Pathway to Japanese Literature

Having been requested to deliver a lecture at the Tokyo Art School Literary Society's opening ceremony, I accepted on condition that—as an Asahi Shimbun staff member—I would publish my own theories in said newspaper, then proceeded to request that the chairman arrange stenography despite the inconvenience.
The chairman obligingly consented and, after four or five days, sent me the stenographic record accompanied by a courteous note.
Upon inspection—whether due to deficiencies in my preliminary outline or perhaps inappropriate phrasing—the text proved so disorganized in its raw state that presenting it verbatim in print would scarcely bear subjecting readers to such disorder.
Consequently compelled to rewrite the entire manuscript, I found upon commencing work with the stenographic record before me that expansions became necessary at every juncture, ultimately producing a text roughly twice the length of the original.

Given the nature of this topic—which risked having its train of thought frequently interrupted if not read through in one sitting, thereby failing to accompany both the logical twists and natural progression—there was indeed regret; however, since newspaper pages inherently had limited space, I intended to endure this inconvenience and serialize it day by day in one or two columns each.

The lengthy text on the left produced under these circumstances, though retaining the form of a stenographic lecture, may properly be regarded as a paper newly drafted by myself—the lecturer—specifically for my company's purposes. Hereafter, as an Asahi Shimbun staff member about to take up my pen and introduce myself to readers, I believe it is my duty as a company member to the general public to follow my inaugural address by presenting an outline of my convictions regarding literature and arts, thereby clarifying my position and aspirations.

I am a man who has not yet given many speeches—no, not many at all—nearly none; though I have been asked quite frequently until now, I have refused them all.
I simply cannot abide it.
Nor am I capable of it.
In compensation—having delivered lectures daily until recently—I might presume some proficiency in that realm; yet since what is unfortunately requested of me now is a speech, I expect it shall assuredly prove rather inept.

The truth was that until recently Mr. Omura had specially come to request that I deliver some sort of speech; however, knowing full well my own ineptness, I concluded that accepting would be utterly pitiful and thus first proceeded to decline.
Yet he would not take no for an answer.
"You must do it," he pressed, "Just do anything," "Please do it," repeatedly urging "Do it! Do it!"
Even so, when I kept scratching my head in hesitation, he finally relented: it would be acceptable not to give the speech.
When I inquired what alternative remained, he pronounced this gracious decree—simply attending and showing my face to everyone would suffice.
Thereupon I summoned great resolve and consented, thinking that if it were merely to that extent, there would be no need for apprehension.
It was under such conditions that I had made my appearance here today.
Yet unfortunately, it was not a face so presentable as to be worth showing.
Since my face alone seemed rather insubstantial, I took this opportunity to say a few words.
"Of course, gentlemen—as you all could never manage what is called a proper speech—even if I were to call this a speech, in reality it would amount to nothing more than a lecture."
"My usual approach to lecturing involves no improvisation—every word meticulously prepared in writing beforehand and delivered uninterrupted within the classroom."
"But today I have no such leisure, nor have my thoughts been properly organized."
"Therefore, even a lecture that ought to be skillful will unexpectedly prove clumsy today."

“I find it most fascinating that at the Tokyo Art School, you have established such a literary society to cultivate knowledge and appreciation of general literature beyond your specialized arts.”
“As Chairman Masaki just explained, literature and art share profound connections. Therefore, when distinguished representatives of one field such as yourselves develop scholarly interest in the other—deigning to reference clumsy lectures like mine—I who have seized this first opportunity to present my humble views before you must regard it as a great honor from the perspective of interdisciplinary engagement.”
“The reason I am forcing myself to deliver this inept speech is entirely for this purpose—and though I have taken on what I am ill-suited to perform, I by no means intend to claim any credit for it.”
“I have indeed come here regarding it as a great honor.”
“As I have repeatedly stated, I can neither deliver a proper speech nor present an organized lecture, so I imagine there will certainly be parts that are rather unpleasant to hear.”
“I humbly ask for your kind forgiveness in advance regarding those aspects.”

"First, I shall now gradually begin my lecture."
"If I declare 'I shall now begin,' it may sound somewhat pompous, but in truth, it means nothing of consequence."
"Here lies a notebook containing some three or four written pages."
"What I am about to discuss does not exceed these three or four pages' contents—were I to deliver it straight through, it would conclude in mere fifteen minutes."
"But even an incidental speech delivered thus would prove too pitiful."
"Therefore, I shall proceed by extemporaneously expanding upon these pages."
"Having given no prior thought to how this expansion might unfold, I cannot predict its direction or scope."
"I employ a rather precarious method of elaboration—one that may lead me down unexpected detours from which I can neither advance nor retreat."
"Moreover, you mustn't be alarmed if this discourse commences with seemingly nonsensical matters."
"Rest assured that ultimately, we shall inevitably gravitate toward realms deeply connected to art and literature."
"—Earlier during Chairman Masaki's address, he mentioned 'worldly sophistication and technical skill.' While my own discourse may appear nebulous at its outset—indeed peculiarly so—know that I too intend to arrive alongside our chairman at that very destination of worldly sophistication and technical skill."

“First—I am standing here.”
“And you are seated there.”
“I stand in a low place; you sit in a high place—this fact that I stand while you sit constitutes reality.”
“To express this reality in other terms: I am what we call the 'self,' and you are that which exists outside myself in relation to me.”
“Using more complex terminology, this represents the fact known as the duality of self and objects.”
“That is to say, the world comes into being through this interdependent relationship between self and objects.”
“You must certainly think so—I too hold this view.”
“This is how everyone understands it.”
“Now between my standing here thus and your sitting there thus exists what we call distance.”
“Whether one ken, two ken, or perhaps ten or twenty ken—how large is this hall exactly?—in any case, there exists an expanse of several tsubo where I stand and within which you sit.”
“This expanse we call space.”
“(Though stating it seems unnecessary) That is to say, there exists what we term space, within which all things occupy their respective positions.”
“Next, today’s lecture will commence at one o’clock.”
“Though its conclusion remains uncertain, rest assured it will end eventually.”
“I expect it will likely conclude before nightfall.”
“After I finish spouting these haphazard remarks, Mr. Ueda will subsequently take my place with another engaging discourse.”
“Thereafter we shall adjourn.”
“Both my lecture and Mr. Ueda’s address constitute passing events—events that could never occur without this phenomenon we call time.”
“This too requires no particular elaboration, being self-evident.”
“Finally, should you wonder why I appear here thus, moving my mouth so busily—it would prove somewhat inconvenient if this were mistaken for some drunken caprice or eccentric whim.”

"Therein lies an appropriate confluence of circumstances—namely, Mr. Omura’s earnest request which I mentioned earlier, my hasty acceptance, the sense of obligation after having accepted, and various other contributing factors—all converging to result in my present appearance here clad in this frock coat. We refer to this relationship (applying to both human affairs and nature) as the Law of Causality."

"So it goes like this," I continued. "In this world exists what we call 'I,' exists what we call 'you all,' and thus we find ourselves within an expansive space; within this space we enact our mutual performances, these performances transitioning through time's passage, their progression bound by causality's law."

"That's how it should be understood," I acknowledged.

"Therefore one must first recognize the existence of this 'I'; one must recognize the existence of 'you all.' We must recognize space's existence. We must recognize time's existence. Moreover, we must recognize causality's law governing our being."

"This no one would dispute."

"I share that belief."

“However, when examined thoroughly, that becomes profoundly dubious.”
“It is profoundly dubious.”
“In common parlance, everyone thinks this way.”
“I too think this way in common terms.”
“However, when we step back and consider it from an unconventional perspective, it becomes profoundly strange.”
“It seems that is not actually the case.”
“The reason is that this ‘I’—this self who appears to solemnly exist here wearing a frock coat and high collar, sporting a beard—is in truth a most dubious entity.”
“The frock coat and high collar may be visible and tangible, but they are decidedly not myself.”
“If I were to claim that this body—these hands and feet that scratch when itchy and soothe when in pain—is me, that too does not hold.”
“There exist sensations we call itching and pain.”
“There exists the sensation we call stroking and scratching.”
“However, there is nothing beyond that.”
“What exists is neither a hand nor a foot.”
“They are consciousness phenomena—those we name ‘hand’ and ‘foot’ for convenience, and those we call pain and itching.”
“In short, consciousness exists.”
“Moreover, there exists the function we call consciousness.”
“This much is certain—though I cannot prove anything beyond this, it remains an irrefutably clear fact that requires no further proof.”
“Thus, what we ordinarily call ‘I’ does not objectively exist in the world as a real entity; it is merely a name we have given for convenience to the continuously flowing stream of consciousness.”
“If one asks why it proves convenient to stir up waves on flat ground by establishing this superfluous ‘I’—once we posit ‘I,’ there inevitably follows the corollary establishment of ‘you all’ and other non-I entities, thereby drawing this distinction between self and objects.”
“Therein lies unnecessary conflict, yet it is also a necessary convenience.”

“By stating this, not only do I negate my own existence—what is commonly called the self—but consequently deny your very presence as well; thus, despite this large audience gathered here, it becomes most regrettable to regard you as if you were not here at all.”
“You may find this infuriating, but as this concerns fundamental principles, I must first ask you to hear it as theoretical discourse.”
“To speak fundamentally—though impolite—you cannot exist objectively apart from me.”
“I said ‘apart from me’—but since even this ‘I’ does not exist as what we call an ‘I,’ how much less can you all be said to exist?”
“No matter how angry you get, it’s futile.”
“You exist there.”
“You exist as I conceive you to exist.”
“Well, I too am thinking so to some extent.”
“As for existing—you do exist, but only as I provisionally conceive you to be.”
“However much I might wish to conceive it otherwise—with no evidence for such a notion—there’s nothing to be done.”
“To ordinarily confirm an object’s existence, do you first look with your eyes?”
“You look with your eyes then touch with your hands.”
“After touching it, you might smell or taste it—though confirming your existence may not require such elaborate steps.”
“But as stated before, whether seeing or hearing—fundamentally speaking—it amounts only to being conscious of visual and auditory sensations; this consciousness cannot transform into independent objects or people.”
“When I looked or touched, it merely meant a black-uniformed student with gold buttons manifesting as phenomena within my consciousness.”
“Beyond this, there can be no acknowledgment of your existence’s factual reality.”
“When all is distilled, there exists neither I nor you all.”
“What exists—what truly exists—is nothing but consciousness.”
The gold button entered my vision; I became conscious of the gold button.
The lecture hall’s ceiling was black; I became conscious of that black area.

“——This is not an insult.”
“It’s not that the Tokyo Art School’s ceiling is black; it’s merely that I’m conscious of it as black—since this criticism doesn’t acknowledge objective existence, I trust it’s permissible.”

