M.A.K. and R. Hasan. 1976. Cohesion in English. London. Hartmann, P. 1954. Einige Grundzüge des japanischen Sprachbaues. Heidelberg. Herrigel, E. 1948. Zen in der Kunst des Bogenschieβens. München. Ikegami, Y. 1980. "Linguistic Typology and Textual Cohesion: Some Notes on Halliday and Hasan's Cohesion in English." Sophia Linguistica 6. . 1981. SURU to NARU no Gengogaku (Linguistics of DOING and BECOM­ ING). Tokyo. . 1982. "Indirect Causation and De-Agentivization." Proceedings of the Depart­ ment of Foreign Languages. University of Tokyo. . 1984. "How Universal is a Localist Hypothesis? A Linguistic Contribution to the Study of 'Semantic Styles' of Language." Semiotics of Culture and Language, ed. by R. Fawcett et al. London. . 1985. "Activity-Accomplishment-Achievement: A Language That Can Say T burned it, but it didn't burn' and One That Can." Linguistics and Philosophy: Essays in Honor of Rulon S. Wells, ed. by A. Makkai & A.K. Melby, Amsterdam. . 1987. "GOAL over SOURCE: a Case of Linguistic Assymmetry." Concepts of Case, ed. by R. Dirven & G. Radden. Tübingen.

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Natsume, S. 1906. Bungakuron (A Theory of Literature). Tokyo. Riddle, E. 1975. "Some Pragmatic Considerations on Complementizer Choices." Pro­ ceedings of Chicago Linguistic Circle 11. Singer, K. 1973. Mirror, Sword and Jewel. London. Werner, H. and B. Kaplan. 1963. Symbol Formation. New York. Whorf, B.L. 1936. "An American Indian Model of the Universe." Whorf (1956). . 1942. "Language, Mind, and Reality." Whorf (1956). . 1956. Language, Thought, and Reality, ed. by J.B. Carroll. Cambridge, MA. Yoshikawa, K. 1973. "Nohon-Bungaku no Tokushusa" (Specificity of Japanese Litera­ ture). Nohon-Bunka Kenkyu Kokusai Kaigi Gijiroku (Proceedings of the Interna­ tional Conference on Japanese Culture), ed. by Nihon PEN Club. Tokyo.

Index

A Aarne-Thompson 163 abduction 34, 35, 39 (See also hypo­ thesis) Abercrombie 184 Abraham 153 accusative-language 319, 325 advertisement 4 aesthetics 64, 118 agent(ivity) 290, 303, 305, 308, 309, 313, 314, 316, 318 Akita 99 Akutagawa 182, 217 alphabet 62, 69, 73 amae 64 (See also dependency) ambivalence 281 analogy 8 analytic 324 analytic philosophy 64 anthropocentrism 2 anthroposemiotics 3, 8 Aoyama 239, 240 Appleton 97, 99 Appolinaire 57, 58, 60, 61, 62, 70 arbitrary 14, 15 archetype 170 architectural sign 107, 110 architecture 10, 49, 126, 130 Arima 52, 54 Aristotle 260 articulation 9, 17, 18, 323 Asia 139 association 36, 39, 50 Aston 98, 99 Austin 270,271,279,282

B Baba 177 Bach 134, 135 Bachelard 96, 97, 99 Bachofen 75 Ballard 132, 135 Barthes 1, 10, 16, 17, 23, 104, 131, 135, 149, 153, 154 BASIC 132 BE-language 298, 299, 300, 325 Beckett 257, 263, 265, 266, 267 BECOME-language 52, 318, 320 behavitive 271, 273 Ben-Dasan 317 Benedict 23, 317, 325 Bense 135 Bergson 61 Berlin 54 Berry 132, 134, 135 biology 2, 3 Birdwhistel 182, 183, 217 Blomeyer 124, 132, 133, 135 Bloomfield 305 Bluebeard 164, 166 Blyth 19, 23 body language 183 Bondon 131, 135 Borges 265 borrowing 14 bowing 206, 207 Broadbent 134,135 Buddhism 52, 209, 213, 230, 231, 234, 235, 271, 272, 275, 280 (See also eroteric Buddhism) bunraku 10, 49, 140, 141