"That is all I have to say for now. When we leave behind common notions and view the world of self and objects through unconventional eyes, one cannot declare that objects exist independently from oneself, nor can one assert that the self persists apart from objects. To rephrase this fundamental truth: there exists no object separate from self, just as there exists no self independent of objects—thus what we call the duality of self and objects must perfectly coincide. Our use of these two characters 'self and objects' serves merely for expository convenience; from an essential perspective, these supposed opposites cannot truly be distinguished—indeed, language about their 'unity' becomes superfluous when speaking of that which inherently defies division. Therefore, what undeniably exists is consciousness alone. And this unbroken flow of consciousness is what we commonly—if crudely—name 'life'."

"Since using the term 'continuity' implies that consciousness undergoes transitions—and since having transitions necessitates: first, that consciousness must possess units; second, that these units mutually fluctuate; third, that unit consciousness must be sufficiently clear for these fluctuations to be distinct; and fourth, that these transitions of consciousness are governed by some law—the matter becomes exceedingly complex. However, as this is not the occasion to discuss such intricate matters, I shall proceed with my lecture by entrusting these points to your future study, gentlemen."

"Regarding the principle of consciousness transition among these four items—though incomplete—I have outlined my own thoughts in the fifth chapter of my Theory of Literature, which you may find useful for reference."

"Incidentally, I would request that each of you obtain a copy of Theory of Literature."

"In any case, there is consciousness."

"There are no objects; there may be no self—but consciousness undeniably exists."

And this consciousness continues.

"Whether we can explain philosophically or evolutionarily why it continues matters not—the fact remains that it does continue—and so we shall proceed taking this as our foundational truth."

“Pausing here for a moment,” I reflected, “when examining this lecture’s opening passage reveals something rather curious.”
“Initially,” I had declared, “there exists what we call an ‘I’.”
“I affirmed your undoubted presence.”
“Moreover,” I continued, “we find ourselves mutually ensnared within this dubious construct called space, paddling against time’s incomprehensible currents while bound by causality’s dreadful law—all while emitting these guttural moans.”
“Yet through unconventional contemplation,” my voice shifted tone, “the conclusion stands diametrically opposed.”
“The conceptual gate separating self and objects proves never to have existed from inception.”
“Heaven and earth coalesce into the self—a grandiose formulation we’ve attained.”
“Though unclear when this metamorphosis occurred,” I conceded with theatrical resignation, “the contradiction now lies bare before us.”
“(Spatial dimensions, temporal flow, causal necessity—all participate in this conceptual transformation.”
“Their explication awaits later arrangement for rhetorical convenience—patience shall yield understanding.)”

“Why has such a contradiction arisen? Upon earnest consideration, there exists nothing at all; yet through conventional perception, the universe teems so chaotically with myriad phenomena that even exhaustive purging could not sweep them clean. Though no Mr. Tobari myself, I find compelled to declare ‘Heaven and earth spread before me; here rustles the bamboo-laden breeze.’ — Why has such a contradiction arisen? This constitutes a matter of profound significance. Should I embark upon laboriously intricate explications, considerable time would doubtless be required. As necessity compels me to address only the crudest facets within this severely constrained duration, I anticipate stern rebuke from any eminent philosophers present regarding inevitable incompleteness. However, given my attempt to resolve such grandiose quandaries within brief temporal confines — while acknowledging imperfection as unavoidable — I would entreat you to commend the boldness of this endeavor as admirable. Though time might be granted without limit, even if commanded to orate more splendidly, my methods would likely prove unequal to the task.” “Well then — this suffices perfectly.”

“As for why such contradictions arise—they could be dismissed with a single breath of explanation.”
“As previously stated, our lives—though I recognize ‘we’ risks establishing self-other distinctions, yet employ it provisionally—our lives consist in consciousness’s continuity.”
“And somehow we show no desire to sever this continuity.”
“To phrase it differently: we do not wish to die.”
“Or stated another way: we take profound delight in perpetuating this continuity.”
“As for why we prefer this—it defies explanation.”
“No one who appears can explain it.”
“We have no choice but to accept this as fact.”
“Naturally, evolutionists might claim this desire developed through gradual habituation—perhaps outlining some developmental sequence.”
“One could argue that those lacking such tendencies—who failed to adapt accordingly—perished utterly, leaving only life-craving gluttons like ourselves.”
“Thus it may be that base creatures like us—excessively attached to life, unbeautiful and irresolute—persist in thriving through such means.”
“This at least constitutes partial explanation.”
“Yet attempting to trace this tendency’s ultimate cause proves futile.”
“We find ourselves positing Zen-like koans—‘All phenomena return to One; but where does this One return?’”
“Schopenhauer expressed this tendency through his phrase ‘blind impulsive will to live.’”
“A most convenient formulation indeed.”
“I too would borrow it momentarily—but having declared nothing exists beyond consciousness’s continuity, I cannot justify erecting such grotesque constructs beside it.”
“Thus reluctantly I abandon this course, deeming the tendency merely one attribute within consciousness’s content.”
“We must therefore recognize ‘this tendency’ as a concept released through abstraction’s maturation.”
“In any case, we must accept as fact only that ‘we seek consciousness’s continuity.’”
“More clearly stated: we must decisively declare ‘consciousness possesses continuous tendency’ and accept this as fundamental truth.”

When we speak of consciousness, continuity, or continuous tendency, these naturally encompass both the differentiation and unification of consciousness. Since we speak of continuity, one must be aware of the fact that A and B have continued—which necessitates that both instances of consciousness be sufficiently distinct for A and B to be differentiated. The fact that differentiation occurs is equivalent in meaning to being able to unify identical or similar instances of consciousness at the same time. To give an analogy: the consciousness we label as visual—through differentiation becoming distinct from tactile or gustatory senses—is a language that could only form once we became able to simultaneously unify all visual consciousness. When consciousness developed this degree of differentiation and someone linked these differentiated states to the apparatus called the eyeball, they arrived at the notion that this type of consciousness was governed by the eyeball. If we temporarily conflate visual consciousness with ocular function and speak accordingly, in ancient times before differentiation occurred, visual perception had not necessarily been concentrated in the eyeballs. In the distant past, I too might have seen things with my entire body—or perhaps licked them with my back. I think that the specialization of eyes, ears, nose, and tongue into distinct functions began only quite recently. Once this division of labor occurred, flexibility was lost. Just because one developed tongue cancer didn’t mean they could start eating with their heels, nor could one begin conducting business through their navel simply because they’d unfortunately contracted a skin disease. This was exceedingly inconvenient.

However, if we are to speak of the continuity of consciousness—or rather, once the significance of continuity becomes clear—then the content of consciousness that forms this continuity must necessarily be clear.
Unclear consciousness cannot be determined as continuous or discontinuous.
In other words, this runs counter to our fundamental tendency.
No—it runs counter to the fundamental tendency of consciousness itself.
The differentiation and unification of consciousness naturally develop from this fundamental tendency.
It is nearly impossible to imagine how far differentiation and unification will progress henceforth.
And it is impossible to tell just how complex the sensory faculties corresponding to this will become.
In our present day, I believe things invisible to the eye, untouchable by hand—or those transcending the five senses—are gradually taking the stage of consciousness; thus I think it best to wait patiently for now.

"Let me repeat once again: 'the continuity of consciousness.' If we break down this phrase, it becomes the characters for 'consciousness' and 'continuity.' In this manner, the problem divides into two aspects—the nature of consciousness's content and the nature of continuity's sequence—and is thereby formulated. Combining these, the problem ultimately reduces to determining what content of consciousness should be continued in what sequence. When we encounter this problem—and we are certain to encounter this problem—within the very act of acknowledging consciousness and its continuity as fact lies already contained this problem. And within the reverse side of this problem lies contained the concept of selection. Unless there exists a certain degree of freedom—and if there is no room for some selection—this problem could not possibly arise. The reason this problem arises is because it can be resolved beyond a basic level. This standard of resolution is what we call the ideal. To summarize this concisely: we possess a tendency to want to live. (Though it might be clearer to state that consciousness has a continuous tendency,) selection arises from this very tendency. From this selection emerges the ideal. Thus, the tendency that until now merely required living develops further, and we come to desire a life possessing special significance. That is to say: In what order should we arrange the continuity of consciousness? What content of consciousness should we select? The ideal gradually develops through these two aspects. The ideal of the literary figure I will discuss later also emerges from here."

Now, if we once again examine the literal meaning of "continuity"—as I have previously stated—the consciousness that continues must be sufficiently clear to allow us to distinguish between instances while recognizing their continuity, as if thinking "Ah, this continues!" And so, if we consider that consciousness clear enough to allow such distinctions undergoes renewal, there must necessarily be an order where A departs and B arrives. If there is an order, it does not mean that both A and B are perceived together. Since we become aware of B after A has departed, it follows that when we are conscious of B, A is already absent from our awareness. Nevertheless, if one can distinguish between A and B, then beneath the clear consciousness of B—whether relatively unclear or not—we must assume that consciousness A still exists. In common terms, this unclear consciousness is what we refer to as memory. Therefore, the highest degree of memory is the most clear upper layer of consciousness, while its lowest degree is nothing more than the most unclear lower layer of consciousness.

Thus did consciousness' continuity necessarily contain memory; speaking of memory inevitably brought time into consideration.
Time became something one could only properly discuss when faced with substantial conscious continuity—it held no independent existence beyond this relationship.
This relationship existed between instances of consciousness itself; only through consciousness did such relationships manifest.
To isolate this relationship from consciousness might serve as convenient abstraction; we could never regard it as independently existent.
The act resembled extracting whiteness from this water jar here while asserting whiteness exists apart from material.
At first glance time seemed an eternal current where events developed—yet this merely reflected how differentiation/unification forces had progressed enough for us to abstract time into convenient existence.
"I liken such arguments," he continued through measured cadence reserved for paradoxes long contemplated yet never fully resolved before students' upturned faces,
"to extracting perfume from roses then claiming roses dwell within perfume."
"In my considered view," came deliberate qualification,
"we more properly say perfume resides within rose."
"Though let me warn"—here lips twitched beneath trimmed moustache—
"these matters of time and space prove thorny indeed; philosophers make them contentious."
A beat.
"Best believe me till lecture's end,
then let disbelief bloom homeward-bound."

Next came what we now term the continuity of consciousness—that is to say, instances where A departs and B arrives.
First we become aware of A, then of B.
Reversing this order, we might instead become conscious of B before shifting to A.
Even when extending or compressing the duration spent perceiving these two elements, the fundamental relationship between them remained unchanged.
Thus it became evident that this relationship maintained a fixed nature relatively independent of temporal constraints.
At this realization, we understood this could not be reduced to temporal relations and accordingly named it spatial relations.
Therefore this too constituted a type of relationship existing between two consciousnesses—space itself could not exist independently of conscious perception.
The notion of self-existing space emerged solely from recognizing developed abstractions and mistaking them for reality.
Grammar codifies into rules the mutual relationships governing word arrangement, yet children imagine grammar precedes writing itself.
Since grammar merely indicates relationships between words already present in writing—just as we rightly say grammar resides within writing—I maintain space's conceptualization similarly dwells within two concrete consciousnesses.
When we abstract this for convenience and arbitrarily cast vast space outward, one feels objects scattered sparsely across boundless emptiness.
Admittedly, spatial theory proves rather formidable—Newton reportedly argued space exists objectively while Kant called it intuition—so my assertions hold little scholarly weight.
"Though you needn't take them seriously," I added, "they cause no harm existing firmly in my own convictions."
"Were personal belief sufficient," I concluded wryly, "I'd spare you this exposition—yet bound by your lecture request's causality, I must persist lest we never reach literary discourse."

Now as a result of abstraction—when we granted objective existence to time and space—to render them meaningful we manufactured numbers and devised expedient methods to measure these two.
In this world something as insubstantial and vacuous as mere numbers had never existed.
Nor did they exist even then.
What we call numbers were symbols that measured continuous relationships before and after with utmost simplicity—independent of consciousness’s content—and creating such formless symbols must have required considerable effort.

Next, within the continuity of consciousness, there exist instances where two or more elements emerge connected always in the same order. After A departs, B invariably appears. It always appears without exception. There exists not the slightest variation in their sequence. Thus do we not only bestow upon this relationship the name of causality but proceed to isolate it entirely and fabricate what we call the law of causality. The term 'fabrication' may strike one as peculiar, yet since it creates what has no true existence, fabrication it remains indeed. Causality unmoored from conscious phenomena constitutes empty causality. The law of causality and such notions prove utterly hollow—mere conveniences of assumption. To speak unaware of this of being governed by cosmic laws... resembles nothing so much as crafting a paper-mâché tiger with one's own hands then trembling before it. This so-called law of causality serves merely as an index displaying how matters have stood until now; convenient though it be, to imagine no continuity transcending this law could emerge hereafter marks the pinnacle of folly. Hence those who truly comprehend find no mystery whatsoever in what ordinary folk deem wondrous. For they understand countless causal relations beyond those presently known must surely exist. Their stance differs somewhat from those who presume a clanging bell must invariably signal mealtime.

At this juncture, I shall summarize what has been discussed in the preceding sections before moving forward.

(1) We are governed by this ceaseless urge to live.
From consciousness's perspective, consciousness inherently possesses a continuous tendency.
(2) This tendency engenders selection.
(3) Selection gestates ideals.
(4) Next, through realizing these ideals, consciousness assumes a distinct continuous orientation.
(5) Consequently, consciousness differentiates itself, gains clarity, and achieves unification.
(6) It unifies fixed relationships and confers objective existence upon time.
(7) It unifies fixed relationships and confers objective existence upon space.
(8) To render time and space meaningful, we abstract numbers and put them to use.
(9) We unify fixed continuities occurring within time, affix them with the name causality, and abstract the law of causality.

This was roughly the gist of it.
Thus did space, time, and the law of causality reveal themselves as mere conveniences—assumptions possessing no true existence.
This constitutes my assertion.
Should you declare otherwise, let it be so.
The matter rests at your discretion.
In any event, I wished to maintain this premise for today's purposes alone.
Without such pretense, our discourse could not advance.
As for why we tolerate such gratuitous assumptions—this exposes humanity's vulgar pragmatism, our singular fixation on survival above all else.
So long as breath remains, we become creatures who'll spew any falsehood, commit any error without compunction—wretched beings who promptly fabricate spatial constructs the moment life grows inconvenient without them.
When recognizing temporal lack would prove troublesome—"Very well," we declare, "let us manufacture time"—and straightway bring time into being.
Thus do all abstractions and assumptions emerge as lies born of direst necessity—when backs must be sacrificed for bellies' sake.
Yet from such falsehoods springs truth itself.
The efficacy of this deception manifests clearly in our decadent age—through years of practiced duplicity reaching such refinement that I now mistake these lies for truth, you accept them as reality, none questioning or doubting, all openly exulting in this collective delusion.
As the proverb teaches—"Poverty dulls wit" and "Want breeds excess"—when harried by life's hardships, all descend into such degradation.
In essence, being falsehoods calculated from worldly interests, they hold no more substance than courtesans' tears shed on New Year's Eve.
"But why?" you might inquire. Consider this:
“Were we not to believe in time's existence—lacking numbers to measure it—one might pledge a Saturday lecture yet appear on Sunday.”
“Mutual inconvenience would ensue.”
“Without spatial recognition or numerical measurement, we could neither evade streetcars nor descend staircases—colliding with police boxes and treading on canine tails with most disagreeable consequences.”
“The commonly accepted law of causality follows precisely this pattern.”

“Therefore, if we do not grant all these things their right to exist, our very existence would be imperiled.”
“If our very existence is imperiled, we must do any unreasonable thing.”
“Those who insist there can be no such lawlessness will only meet their demise.”
“Therefore, if you understand that all humans currently thriving are dishonest people, and that the honest folks perished long ago—having been struck by trains, fallen into rivers, or apprehended by police—there would be no great error.”

Once space was established and time was formed, dividing consciousness into self and objects became an easy matter.
It was no mere trifle of ease.
In truth, it was as if we had erected this hall of space and time to neatly distinguish and arrange self and objects.
No sooner had the hall been completed than we, lying in wait, began seizing consciousness and hurling it—seizing and hurling with the vigor of a millet cake vendor tearing mochi and tossing it into roasted soybean flour.
If this kinako powder was time, then the mochi became past mochi, present mochi, and future mochi.
If this kinako powder was space, then the mochi became distant mochi, nearby mochi, the mochi here, and the mochi over there.
“Even now, about 150 of you are lined up before me.”
“This—if you’ll pardon my saying so—is something I cast there for convenience’s sake.”
“Since today space had already been established, and since not using this hard-wrought fabrication—even if it’s a lie—would be letting treasure go to waste, when I flung them out as circumstances demanded, over a hundred people ended up neatly lined up there, which proved most convenient.”
“To speak of ‘throwing’ might sound impolite, but since I don’t regard you as millet cakes, I don’t think it constituted any major offense.”

When this radiation effect combined with the previously mentioned differentiation effect, we ceased to leave things external to ourselves merely as such and instead assigned them various names to distinguish them from one another.
For example, we classified them into sensory things and extrasensory things (by which I meant entities of unclear true nature like ghosts or gods—whether they existed or not, I could not say).
We further distinguished these sensory elements into colors and shapes perceived by the eyes, sounds and resonances heard by the ears, scents smelled by the nose, and tastes discerned by the tongue.
These thus distinguished elements we proceeded to gradually divide into ever finer parts.
As the differentiation effect operated and the senses became more acute, these distinctions grew increasingly refined.
Not only that, but because a unifying effect worked uniformly, on one hand they became grasses, trees, animals, and humans—and not only that.
Grasses became violets, dandelions, and primroses; trees became plums, peaches, pines, and cypresses; animals became cows, horses, monkeys, and dogs; humans branched into samurai, farmers, artisans, merchants—or old and young, men and women; noble and base; elder and child; wise and foolish; righteous and wicked—dividing endlessly.
Even today, I thought the varieties of grasses and flowers that botanists could distinguish likely amounted to several hundred times our own.
Moreover, the color shades that painters like you could discern likely numbered dozens of times those perceived by ordinary people—though it was hard to say exactly.
If we asked why this occurred and traced it back to its origin, it ultimately amounted to nothing more than this differentiation having been prompted by the single-minded desire to live effectively.
This meant none other than expanding the scope of consciousness beforehand to freely obtain a certain continuity of consciousness (to provide as much leeway as possible within the area of selection).
To us, every blade of grass appeared uniformly green.
Even if we wished to perceive various shades within blue, regrettably, since the differentiation effect had not yet reached that level, it all proved futile.
At the very least, this resulted in our being unable to lead lives rich in varied and complex color experiences.
We were but blind, hairy creatures.
I found this a rather pitiable state of affairs.
As a certain critic had noted, where we perceived but a single color, Titian discerned fifty.
This was not merely because painters found it useful.
It meant that as human beings, we could achieve a relatively flexible way of life.
The more materials of consciousness one had, the greater the freedom in selection became, making it easier to execute a certain continuity of consciousness—that is, to stand in a position where one could more readily realize one's own ideals—and thus such a person had to be called what we referred to as a flexible individual.

It was not merely color.
For instance, the inner lives led by those deficient in thought proved just as pitiable—indeed wretchedly so—as our own limited perception of hues.
However free from financial want they might be, however elevated their social standing or lineage, their stream of consciousness remained monotonous and commonplace, utterly devoid of ideals—incapable even of distinguishing between noble and base, refined and vulgar, right and wrong, straight and crooked—they lived lives as formless and indistinct as amoebae.
Such folk, upon merely glimpsing another human being, would presume all alike and act accordingly.
Should one remark that this derived from their muddled minds, they would instead heap scorn or abuse upon us—a most vexatious outcome—though this digression lies beyond our present purpose.
The foot of my discourse had slipped momentarily into a muddy ditch.
Clambering out at once, it now proceeds straight onward.

We, as I had just stated, radiated objects relative to the self into space and proceeded to meticulously distinguish them through differentiation.
Simultaneously, we developed this same differentiation effect upon ourselves, distinguishing between body and mind.
We divided these mental functions into three categories: intellect, emotion, and will.
Then we split this intellect, split this emotion, and proceeded to further distinguish them in various ways according to the characteristics of their functions.
This field was primarily the specialty of those called psychologists, so inquiring with these individuals would yield the clearest understanding.
However, what psychologists did had the drawback of decomposing mental functions and abstracting them away.
The classification of intellect, emotion, and will might have been apt, but these three functions did not each operate independently without interacting with one another.
Mental functions, no matter how deeply we delved into their minute details, when viewed as a whole, often still contained these three elements: intellect, emotion, and will.
Therefore, making such clear-cut distinctions between these three functions was entirely an abstraction for convenience.
Without employing this method of abstraction, yet depicting and presenting to others the minute workings of the mind (as a whole) resulting from extreme differentiation—this was primarily what literary scholars did.
Therefore, as this differentiation developed, the work of literary scholars also gradually made conscious what had been vague and proceeded to meticulously distinguish what had been made conscious.
For example, when one looked at works like The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter or The Chronicle of Great Peace from olden times, various people appeared, but they all seemed like the same.
Even when one examined Saikaku and others, it remained so.
In other words, to authors of that sort, people must have generally appeared indistinctly.
In today's age of advanced differentiation, our view of humanity could not remain so undiscriminating.
Unless they made subtle, fine distinctions regarding their mental functions and possessed the skill to meticulously depict these divided aspects, they would not keep pace with the times.
Those lacking such discernment attempting to depict humans was akin to a colorblind person resolving to paint—it would never succeed.
For you who specialize in painting—to put it from your perspective—just as one could not fully express colors according to ideal standards in this age of developed visual perception without possessing visual acuity sufficient to distinguish between the whiteness of blank paper and the whiteness of a tablecloth when producing the same white hue, so too in significance—even among literary scholars, unless one possessed perceptive insight capable of discerning subtle distinctions between men of identical nature, similar inclinations, comparable circumstances, and equivalent age, in this era of advanced human observation skills, it could not be said that they had depicted character.
Therefore, literary scholars who depicted humans must not merely be literary scholars—they needed to be people with highly developed discernment of human nature.
In this advanced age, none but a man possessing the most advanced discernment—not specifically as a literary scholar, but as a human being with considerable skill in this domain—should have dared attempt it.