328

INDEX

C calligram 62, 67 Cassirer 270 causative 304, 305, 306, 308, 312 Chamberlain 294, 308, 313, 325 change 287, 288, 321, 322, 323 Chekhov 229 children 4 Chinese character 61, 71, 72 Chomsky 33, 51, 52, 54, 110 Christianity 53, 209, 219 Čistov 166 Claudel 261 clothing 9, 13, 17, 195 cohesion 124, 132, 133 Collective Unconscious 160 commissive 271, 273 communication 6, 20, 35, 36, 40, 182, 184, 269, 270, 282 complementary 13, 14 computer vision 112,118 conative function 20 concrete poetry 63, 64, 65, 77 conformity 43 Confucianism 52, 168 connotation 14 consciousness 168, 169, 170, 264 context 37, 39, 50 context-dependent 5, 6, 9, 16, 47, 50 contiguity 35, 36, 37, 38, 40 continuum 17, 291, 321, 324 conversation 186 covert 37,44,45,47,51,52 creativity 33 (See also rule-changing [-governed] creativity) cultural semiotics [semiology] 7, 65 culture 2, 7, 8, 16 cutting word 315 D Dadaist 62 Dante 264 Darwin 182, 187, 188, 217 Davis 183, 217 Dazai 182, 217

de-agentivization 314 de Beaugrande 124, 133, 135 deduction 34, 35 definite article 291 delicacy 111, 112, 118, 132 dependency 44 (See also amae) Descartes 264 dichotomy 18 discrete 291, 321 Doi 33, 51, 53, 54 DO-language 52, 318 Dressier 124, 133 E East and West 13 Eco 101, 104, 131,136 ego 61, 168, 169, 170, 171, 179 egoless(ness) 9, 317 Ekman 217 Eliot 258 Emperor 96 emptiness 10, 11, 12, 15, 67 English 298, 300, 303, 311, 312, 322 enlightenment 276 entropy 61 epistemic 302 ergative-language 319, 320, 325 Esoteric Buddhism 87, 88 ethnocentrism 9 etiquette 199,203 evolution 18 exercisive 271, 273 existence 299, 300 expositive 271 expressive function 20, 270 eye-contact 206, 208 F fairy tale 157, 158, 160, 162, 163, 165, 166, 168, 170, 172, 174,175, 176, 178, 179 Fast 183, 187, 217 female 161, 173, 179 Fenollosa 70, 71 festival 232

INDEX fetishism 19 figure 17, 323 Finnegan 270 firstness 103 focus 287 Foerster 70 food 18 Ford 207 FORTRAN 132 Freudian 170 Fu 136 Fukui 52, 54 Futurist 63 G gagaku 140 garden 10, 49 Gamier 79 Gestalt 63, 64, 73 gesture 66, 181, 186, 187,199, 200, 213, 269 ghost 258, 266 Gluck 148 Gods 233 Goethe 69 Gomringer 63, 79 Goodman 130, 131, 134, 135, 136 Gorai 99 graphic poetry 57, 72, 76 Great Mother 169 Greimas 154 Grimm 162, 172 group (vs. individual) 11, 16, 45 Groups 101,131, 136 Guattair 69 Gunji 233, 240 H haiku 10,47,48,61,315 Hall 132, 136, 183, 217 Halliday 6, 22, 23, 107, 125, 132, 134, 136, 325 handshake 190, 205, 206, 207, 208 Hartmann 325 HAVE-language 298, 299, 300, 325

329

Harrigel 317, 325 Helmholtz 133, 135 Hesselgren 101, 131, 136 heuristic 5 hollow center 53 (See also empty) homo demens 19 homo significan 2, 3 homologization 15 homology 8, 10, 12, 16 homosexuality 235 Horiguchi 17 Horiuchi 57, 60, 62 Howard 69 Hutcheon 184 Hutin 178, 179 hypothesis 34, 35 I Ichikawa 231 icon 39, 124, 125, 133 iconicity 39 ideational function 6, 22, 125, 130 ideogram 72 Ikegami 22, 23, 48, 51, 52, 54, 311, 313, 325 illocution(ary) 270, 271, 273, 277, 278 illogical 5, 9 image 97 imagism 70 Imao 231, 240 inanimate 299 index 39, 124, 125 individuum 321 Indo-european 295, 325 induction 34, 35 information 2, 184, 185 innate 187 Inoue 217 interpersonal function 6, 22, 126, 130, 183 interpretation 38, 44 Issatschenko 298 Ito 79 Itoh 266