The world did not share this view.
"What kind of novelist"—they thought of novelists as mere joiners or paperhangers, people who simply licked their brushes to make a living.
They considered university professors far superior to novelists.
They deemed the Home Ministry's regional bureau chiefs even more superior.
Ministers, wealthy individuals, and the esteemed nobility—these they regarded as superior still.
It was a strange thing.
Had we been taught by novelists some new truth about human nature, I believed we would have had to acknowledge that along our path of differentiation—prompted by these writers' efforts—a thicket of thorns obstructing civilization's progress had been cleared for us.
(This did not mean novelists' capabilities were confined to this single aspect.)
(Even considering just this point, I maintained they were no less worthy than directors or doctors.) Should you protest that no such novelist existed in present-day Japan, I would reply thus:
"That is no inherent flaw of novelists."
"It lies with us—present-day Japanese novelists myself included, if you would permit the association."
Just as directors had their shortcomings and doctors theirs, we novelists too must admit our shared failings."—My speech had slipped into the mud ditch once more.

In truth,I had not yet advanced this lecture far enough to discuss literature.In discussing differentiation my tongue slipped and I ended up touching upon the discernment of literary scholars—novelists in particular—it must be acknowledged.Therefore it could not be said that this fulfilled the entirety of their mission.As I mentioned before since it was opportune I had merely cited one aspect of their mission in line with differentiation.Therefore when discussing literature in its entirety I now had to present it in a somewhat more generalized manner.I would now gradually proceed to reach that point.

Through this differentiation, we divide objects and self—dividing objects into nature, humans (when viewed as objects), and supersensory God (as we say when recognizing divine existence apart from self)—while dividing self into three: intellect, emotion, and will. When we connect these three functions of the self with things external to the self, three distinct cases emerge. Namely: those who exercise intellect toward objects; those who exercise emotion toward objects; and those who exercise will toward objects. Of course, since these three functions are not originally independent, when we speak of exercising intellect here or emotion there or will elsewhere, it primarily means emphasizing their activation—not that we intend to completely exclude other functions and exercise only those particular ones. Therefore, among these categories, those who exercise intellect are people who clarify relationships between things and are commonly called philosophers or scientists. Those who exercise emotion are people who savor relationships between things and are commonly termed literary scholars or artists. Lastly, those who exercise will are people who reform relationships between things and are commonly designated as soldiers, politicians, tofu makers, or carpenters.

When the content of consciousness became differentiated in this manner, the continuities of content also became diverse in variety; consequently, the scope of choice regarding the ideal I had mentioned earlier—that is, the question of what continuities of consciousness one should use to constitute one's own life—became considerably freer.
Someone aspired to survive by obtaining a continuity of consciousness that exercised relatively only intellectual functions and ultimately became a scholar.
Yet another person, from the ideal of desiring to make the content of their life through a continuity of consciousness that relatively exercised emotion, ultimately ended up becoming a literary person, painter, musician, or such.
Yet others, as a result of desiring a continuity of consciousness that could exercise will more abundantly, became farmers or cart pullers—though these may have been few—while there were likely quite a few who joined the military, embarked on adventures, or plotted revolutions.

Having thus divided human ideals into three major categories, when we inquire what ideal belongs to us—that is, to myself who has the honor of lecturing here today, and to you who are kindly listening to this lecture—it undeniably falls under the second category.
It is not that we wish to live exercising emotion while suppressing intellect and will, but rather that our ideal consists in refusing to live divorced from emotion.
Yet simply declaring "emotion as our ideal" fails to bring mutual comprehension.
To achieve that shared understanding where we both nod in assent, I must now dissect in finer detail what precisely we mean by "taking emotion as our ideal," breaking it into its constituent parts.

I had stated that those who exercise emotion savor relationships between things. Those who savor such relationships must clarify them, and since reforming these relationships is sometimes necessary to draw out their essence, emotional practitioners must inherently possess both intellect and will—it naturally follows that literary artists are simultaneously philosophers and practical creators. However, those devoted solely to clarification may abstract relationships beyond savoring capacity to facilitate analysis. When three apples exist, they might deem it sufficient to clarify the numerical relationship of three, forgetting the essential apples themselves while fixating on the number alone. Though literary artists too must clarify relationships, their purpose differs—they clarify not for abstraction's sake, but to savor these relationships more fully than before. However thorough the clarification becomes, rendering relationships unsavory through over-analysis negates all purpose. Thus while understanding numerical relationships proves useful, forgetting the actual apples remains unthinkable for literary artists. The same principle applies when exercising will—their aim lies not in reforming relationships per se, but in better enabling emotional engagement through such reforms. To renew relationships counterproductively to emotional activity would be anathema to literary artists. One might place stones beside pines aesthetically, but felling pines for bathhouse fuel requires dire poverty—reducing nurtured pines to smoke leaves no room for emotional operation. Thus emerges clearer understanding of "literary artists savor relationships between things": relationships remain savorable only through concrete preservation—the moment intellect and will destroy concreteness, literary artists lose their savoring capacity. Therefore, we engage emotion through concrete fidelity while exercising intellect and will only within concreteness-preserving bounds—this forms our foundational principle.

Thus followed that literary artists' ideal could not possibly take form divorced from sensory elements.
(To expound this thoroughly would invite numerous queries—time constraints forbid such digression.)
(You might concede this proposition holds firm foundation in its general principles.) Consider plain truth: even depicting an odorless formless deity demands borrowing sensory trappings for literary or pictorial representation.
Hence why Old Testament's God and Hellenic gods alike possess voices forms or other perceptible attributes.
Therefore we might properly state our ideal as literary artists lies in expressing particular emotions through sensory media.
This raises two problems.
First: what constitutes sensory elements? Second: how does so-called emotion manifest—through which aspects of these elements? Does "through sensory means" imply using them as tools for emotional expression? Or do sensory elements themselves become vessels bearing emotion?
Interpreting these questions reveals patterns in how literary ideals differentiate.
Though not addressing them sequentially I'll number points for clarity's sake.

(1) I previously stated that from the very establishment of space and time, we create two worlds: that of objects and that of self.
I stated that these objects are nature, humans, and God (when viewed merely as objects) should He exist apart from ourselves.
Among these, since God is not a sensory being, He does not pose a problem.
If God were to appear in literature, He would manifest through something sensory; therefore, even should He appear, He would fall into the same category as others, rendering separate consideration unnecessary.
Thus what remains are nature and human beings.
And thus we harbor a form of emotion toward both nature and these humans.
To rephrase: we possess taste—that is to say, preferences; that is to say, emotion—toward all sensory elements—the hues of sensory nature and sensory humans themselves; arrangements of lines; scales; proportions; textures' softness or firmness; light's reflective qualities; and the sounds they produce.
Therefore we can savor relationships between these sensory things.
Moreover, we come to desire consciousness of the most excellent relationships among them.
As one method to realize this ideal we wish to apprehend, poetry emerges; painting takes form.
We name the most pronounced emotion toward this ideal 'aesthetic sentiment.'
(Truthfully, various ideals beyond the aesthetic naturally arise.)
One might designate one type of relationship as 'dramatic' and another as 'unconventional,' thereby creating what we might term dramatic sentiment and unconventional sentiment without contradiction.
As differentiation progresses, this outcome becomes inevitable.
Thanks to what Westerners have propagated—their notions of beauty and aesthetics—we find ourselves profoundly encumbered) Thus those who seek to realize aesthetic ideals through natural relationships become specialized landscape painters, or Chinese poets who versify celestial scenery, or Japanese haiku masters of that ilk.
Furthermore, those attempting to realize this aesthetic ideal through human relationships give rise to poets fond of composing odes to beauties, or painters adept at capturing their forms.
The nude paintings causing such clamor in both West and East today represent artists laboring their entire lives toward this narrow aspect of ideal.
While technically demanding perhaps, as literary artists' ideal it constitutes but a sliver.
Some go about boasting that merely painting nudes achieves painting's ultimate purpose.
Being no expert in painting myself, I cannot speak definitively—but might this not result from modern French tendencies drifting eastward?

“Anyway—whether painting, poetry, or literature—it matters not.”
Given that humans viewed as sensory beings were but one fragment among all sensory phenomena—and having established that aesthetic sentiment itself constituted merely one facet of our emotional responses toward these sensorily perceived humans—nude beauty might indeed command reverence yet remained undeniably narrow in scope.

Whether aesthetic grandeur or dramatic abruptness or unconventional elegance—all represented modes through which we savored interrelations between entities; since literary artists’ ideals dictated their selection among these modes—once differentiation propagated these ideals through proliferation—their potential fragmentation defied prediction.
Yet however extensively they fragmented—these very ideals emerged solely from relationships perceived when engaging sensory phenomena _as_ sensory phenomena—unadulterated by abstraction’s distortions—
That is—the sentiments arising here manifested when we regarded sensory objects as ends-in-themselves; these must never conflate with emotions evoked through instrumentalizing such objects—employing them as mere conduits toward non-sensory realms beyond.

(2) I believe that by now, the ideals and sentiments concerning objects within the duality of objects and self have become roughly clear.

Now that it was my turn, I proceeded to offer a brief explanation of this aspect.