330

INDEX

Jakobson 23 James 182, 217 Jandl 78 Japanese culture 12, 33, 41, 43, 51,178, 181, 192,213,298,300 ~ language 16, 44, 72, 291, 295 ~ (people) 34 ~ smile 189 ~ society 43 Joyce 104 Jung 160, 170, 178 K Kabuki 140, 220, 226, 231, 235, 239, 240, 245 kagura 219, 220, 227 Kajino 78 kana 62, 63, 66, 68 kanji 62, 63, 64, 65, 68, 70, 71, 72, 73, 76 (See also Chinese character) Kaplan 305, 326 Kawabata 241,255,288 Kawai 12, 23, 53, 54 Kay 54 Key 183, 217 kimono 192, 195, 198, 213, 214, 252 Kimura 240 kinesics 182, 183, 185, 186 Klage 75 Klatzky 132, 136 Kluckhohn 52, 54 koan 19 Kobayashi 211,217 Koizumi 154 Koch 23 Koto 295, 297, 298, 300, 301, 302 Krampen 132, 136 Kristeva 21, 23, 24, 147, 154, 269 Kuhn 148, 154 Kukai 87, 99 Kyogen 227, 234 L landscape 97

language 68, 269, 270 ~ play 4 Lao-tse 89 Laver 184, 217 Leach 52, 54 Leech 20, 24 Leroi-Gourham 72 Lévi-Stauss 18, 22, 24 linguistics 4, 64, 182, 186 Linton 52, 54 Lissa 147, 154 LISP 120, 127, 133 locutionary 271 logocentrism 2 Lotman 22 Lucid 22, 24 Lüthi 173, 174 Lynch 131 M ma 48, 49, 67 Mclean 52, 54 McLuhan 73, 76 macrostructure 124, 133, 134 male 161, 179 Mallarmé 62, 63, 64, 70, 72 mandala 87, 88 marked 52 marriage 161, 166, 244 Maruyama, K. 23, 24 Maruyama, M. 139, 153, 154 Matida 141, 146, 154 matriarchal 171 Mayer 79 mediator 227, 237 Meijer 229, 240 metacommunication 271 metamessage 271 metaphor 13, 15, 270, 290 metasemiotic 7 metonymy 17, 280 microstructure 124 Minsky 120, 133, 136 Miyoshi 54 modality 269

INDEX modeling system 22 Mondrian 102, 125 Monnai 131, 132, 135 mono 295, 296, 297, 298, 300, 301 Moraes 317 Morley 134, 136 morpheme 110, 111, 119 Morris, C. 136 Morris, D. 217 motif 157 motion 321 Mukai 78, 79 music 48, 126, 139, 141, 152 myth 91, 169, 170, 225, 230, 237, 269, 270, 280 mythology 53 N Nakai 33, 51, 54 Nakane 11, 24, 140, 153, 154 Nakano 217 Naotsuka 54 Natsume 313, 326 nature (vs. culture) 16, 18 Needham 282 Neumann 168-170, 178 Niglino 79 Niikuni 57,58,61,64,65,79 noh 48, 53, 140, 176, 220, 226, 227, 234, 235, 257, 258, 260, 261, 267 nondiscrete 291 nonverbal 125, 181, 183, 185, 188-194, 199, 200, 202, 203, 208, 209, 212, 213, 216 nothing(ness) 174, 178 number 6, 292 O Oba 99 Oedipus complex 170 Offenbach 148 Oikawa 99 open (text) 104 opposition 13 Orikuchi 86, 99, 232, 234

331

Orion 269 OToole 136 Otsuki 86, 99 Ouroboros 257 Ovčáček 78 overt 45, 47, 50, 52 Ozawa 163 P painting 68, 69 paradigm(atic) 35, 120 paralinguistic 186 parody 262 passivity 44, 50, 320, 325 (See also ukemi) patriarchal 171, 172, 179 performance 219, 226, 230 performative 270, 271, 278, 279-282 perlocutionary 271, 274-276, 278, 281 personification 313 perspective 69 plural See number poetic function 23 ~ language 3, 4,6 poetics 4 Popper 20, 24 Pound 70, 72, 257, 266 pragmatics 105, 125, 126 Prak 131, 136 Preziosi 101, 131, 136 Prigogine 70 primary modeling system 7 pronoun 292 prototype 2, 3, 7 Proust 264 proxemics 186 proxemity 183 psyche 158,160 puppet-show 10 (See also bunraku) R rankshift 110 Reichart 61 relativization 15, 16, 19, 21 riddle 310