(i) As I had previously stated regarding the division of our conscious functions into intellect, emotion, and will, those who primarily employ intellectual activity to clarify relationships between things are what we call philosophers or scientists.
While this undoubtedly falls within philosophy and science's domain from the perspective of clarifying relationships, I posited that if a certain emotion arises through this clarification process, then at the point of emotional emergence—despite its intellectual basis—we must recognize it as possessing literary quality.
However, to achieve emotional satisfaction through intellectual exercise as previously explained, one must not abstractly present mere relational frameworks divorced from sensory elements.
To rephrase this—for intellectual activity to function literarily requires borrowing concrete sensory matter; through this mediation, even cognitive processes become susceptible to literary transformation.
Thus emerges a new literary ideal.
Namely, the ideal of employing objects as tools to exercise intellect, clarify their relationships, and thereby attain emotional satisfaction.
This we called the ideal of truth.
Therefore, the truth ideal becomes shared territory for both philosophers/scientists and literary artists.
The sole distinction lies in the latter being constrained by the requirement to express truth through concrete mediation.
While methods of truth expression—the particular modes of intellectual engagement—differentiate into various forms through specialization, they primarily manifest when human mental processes (herein not treating humans as purely sensory objects as in section [1]) either align with our anticipated causality laws or develop through new differentiations applied to these laws.
For instance, consider a father and son embroiled in heated debate when suddenly fire engulfs their smoke-filled home.
Depicting how these quarreling relatives abruptly abandon conflict to mutually assist their escape through the gate—
The writer naturally accepts this progression while readers instinctively recognize its plausibility.
Herein lies the novel's power—through clarifying relational dynamics between parent and child of specific social standing, it activates both creator's and audience's intellects, allowing them to attain emotional satisfaction regarding truth.
Conversely, portraying a devoted couple who during famine forget marital affection—the husband seizing his wife's portion of gruel—
This too might provide comparable satisfaction by illuminating spousal relations under particular circumstantial pressures.
(From human mental functions' perspective, truth manifests diversely.
Even conflicting truths may coexist.) Those literary artists who deliberately craft such paradoxical truths we designate as truth-idealizing practitioners.

(ro) The second mental function we possess is emotion.
As I have previously stated—that those who employ emotion as their ideal are what we call literary artists—the explanation up to this point tends to create confusion; therefore I shall offer some clarification before proceeding.
The term 'emotion' alone proves ambiguous.
This stems from the necessity to distinguish between two emotional aspects: that which we employ when creating or appreciating literary works to obtain emotional activity, and that which serves as material within said works.
When viewing sensory objects qua sensory objects, we evoke an emotion—this very emotion constitutes one ideal of literary artists.
We similarly evoke emotion when exercising intellect through sensory objects.
This emotion too forms another ideal of literary artists.
Furthermore, when exercising emotion itself through sensory objects, we must obtain yet another variety of emotion.
Even should these two emotions coincide in content—though at times they may differ—treating them as identical entities would engender confusion in our discourse.
For instance: expressing anger through a sensory object may elicit anger of identical nature in recipients (though differing emotions may also arise), yet these remain distinct phenomena.
The former anger operates as cause; the latter manifests as effect.
To rephrase with clarity: The initial anger adheres to sensory objects.
(Even granting its origin lies in projecting our inherent capacity for anger beyond ourselves,) The subsequent anger arises within this self-referential 'I'.
Therefore—to forestall confusion—we shall distinguish these two before advancing.
However, this reasoning fundamentally aligns with case (i): our affection for intellectual activity and its emotional resonance.
The joys and sorrows coursing through our minds not only form consciousness' greater part but also profoundly stir our emotions when objectively manifested through entities we term 'things'—most often human beings.
Yet such stimulation becomes appreciable only when emotions manifest through concrete means—particularly humans—under previously established conditions.
Though one may take interest in emotion qua emotion—abstracting it like psychologists into lifeless object—such treatment cannot attain literariness.
That said—precisely because emotion constitutes its own substance—it may retain form even when relatively abstracted compared to intellect or will; but lacking leisure for detailed exposition I shall omit this.

Thus, even within this type of ideal, differentiation leads to various forms, but first to state the standard: through things—or rather, since saying 'people' would be more understandable—let us say people.
Expressing love relationships through people—this had become what we call the ideal of novelists in nine cases out of ten.
When these love relationships undergo differentiation, they manifest in various forms.
They range from becoming mutually devoted spouses or suffering lovesickness—though such old-fashioned ideals rarely appear in recent novels—to more ironic variations: brides secretly longing for other men while married; couples who finally achieve their union only to begin quarreling the very next morning—various ideals (though calling them ideals seems rather absurd)—in any case, they take countless forms.
Next came loyalty, filial piety, chivalrous spirit, friendship—principal moral sentiments that along with their differentiated variations all became standards.
Those taking these moral sentiments as their standard could collectively be termed the ideal of goodness.
I would have wished to discuss this matter in greater detail, but owing to time constraints found myself compelled to proceed onward.

(wa) The third mental function is will.
For this will to manifest literarily, it must still be materialized through sensory things according to the previously stated conditions.
When this occurs, sensory things become tools through which the workings of will become clearly apparent.
Yet tools remain ultimately tools; their value arises precisely through will's manifestation.
Consider something like a sake bottle.
Though a sake bottle itself might possess fine ceramic qualities, if its bottom were missing and unable to hold sake, it could not circulate among cups and plates to earn its master's favor.
Suppose we attempt to depict a large cannonball flying through empty sky.
In observing this, there exist two approaches.
The first belongs to the purely sensory category previously discussed.
The second expresses tremendous violent force—for mere force cannot be captured—through these sensory elements.
Thus the cannonball becomes mere vehicle while its true purpose lies in manifesting fierce momentum.
Though natural and mechanical, this constitutes an act of will.
When people see those climbing Mount Fuji in winter, they call them fools.
Admittedly they are fools—but if some form of will manifests through these fools, we need not focus on their foolishness itself, only observe where will emerges into literariness.
Those fools who stake precious lives swimming straits or crossing deserts all sacrifice others to obtain consciousness-continuity that activates will.
Therefore we cannot definitively deny literary merit to such expressions when rendered artistically.
How much more so when will manifests aligned with moral ideals—for nation or Way or others—as discussed in section (ro), evoking extraordinarily noble sentiments.
This constitutes what we mean by making even cowards rise up.
In English we name this heroism.
The emotions we evoke toward heroism are truly of great magnitude indeed.

I gained a certain impression today upon seeing black smoke recklessly billowing up from the high chimney of the artillery factory as I came here.
When considered, soot and such were indeed vulgar things.
If you asked what was filthy in this world, there was hardly anything as disgusting as coal burning.
And when I considered that all that blackness consisted of exhalations from chimneys desperately crying "Money! Money!", it became even more disgusting.
Moreover, that smoke was bad for tuberculosis.—However, I put such matters out of mind and gained a certain impression.
That impression was nothing other than a part of the feeling that arose in response to the manifestation of will.
Even the smoke from the artillery factory evoked such impressions, so when it came to true heroism, I thought there must indeed have been a sublimely intense impression.
Among literary artists, those who took this type of emotion as their ideal were, I thought, nearly nonexistent in modern times.
It went without saying that there was differentiation even within this ideal.
Kusunoki at Minatogawa, who uttered his wish to be reborn seven times as a human to destroy the imperial enemies even as he perished in crossed spears, was one example.
The case of Zen Master Daitō—who, being lame and unable to achieve full lotus posture, upon his deathbed broke his unsatisfactory leg with a sickening crunch while declaring "Today it shall bend to my will!", then passed into nirvana seated in zazen without concern for the fresh blood staining his monk's robes—served as another example.
Differentiation could take various forms.
However, when speaking of its standard, I believed it would be appropriate to first call it the sentiment toward solemnity.

With this we had now roughly covered literary artists' types of ideals and their explanations.
To summarize:
1) Emotion directed toward sensory objects themselves.
(Its representative being aesthetic ideal)
2) Cases where three functions operate through sensory objects:
i) Intellect operates (representative: ideal toward truth)
ro) Emotion operates (representative: ideals toward love/morality)
ha) Will operates (representative: ideal toward solemnity)
I ought to discuss associative emotions blending with these four categories but shall omit this due to time constraints.

I finally divided the ideals of literary artists into these four types.
This classification differed somewhat from what I had outlined in my Theory of Literature, but as our points of departure differed, there was no helping it.
Moreover, since this classification method seemed clearer and more appropriate, even if the two differed, it would by no means prove detrimental to you all.
Now, as I had previously stated before you—though our mental functions of intellect, emotion, and will could be distinguished—they did not manifest in isolation once differentiated; moreover, in literature since all these functions manifested through sensory objects, the sentiments toward these four types of ideals also became mutually intermingled and did not appear in actual works with such clearly demarcated divisions.
Nevertheless there were four types of ideals that could not be reduced to fewer than four.
Moreover when one took up a certain distinct work and examined it one found that one of these four types most strikingly caught the eye.
Therefore we could state to some extent which ideal such a work belonged to.
And that these four types of ideals were undergoing shifts in their relative influence depending on era and individual stood as an undeniable fact.
In certain eras there arose a view that unless works satisfied demands for beauty they could not be deemed literary works.
Then in subsequent eras as ideals shifted people declared that while beauty might be set aside unless truth was absolutely expressed a work lacked qualification to bear literature’s name.
Moreover some asserted they had no desire to create or read works failing to satisfy moral sentiments.
Others went so far as to claim they could not truly savor certain elements in literature unless obtaining solemnity’s emotional quality accompanying will’s manifestation.
All these eras and all these people were entirely correct.
If someone existed who said any of the four types would do I would judge that person’s taste both broadest and most correct.
Which type prevailed in particular eras or found most favor with particular people posed quite an interesting problem; however lacking time I would omit this too.
I wished briefly to clarify: these four types being precisely four distinct categories—each possessing legitimate claims while constituting literary ideals—provided no grounds whereby Type A should subordinate Type B.
Were someone told to assign hierarchical scores based on importance among them I believed none would dare comply.
If such a person existed they equaled reckless teachers scoring papers unread—sheer unconscionable misconduct.
However since I was influenced by my times if one said I preferred works under certain ideals that sufficed.
If one said I as an individual chose what should fall under particular ideals that might be excused.

Since preferences cannot be reduced to logical reasoning, simply stating "I dislike this" or "I like that" would suffice—but people shamefully invent frivolous justifications where no rationale exists, making excuses like "I hate octopus because it's hard to digest." Yet if it were their favorite food, no matter how indigestible, they would silently resolve to devour all eight legs without complaint.

Therefore, these four types of ideals possess equal rights and constitute standards that must not encroach upon one another.
Thus stubbornly adhering solely to beauty's standard to evaluate truth's ideal resembles a hernia-inducing gambit in shogi.
It would be like judging appetites by early rising standards.
"You're a late riser," they might declare, "therefore you gorge indiscriminately"—but who would accept such judgment?
Should one measure fabric with a sake cup and bark "Bring it here!", none would obey.
Those peering at thermometers to gauge mountain heights might better measure their own indignation's fever.
Yet misguided criticism here means not denying truth's presence when viewing beauty.
They decry works as failures for lacking truth.
Truth may be absent; its absence matters not.
None demand we call the nonexistent existent.
But disregard actual beauty, and the work's lifeblood drains away.
"The head's a kettle but the beard gleams white"—fair enough—yet dismissed as "Unfit for discussion," that beard becomes collateral damage.
Unkei's Nio statues manifest will's activation.
Their physiques defy anatomical norms.
To damn them for lacking truth damns the critic instead.
Millet’s Angelus breathes ethereal emotion.
Notice this, and nothing more need be said.
Tolerate claims this painting lacks will's activation.
But declare it invalid thereby? Such critics peer through will's narrow tube like pond frogs surveying literature's ocean.

However, there was a crucial distinction between works that merely lacked other ideals when expressing one particular ideal and those that actively destroyed them in the process.
To lack was simply not to include, but to destroy meant clearly violating those ideals—thus in such cases, the ideal adopted as the writer's standard had to manifest in the work with such mastery that it made all others vanish from memory.
Yet even for geniuses, this proved extraordinarily difficult.
Consequently, in ordinary circumstances, merits and demerits canceled each other out until nothing remained but an empty husk.
No matter how refined Fujimura's yokan might be, placing it in a chamber pot rendered it somewhat unpalatable.
And regardless of whether it was indeed a chamber pot or not, anyone who devoured it voraciously must have possessed an exceptionally strong fondness for yokan.
A man might boast academic brilliance and excel as an instructor yet remain fundamentally unqualified due to dissolute habits.
Were it merely imperfect conduct, one might overlook it—but when he indulged in extravagant revelries, pocketed restaurant tabs exceeding two feet in length, and staggered into school premises reeking of debauchery, he naturally tarnished the institution's reputation.
Thus no matter how numerous its virtues might be, any work whose flaws undermined its merits—and whose merits lacked sufficient brilliance to make one overlook those flaws—invited criticism despite its promise.
"I particularly wish to say 'regrettable though it may be,'" I declared.
When I said 'regrettable,' it constituted criticism that fully acknowledged both strengths and weaknesses—a stance taken precisely because I refused to march in lockstep with those straw-hatted pedants who spent five or six years monotonously jabbing at their opponents' flanks.

“Therefore,” I proceeded to address modern literary ideals with measured fervor.
“What then constitutes modern literature’s ideal?”
“Beauty?”
“Not beauty.”
“While painting and sculpture may perhaps lack pure beauty—fields beyond my expertise that I leave to your discernment—in literature’s case,I definitively state it isn’t beauty.”
“Works making beauty their sole raison d’être likely exist only in brief verse.”
“Novels assuredly contain none.”
“Scripts go without saying.”
“Elaboration would prove tedious;with your indulgence,I’ll advance.”
“If modernity’s ideal isn’t beauty,could it be goodness?Or love?”
“Though such ideals undeniably weave through countless works as warp and weft,I deem them too insubstantial to bear modernity’s standard.”
“Then solemnity perhaps?”
“Were solemnity modernity’s lodestar,I might find solace,yet reality contradicts this.”
“No epoch starves more for heroism than ours;few literatures promote it less than contemporary writings.”
“That no modern tragedy evokes solemnity makes this plain.”
“Since modern literature’s ideal dwells neither in beauty,nor goodness,nor solemnity—it must reside solely in truth.”
“Examples would prolong us;evidences weary.”
“Thus constrained,I simply declare truth’s singular character as modernity’s literary ideal—particularly in letters—and let that suffice.”
“I request your provisional acceptance of this premise.”
Now this Truth too,differentiated into manifold forms and gradations,could doubtlessly have its principal variations catalogued through survey of English,French,German,and Russian works.

I have absolutely no intention of complaining about that.
As I stated earlier, Truth is one of four ideals; when this single Truth gains prominence while the other three ideals relatively decline, it must be considered an inevitable progression—much like how the decline of the gingko-leaf chignon and rise of the modern updo follow the tides of changing times.
However, what I wish to mention here for your reference concerns precisely this matter.

The act of human observation was such that as it deepened, it narrowed.
When considering what was narrow in this world, you must realize there was nothing as narrow as specialists.
The term "narrow" did not inherently carry a negative connotation, so one might argue there was no harm in it, but to call it "narrow" invited complications.
If a doctor became too engrossed in his narrow field of expertise that he could not escape it even in sleep or wakefulness, he might eventually devise something outrageous like poisoning his wife to experiment with the results.
The world was vast—to stretch a single cotton thread across this expansive world, walk upon it with utmost meticulousness without catching others' notice, and then take this to be the entirety of existence already constituted a pitiable state of affairs.
If it had been merely pitiable, it would have ended with the person themselves enduring it, but when things proceeded in this single-minded manner, it became a situation where others were greatly inconvenienced.
One could understand this even by walking through the streets.
No matter how much a police officer shouted "To the left! To the left!" in a voice as methodical as if his salary were divided into hourly increments to control them, he could not make all the people heading east, west, south, and north move in a straight line, in the same direction, at the same speed.
If people inhabiting this vast world walked at will in arbitrary directions, then when they met or were about to collide—barring any special reason—both parties had to yield the path to each other.
The four ideals all walked through life with equal rights.
They might walk as they pleased, but once it had been established that their rights were equal, when collisions seemed imminent, they had to mutually negotiate and reach a reasonable compromise.
To reach such a compromise, one could not proceed by being self-satisfied and walking one’s own path alone.
In other words, precisely because we had to recognize that those approaching from ahead and those coming from the side each had their own proper business and reasons, the world needed to be broad.
However, when it became narrow and deep like the doctor I had mentioned earlier, one could no longer do so.
This was what we called the extraction method—focusing one’s attention solely on areas of personal passion while discarding everything else as irrelevant.
It became a matter of setting them aside as irrelevant.
Other matters did not even enter their field of vision.
When this occurred, while it might have been most excellent for the individual themselves, it could become quite a hindrance to others—that is, those not advancing in the same direction.
If they had been aware that it became a hindrance, they might have made improvements; but if it arose from having such a narrow personal world that they failed to recognize the existence of people living outside this confined sphere, then there was nothing to be done.
I believed this might well have been the drawback of modern literature and arts' emphasis on truth.

No, I recognize that this transformation is indeed underway.

The consequence of esteeming Truth is that once arriving at Truth, it becomes acceptable to write anything whatsoever.
The outcome of expressing Truth—disregarding Beauty, ignoring Goodness, and neglecting Solemnity—may prove tolerable within limits. But when exceeding that boundary leads Truth to injure Beauty, mar Goodness, and crush Solemnity beneath its heel, while Truth faction adherents might celebrate with cheers, I cannot conceive that the Beauty, Goodness, and Solemnity factions would stand by quietly—fingers in mouths—holding their breath in meek assent.
To declare "Our aims differ—it cannot be helped" remains permissible only within confines that avoid imposing burdens upon others.
This clamoring of "The true world! The true world!"—conducted without even recognizing that weighty matters exist beyond their awareness—resembles streetcars clanging their bells proclaiming "An age of convenient transport! Convenient transport!" as they careen wildly down self-designated tracks.
For those tram devotees who act as though bodily movement depends entirely on streetcar use, this might suffice; but for those who walk, ride ordinary carriages, or employ bicycles, I consider it nothing less than supreme inconvenience.

However，literature and arts inherently contained some degree of extraction method in both their appreciation and creation．(Regarding this extraction method，as I have expressed my humble views in my theory of literature，I ask for your reference．)When taken to its extremes，strange phenomena occurred．For example，it was akin to how nude paintings were publicly exposed in broad daylight．From the perspective of general societal morals，nudity was an unsightly impropriety．Whatever Westerners might say，there was no doubt about it．“I guarantee it．”“However，to express the sensory beauty of the human body，one must resort to nudity—thus arises the necessity of braving this impropriety．”“The conflict resides precisely there．”“This conflict would only grow increasingly intense as civilization progressed and was certain to remain absolutely irreconcilable．”“To reconcile this，one must either change societal customs or abandon the sensory beauty of the body—but since both parties were stubborn and difficult to reconcile，they forcibly reached a settlement and created an absurd sort of agreement．”“That agreement was as follows．”“‘While one was struck by the sensory beauty of the body，one must forget the social impropriety of nudity，’was what it stated．”If one employed the difficult terminology used earlier to isolate this sense of impropriety，it ultimately concluded that nude paintings were indeed worthy of viewing．It was only after this agreement took effect that nude paintings could finally sustain their existence；it was not as if they were openly embraced by society at large，as certain artists and literary critics might believe．While trains were dangerous，because they proved convenient for transportation，by limiting them to specific routes and extracting this sense of danger under the condition that they would operate—this paralleled how Eastern Railway and Electric Railway maintained their existence．Nude paintings，Eastern Railway，and Electric Railway alike—all were such that if they acted too self-important，their very right to existence could be revoked．However，once this agreement of extraction was established，there was no issue．Truth indeed followed suit．As long as the condition of extraction was established—whereby one completely forgot all other ideals when faced with works that manifested Truth—then that sufficed．When I said “sufficient，”I did not mean it in the self-important sense of declaring something fully acceptable，but rather that its existence was permissible under certain conditions．

It may prove regrettable for our other ideals,* gentlemen,* but given my own predicament,* I contend that an attitude requesting your temporary forbearance would prove permissible.*
However,* to establish this condition,* emotions aroused by Truth must manifest with such intensity and mastery that they eclipse all other ideals.*
I question whether contemporary works have attained this caliber of achievement.*

Since our discussion had become rather abstract, I thought to present some of my views through concrete examples.
Let us suppose there exists a counterfeit mute.
When some suspicious matter arises, he is taken into police custody.
Realizing that answering the interrogation would be disadvantageous, he persists in feigning muteness.
The police officer, having no alternative, detains him as he is; by the next morning, the mute grows ravenously hungry.
At first, being mute, he endures in silence; but when he can no longer bear it and bellows "Give me food!"—what sort of tale would that make?
Whether it becomes an interesting novel is another question—regardless, it can express a kind of truth regarding a man in particular circumstances.
The appeal lies precisely there.
Yet with only this, there naturally exists no beauty, no goodness, nor any solemnity.
That is to say, it contains not a particle of ideals beyond Truth.
If you call that a flaw, I refuse to acknowledge it as such.
This merely means it contains no other ideals—it does not harm them in the slightest.
Therefore, one can only feel Truth's appeal and finish reading by extracting all other ideals.