332

INDEX

Riffaterre 147, 154 ritual 91, 95, 234, 269, 270-272, 274, 276, 278-282 Roberts 136 Rodofsky 132, 136 Röhrich 166 rule-changing 3, 9, 33, 39, 40, 51 rule-governed 3, 4, 5, 33, 34, 40, 41, 44, 45,47 Russel 132, 135, 136 S Sapir 187, 188, 217 Satake 176 satori 20 Schechner 232 Schmidt 65, 78 schizophrenia 39, 51 scientific language 6 Searle 134, 137 secondness 103 Seidensticker 255, 288 Seki 157, 158, 161, 163, 165 self 9, 175 semantic 105, 123, 125 semiosis 1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 104, 105, 109, 125, 130 semiotics 1, 2, 4, 7, 9 shaman 227, 258 shamisen 49, 143, 144, 147, 150, 152, 153 shifter 118, 119, 125 Shiga 292 Shintoism 53, 209, 213, 230 shrine 89, 90, 224, 225 Sieverts 115 sign 25,31, 105, 115, 119 signification 169 signifier 104 similarity 35, 38 (See also contiguity) Singer 16, 24, 317, 322, 325, 326 singular See number Skipien 183 Snellen 99

speech act 82 Standard Average European 5 story 132, 136 structure 110 subject (grammatical) 6, 300, 324 subjectivization 290, 299 surreal 74 Sutra 276, 277 Suzuki 234, 317 Swift 259 symbol 31,39, 124, 125,278 symmetry 68 sympathy 45 synaesthesia 37 synecdoche 17 syntactic 105 syntagmatic 33, 35, 38, 120 synthetic 324 syomyo 140 system 110 systemic (grammar) 107, 109-112, 120, 121, 125, 130, 132, 134 T taboo 165, 166 Takahashi 79 Takemoto Gidayu 141, 154 Takeuchi 23, 24 Takigawa 51, 55 Tambiah 279, 281 Tanizaki 241 tanka 285 Taoism 52 Tartu school 7 text 16, 33, 34, 39, 104, 123 textuality 124, 125 thematization 290, 299 thirdness 103 Tikamatsu 150 Titzmann 8, 24 Tohyama 207, 217, 218 Toida 231 token 120 Tokumaru 142-154, 147, 150, 154 topos 105, 226, 315

333

INDEX Totino 78 towntexture 102, 104, 105, 110-112, 116-119, 121-123, 126-128, 130, 134 townscape 107 Trager 183, 218 transformational grammar 110 transitive 303-305, 321 translation 62, 286, 297 trickster 237 Tsuboi 240 Tsuchihashi 99 Tsuruya 239 Turner 69, 70 turn-taking 184, 185 type 120 typology 8

W Wachsmann 154 waka 47, 48 Werner 305, 326 West 41, 57, 76, 139, 140, 157, 165, 167, 168 Westenization 181 Western language 60 Whorf 6, 22, 24, 51, 52, 55, 61, 289, 315, 326 Winograd 132, 136 Winston 133, 137 Wolf 68, 69 woman 158, 159, 170, 171, 176, 178 Wordsworth 263 writing 57, 66, 68, 69, 76

U Ueda 175 Uexküll 18, 24 ukemi 307-309, 325 Umwelt 2 unconscious 170 uniformity 41, 43, 50 universal 188 unmarked 52 Urbild 75 Uroboros 169, 174

X Xisto 78

V van Dijk 123, 133, 135 verbs of action 311, 323 verdicitve 271,273,278 Virgin Mary 271,273,278 visual poetry 64 von Hornbostel 153