Next, if one wrote such a thing, what would become of it? There was a beggar. While wandering from place to place, he arrived at a certain village one day when his stomach grew intensely hungry. Fortunately finding a quiet house where no one seemed present, he stole some bread and wine to satisfy his hunger fully. Then upon reaching the village outskirts—as he grew drowsy and began dozing off—a village woman happened to pass by. The beggar, his stomach full and the alcohol taking effect—temporarily free from other desires—suddenly acted on his animalistic urges upon seeing her. —This story was said to be among Maupassant’s works, though I had not read it myself. The person who recounted this tale to me persistently claimed its fascination. Indeed, I supposed it must have been quite interesting. However, what rendered it compelling likely lay in its unflinching portrayal of truth—how someone shifting circumstances acts accordingly. Yet this appeal differed from the prior mute story by not merely manifesting Truth. It destroyed other ideals. As long as readers remembered these shattered ideals at all, not only would the hard-won fascination be negated into uselessness—I believed such works would invite vehement criticism from those prioritizing other values. In such cases, an extraction agreement seemed improbable to form. Since no agreement could be established, it became more apt to declare such works impermissible to exist rather than lifeless. The more corrupt society grew and moral concepts weakened, the lower such ideals sank. Put plainly—as ordinary people’s ethical senses dulled—writers’ and critics’ ideals strayed elsewhere, leaving this domain neglected. Would they not ultimately adopt a mindset deeming goodness irrelevant so long as truth was expressed? If modern Japan constituted such a society there might be no remedy—but should Western society’s corruption tilt literary ideals solely toward Truth—then mindlessly importing these through Kobe and Yokohama represented reckless haste. I thought few nations historically rejoiced at importing pestilence seeds from abroad. When voicing such views I might have seemed extreme—yet examining foreign writings often revealed unpleasantness from our failed extraction method application—leaving no alternative.

Although it is not a modern work, Shakespeare’s Othello stands as one such example.
The development of events and characterization may well capture truth—having lectured on this work two or three times myself, I am thoroughly acquainted with those aspects.
Yet upon reading it through, one is left with an utterly disagreeable sensation.
No sense of tragic grandeur or noble intensity emerges; one merely experiences an odd oppression.
Were time permitting, I would dissect this impression with precision for your benefit; but as my thoughts remain insufficiently ordered for such analysis, I shall simply declare it an unpleasant composition.
It strikes me as peculiar that despite Shakespeare’s multitude of critics, none have hitherto remarked upon this matter.
Ultimately, I suspect they evaluate literary works using Truth alone as their standard.
When considering modern compositions, those afflicted by this defect appear too numerous to enumerate.
Hedda Gabler—a woman lacking nothing yet deceiving people, tormenting them, ridiculing them, committing cruel acts—this thoroughly unpleasant creature was crafted by the renowned Mr. Ibsen.
There existed a low-ranking clerk burdened with an excessively vain wife.
One day through certain connections he obtained an invitation to a ministerial soirée; expecting his wife’s delight at accompanying him, he was astonished when she adopted an obstinate manner—complaining about her kimono’s condition and hairpin’s appearance in childish protest.
Deeming this a rare opportunity, the husband strained his resources to fulfill her every demand.
Yet when asked if she would now attend with him, she maintained her rigid stance.
Finally she declared resolutely: “Unless adorned with diamonds or rubies—some jewels—I shan’t attend the soirée.”
Though driven to despair, the husband eventually contrived a scheme—discovering that a friend’s wife possessed such ornaments, he borrowed her precious diamond necklace for a single night through urgent arrangements.
However, overwhelmed by elation at the soirée, the wife danced and leapt and cavorted until she managed to dislodge that borrowed treasure somewhere.
The couple paled realizing they’d frolicked too vigorously; but since economizing future leaps wouldn’t restore diamonds, they reluctantly consulted together, incurred crushing debts, scoured Paris until procuring a necklace indistinguishable from the original, then returned it with feigned nonchalance—temporarily resolving the crisis.
Yet settling debts proved arduous.
Since even Paris observes customs of returning borrowed goods, this vain wife had no choice but to relent—personally entering kitchens to cook rice, wash dishes, develop chilblains, and subsist on potatoes until after years she cleared all debts—simultaneously acquiring a peculiar visage, misshapen hands, and shabby attire resembling a maid-turned-mistress.
The tale concludes with one final episode.

One day, when this wife went out as usual carrying a basket or such, intending to buy Western-style tofu or something, she suddenly encountered the woman from whom she had borrowed the diamond years prior.
The other woman remained a proper lady, while our side now resembled a model maid whose term had expired; though exchanging greetings must have seemed somewhat awkward, she gathered her resolve and ventured something like "Oh my, what a rare occurrence!"—only to find, as expected, that the other party had long since forgotten.
Though she maintained an air of one who should not approach a proper lady as a mere maid, without becoming dejected, she laid out every detail—how she had endured such hardships to repay her debt for the diamond, how those hardships had cursed her to remain in this state even now—whereupon the woman laughed and said, "That diamond was an imitation."
And that concludes it.
This is the aforementioned work by Mr. Maupassant.
The final line is grandly exaggerated and must surely be considered one of Mr. Maupassant’s specialties.
One might feel like applauding at how cleverly the truth of frivolous Parisian society is exposed here.
That is where the ideal of this work lies, and that is where its unpleasantness resides.
In this particular case, though the wife crushed her vanity and even descended to becoming a country-bred rustic woman, ultimately repaying debts disproportionate to her status after years of hardship—a commendable mindset and admirable conduct—if Mr. Maupassant possessed even a shred of moral sympathy, he should have at least allowed this wife’s noble spirit to shine through.
However, the wife’s painstaking efforts have not come to life at all.
To call it "active" might be an overstatement, but since she was implicitly deceived by others into performing foolish labor where none was required—despite having no need to work—the wife’s genuine diligence ends up receiving neither spiritual nor material reward from Mr. Maupassant or his readers.
Even if one wishes to express sympathy, because it is foolish, it cannot be expressed.
This is because the story has a final line where the author crafted an oddly contrived, frivolous twist.
Because of this single line, Mr. Maupassant has rendered readers of moral conscience throughout the world unable to express sympathy toward the appropriate subject.
While depicting virtuous deeds deserving of sympathy, this work prohibits the expression of that very sympathy.
No matter how deeply one may probe the truth, I cannot approve of harming the ideal of goodness in this manner.
I will give another example.
Now it is Mr. Zola’s turn.
An old man takes a much younger bride.
They got married, but for some reason, no child came between them.

Tormented by this concern, when the old man consulted a doctor, the physician—being obligated to answer any inquiry—replied with an odd suggestion: "Ah yes, if you go to the seaside and eat a certain type of shellfish, you should be able to have a child."
The old man, overjoyed, promptly set out for the Ōiso-like seaside of France with his wife in tow.
There resided a man perfectly matched with her in age and all other marital respects, who swiftly grew intimate with her.
The pair would leap into the sea daily and swim about together.
From his sandy vantage on the beach, the old man observed them from afar each day, privately marveling at the youths' vigor.
One day found all three strolling along the coast.
Being elderly, the old man avoided the rocky shore and walked atop an embankment instead.
The young ones strode briskly along the water's edge without restraint.
After progressing five or six blocks, they encountered a large coastal cave into which the couple ventured—whether by fortune or misfortune—just as the rising tide trapped them inside.
The old man remained perched above the cave, watching distant white sails as he awaited the tide's retreat to free them.
Finding this interminable, he suddenly recalled the doctor's shellfish prescription; munching steadily through his stockpile while waiting—devouring shell after shell—he had polished off a considerable quantity by their emergence.
With matters thus settled, upon returning home his wife immediately conceived from the shellfish's efficacy and bore a jewel-like child (of unspecified gender), bringing about this grand resolution that left the old man thoroughly gratified.
I cannot fathom Mr. Zola's intent in publishing this work, but I maintain it could only have been written through pursuing an ideal advancing one step beyond Mr. Maupassant in some regard.
When attending vaudevilles frequented by commoners, applause sometimes erupts at peculiar junctures—strange precisely because it comes where refined folk would grimace instead.
Were Mr. Zola to visit Japan and grace such stages himself, I've no doubt he'd draw packed houses nightly.

I do not presume to assert that all modern literature has succumbed to this harmful tendency, but I have no doubt that it manifests this inclination across various aspects.
Moreover, I believe we may characterize this tendency as a somewhat pathological phenomenon arising from an excessive fixation on the single character of 'truth.'
Gentlemen—when you observe detectives at work—you likely do not regard them as individuals worthy of serious consideration.
Even detectives return home to wives and children; they interact with their neighbors just like anyone else.
They are not mere animals devoid of moral sensibility.
On occasion, they might even browse hanging scrolls at night stalls or contemplate a bonsai tree with aesthetic appreciation.
Yet when detectives assume their professional duties, their eyes perceive nothing beyond factual excavation.
To speak of 'manifesting truth' would be an overly grandiose expression—it would not be inaccurate to say they pursue truth in its basest sense.
Observing them thus engaged reveals beings less than fully human.
They lack both moral compass and aesthetic discernment.
Solemn ideals are naturally absent.
No matter what beauty they witness or virtue they encounter—regardless how sublime the circumstance—they remain utterly insensible.
No person of sound mind would willingly become such a detective.
Detectives exist only because three-quarters of human ideals have atrophied entirely—the lowest remaining quarter now operates unchecked.
Such beings cannot function as proper humans.
As non-human instruments—mere tools—they prove useful in specific contexts.
Their utility explains why police departments employ them en masse—salaried and maintained like livestock.
But since their vocation inherently substitutes machinery for humanity—they must renounce human dignity while on duty—lest they disrespect ordinary people.
To compare modern literati to detectives constitutes profound discourtesy—yet any writer who proudly publishes works championing 'truth' alone while disregarding other ideals must—regardless of personal merit—be deemed deficient qua writer.
We must call this pathology.

(As I have previously stated, the four ideals should not encroach upon each other with equal rights.) It may prove difficult to satisfy all four equally. There will likely be instances where some infringement occurs. In such cases, the encroaching ideal must possess sufficiently remarkable qualities to make the encroached-upon ideal bearable. In this regard, Othello—which I earlier cited as an example—seems most readily defensible. (When we come to the examples of Zola and Maupassant, they strike one as almost as vulgar as detectives.)