Y Yamaguchi, M. 233, 239, 240 Yamaguchi, O. 154 Yamanaka 78, 79 Yanagita 92, 99, 168 Yeats 257, 259, 260, 264, 265-267 Yoshikawa 285, 286, 326 Yoshizawa 78 Yosimizu 144, 155 Z Zeami 258, 260, 264, 266, 267 Zen 18-21, 29, 80, 175, 317, 318 zero-form 291 Zevi 137

In the series Foundations of Semiotics (FOS) the following titles have been published (Series discontinued): 1 2 3 4

5 6

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Peirce, Charles S. (ed.): 'Studies in Logic' by Members of the Johns Hopkins University (1883). With an introduction by Max H. Fisch. With a Preface by Achim Eschbach. 1983. lviii, vii, 203 pp. Welby, Victoria Lady: What is Meaning? Studies in the Development of Significance (1903). With an introductory article by Gerrit Mannoury. With a Preface by Achim Eschbach. 1983. xlii, xxxii, 321 pp. Gätschenberger, Richard: Grundzüge einer Psychologie des Zeichens (1901). With an English summary and a preface by Achim Eschbach. 1987. xv, 135 pp. Hoffbauer, Johann Cristoph: Semiological Investigations, or Topics Pertaining to the General Theory of Signs. Reprint of the original Latin text Tentamina semiologica, si ve quaedam generalem theoriam signorum spectantia (1789). Translated, annotated, and introduced by Robert E. Innis. 1991. xxxi, 116 pp. Welby, Victoria Lady: Significs and Language. With an introduction by H.W. Schmitz. 1985. (ii)cclxvii, 170 pp. Wilkins, John: Mercury: or the Secret and Swift Messenger. Shewing how a Man may with Privacy and Speed communicate his Thoughts to a Friend at any distance. Reprinted from the third edition (1708). 1984. cix, 124 pp. Eschbach, Achim and Jürgen Trabant (eds.): History of Semiotics. 1983. xvi, 386 pp. Ikegami, Yoshihiko (ed.): The Empire of Signs. Semiotic essays on Japanese culture. 1991. xii, 333 pp. Pharies, David A.: Charles S. Peirce and the Linguistic Sign. 1985. vi, 118 pp. Dascal, Marcelo: Leibniz. Language, Signs and Thought. A collection of essays. 1987. xi, 203 pp. Ekstein, Rudolf: The Language of Psychotherapy. 1989. xviii, 336 pp. Busse, Winfried and Jürgen Trabant (eds.): Les Idéologues. Sémiotique, philosophie du langage et linguistique pendant la Révolution française. Proceedings of the Conference, held at Berlin, October 1983. 1986. xvi, 404 pp. Fónagy, Ivan: Languages Within Language. An evolutive approach. 2001. xiv, 828 pp. Deledalle, Gérard: Charles S. Peirce, phénoménologue et sémioticien. 1987. ix, 114 pp. Morris, Charles W.: Symbolism and Reality. A study in the nature of mind. With a Preface by George H. Mead. With an introductory essay by Achim Eschbach. 1993. xxv, 128 pp. Martin, Richard M.: Logical Semiotics & Mereology. 1992. xiii, 282 pp. Kevelson, Roberta: Charles S. Peirce's Method of Methods. 1987. xiii, 180 pp. Deledalle, Gérard (ed.): Semiotics and Pragmatics. Proceedings of the Perpignan Symposium, 1983. 1989. xii, 476 pp. Kobernick, Mark: Semiotics of the Drama and the Style of Eugene O'Neill. 1989. xiv, 162 pp. Tobin, Yishai (ed.): From Sign to Text. A semiotic view of communication. 1989. xiii, 545 pp. Eco, Umberto and Costantino Marmo (eds.): On the Medieval Theory of Signs. Translated by Shona Kelly. 1989. ix, 224 pp. Aphek, Edna and Yishai Tobin: The Semiotics of Fortune-telling. 1990. vii, 216 pp. Schmitz, H. Walter (ed.): Essays on Significs. Papers presented on the occasion of the 150th anniversary of the birth of Victoria Lady Welby (1837–1912). 1989. xv, 313 pp. Marty, Robert: L'Algèbre des signes. Essai de sémiotique scientifique d'après C.S. Peirce. 1990. xviii, 409 pp. Bühler, Karl: Theory of Language. The Representational Function of Language. Translated by Donald Fraser Goodwin. 1990. lxii, 508 pp.