As I had repeatedly stated, there were four types of ideals in literature, and as I had previously explained, these four types further diversified in various ways. Although these four types of ideals were those of literary artists, in a certain sense they were also the ideals of ordinary people; therefore, the literary artist who possessed the highest ideals across all four aspects was simultaneously the person who held both the loftiest and broadest ideals as a human being. It was only a person who possessed the broadest and highest ideals as a human being that could influence others; therefore, literature was not mere technique. The works of writers lacking in personality could only provide either commonplace ideals or content devoid of ideals; therefore, their power to exert influence was extremely weak. When one wielded a certain technique to manifest a great personality and showered it upon others’ heads, then—and only then—would the achievements of literature first blaze resplendently and shine through to future generations. To shine through did not mean that the author’s name was passed down or that they were clamored about by society. It meant that the writer’s great personality permeated the hearts of readers, viewers, or listeners, becoming their very flesh and blood, and was passed down to their descendants. Those who engaged in literary arts had to be transmitted to posterity in this sense; otherwise, it was not worth being transmitted. To have two or three lines written about oneself in a biographical dictionary was not what it meant to be transmitted. It was not oneself that was transmitted. Only the printed text was transmitted. It was only when the self was transmitted in its true meaning to one’s own generation and to posterity that we became aware that our engagement with literary arts was no idle pursuit. It was only then that one became conscious of the fact that the self was not an individual but a part of the collective spirit of society as a whole. It was only then that one came to realize literature’s profound connection to public morality and the human spirit. Since we had set out from the desire for life and sustained the ideal of differentiation to this day, those who realized this ideal through some means were those who had achieved the merit of elevating and greatly enhancing our purpose of existence. Those who most fully realized the greatest ideals were those who had achieved the merit of most effectively advancing our purpose of existence. In this sense, literary artists were by no means idlers. Even those who composed passive haiku like Bashō or wrote unrestrained poetry like Li Bai were by no means idlers. They led more meaningful lives than ordinary ministers and nobles, each contributing to life’s grand purpose.

The ideal is nothing at all.
It is merely the answer we provide to society’s question of how best to survive.
The paintings of artists and writings of literati are all this very answer.
Literary artists are simply those who receive this problem from society and return their interpreted answers through various expedients.
For an answer to hold power it must be clear—even an excellent response will lead to mutual incomprehension if muddled.
What we call technique constitutes the tool through which literary artists clarify this answer.
A tool remains inherently distinct from essence.

Therefore, you might have said you understood.
Or you might have said you did not understand.
Those who had understood could leave it at that, but to those who had not, I had to provide some explanation.
Earlier, I had stated that technique was a tool.
To state it so categorically might have seemed clear-cut, but upon stepping back to consider it, it proved rather difficult to grasp.
When asked what technique was, I would usually find myself at a loss.
It was commonly said that technique was a means to express thought, but since the thought was presented through that means, one could not consider the means apart from the thought, nor could one, needless to say, behold the thought apart from the means.
Thus, as one delved deeper into the argumentation, it became exceedingly ambiguous where the means ended and the thought began.
To put it in terms of this chalk here, it would have been like trying to separate the white color from the chalk’s form. If we took this particular chalk as our basis for discussion, taking only the white color would have caused the form to vanish, and taking only the form would have made the white color disappear.
These two entities were such that they should have been called two yet one, and one yet two.
Now, since discussing this philosophically would have been rather cumbersome, I decided to explain it through a concrete example for clarity.
As I had an example I had cited during a university lecture the other day, I resolved to make use of it here.

There are two passages here.
The first is a passage by Shakespeare, and the next is by a man called Defoe.
When we compare these, I believe the distinction between technique and content will naturally become clear.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Kings frequently lamented the miserable consequences of being born to great things, and wished they had been in the middle of the two extremes, between the mean and the great.

The general meaning was clear to the point of requiring no explanation.
Namely, "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown" was Shakespeare’s line, while "It was the way of kings to lament the misfortune of being born to noble station and wish to pass their days between two extremes, betwixt high and low" was Defoe’s line.
Of course, the former was a single line of verse while the latter was a line from a lengthy prose novel; thus, when considering their contextual relationships, various arguments could have been made, but if we evaluated these two lines independently, we found a tremendous difference in their technique.
I would explain that later, but as for the content of both passages, it was so evidently largely similar with minor differences that no one would have doubted it.
Therefore, from an ideological perspective, we might consider both to have been essentially the same.
Despite sharing similar ideas, there existed a significant difference in the impression one gained from reading these two passages.
When I had recently needed to critique Defoe’s works and happened upon this passage while rereading them, I suddenly recalled Shakespeare’s line from *Henry IV* and was astonished at the profound difference in impression despite their shared content—though why such a difference existed remained unclear to me until I dissected it through analysis.
Therefore, what I would now discuss was the result of my analysis of the impressions I had had at that time.

If I may begin with Shakespeare’s perspective—that line expresses a king’s year-round condition (be it ten years or twenty; indeed, throughout his entire reign) not through words spanning extended time, but by compressing it into a single moment. This exemplifies skillful technique. To elaborate further: while the word “uneasy” might appear to describe a vague mental state, it actually proves remarkably precise and potent. Consider sitting on a chair with a partially broken leg—one feels uneasy—or forgetting one’s suspenders so trousers threaten to slip down—again uneasy—all instances of palpable restlessness. Though such restlessness inherently involves temporal duration, it manifests immediately perceptible rather than requiring prolonged observation. Thus through “uneasy,” even sustained conditions condense into momentary impressions—vivid mental images instantly conjured.

Someone might say this and attack my argument.
“Indeed,there may also be uneasy states of the sort you describe.”
“However，that pertains to physical uneasiness rather than mental uneasiness.”
“One might slice through prolonged physical uneasiness and reflect its cross-section in imagination’s mirror，but mental uneasiness—worry or anxiety—cannot form such impressions.”
To this attack，I responded thus：“Such uneasy states certainly exist.”
“There isn’t［such a state］，but here we need not consider such matters.”
“Even were the emperor’s *uneasiness* mental，there would be no need—”
“Rather than no need，there’s no room for such considerations.”
Beneath “uneasy” lies “lies”—that is，“to lie.”
When we say “lies，”it was a word applied to tangible objects.
Thus reading “uneasy，”without pause over its meaning，it connects directly to “lies，”clarifying “uneasy”’s sense.
Then another critic might object：“‘Lies’ has dual aspects.”
“It certainly applies to tangibles，but frequently describes intangibles too.”
“Thus ‘uneasy lies’ fails to create distinct impressions as you claim.”
My defense followed thus：
“If ‘uneasy lies’ lacks impact，examine the third word：‘head．’”
*Head* was something concrete.
Even interpreting “head” metaphorically，none would read “uneasy lies the head” as abstract intellect.
All would envision a hairy，physical head.
Taking “head” concretely，“lies” must describe tangible lying.

Thus, "uneasy" too becomes difficult to interpret as an invisible meaning unrelated to form. Moreover, though it remains unclear how long this uneasy state will persist, even if it were to continue for an extended period, as long as it endures, it remains a visible condition at all times. Since it remains perpetually visible, any single moment severed from this continuum can represent the entirety of its prolonged duration—or to rephrase, one can conjure in the mind something that condenses, boils down, and distills ten or twenty years' condition into an instant. Therefore, this condensed, distilled aspect is where Shakespeare’s poetic genius lies—the point where he offers readers a fleeting glimpse of lightning-like incisiveness. This is a temporal matter. It is a poetic function that condenses a prolonged temporal state into a single moment.

Now Shakespeare had another distinctive feature.
In contrast to what might be called its temporal aspect discussed earlier—this could perhaps be termed spatial.
This constitutes what I mean by dissection.
Were someone asked whether “emperor” constitutes a concrete or abstract noun—anyone would surely answer “concrete.”
Indeed there’s no doubt it’s a concrete noun.
Yet merely recognizing its concreteness doesn’t readily produce any distinct impression.
Even if commanded on-the-spot—“Paint an emperor!”—one couldn’t readily produce any coherent design.
Within our minds—this entity called “emperor” lies stored as an exceedingly vague and amorphous image.
But when presented with “the head that wears a crown”—suddenly our conception of “emperor” snaps into clarity.
The reason being—until now we only comprehended its concreteness abstractly—while our knowledge of its particulars remained hopelessly vague and unanchored.
Like viewing objects through ill-fitted spectacles—their discrete existence stood clear—yet their substance remained blurred.
Yet hearing “uneasy lies THE HEAD THAT WEARS A CROWN”—one feels focal clarity abruptly achieved.
For when imagining an emperor—one must conjure his totality—which inevitably blurs through overextension.
To avoid blurring—attempting partial visualization founders on multiplicity—leaving us directionless.
Here Shakespeare instructs us—among countless parts—to imagine THIS particular one.
What he taught us wasn’t imperial feet nor hands—
Nor spinal columns—
Nor abdominal cavities—
The locus he indicated—commanding “Focus HERE—behold KING clearly”—was his CROWNED HEAD resplendent.
We recipients of this instruction—who’d struggled grasping essence through scattered observation—now directing gaze accordingly—found KING manifest before us.

What was clear was merely a part, but since this part constituted the essential core that rightfully represented the king, seeing this clearly became equivalent to seeing the whole with clarity.
It was none other than Shakespeare who had directly taught us the crucial focal point for perceiving things.
This focal point not only held efficacy in illuminating the whole, but since it eliminated the need to scatter attention beyond itself and allowed discarding all superfluous elements, it became—from the reader’s standpoint—an economy of attentiveness.
When spatially situating this focal point to explain it, Shakespeare had compressed the grand entity called 'king,' transforming it into nothing more than a 'crowned head.'
Thus was the six-shaku human form distilled into a head scarcely measuring one shaku.

Thus, Shakespeare’s lines condense time on one hand and space on the other, thereby vividly presenting both prolonged duration and vast expanse.
It is akin to how viewing a distant scene with the naked eye appears vague, but once binoculars are used, large and vast things become neatly condensed and imprinted upon one’s vision.
And it is Shakespeare who adjusts the focus of these binoculars for us.
This is precisely why we perceive poetic quality when reading Shakespeare’s lines.

However, when one reads Defoe’s writings, they prove entirely different.
This man’s method wrote long passages at length and short ones briefly, setting them down without any trace of distillation.
He viewed distant scenes with naked eyes.
Not only did he fail to adjust focus—he did not even attempt to use binoculars.
One might well call it a narrative approach devoid of wisdom.
Or perhaps it would not be amiss to describe it as a writing style that neglects readers’ convenience—leisurely or inconsiderate in manner.
Nor would it be improper to criticize it as prose lacking understanding of expansion and contraction—inflexible writing.
It was writing that knew no contrivances—not even human-powered ones—simply shuffling onward on inherited bipedal legs as far as they might go.
Thus it bore a prosaic quality.
By prosaic writing I mean composition that rides neither horse nor carriage, possesses no particular ingenuity, but merely plods along diligently gathering what lies at hand.
This constitutes no criticism—gathering has its occasional merits.
Yet when one spends the entire year using legs like pestles, plodding with identical resolve whether attending fires or funerals, while this may be called personal prerogative—it makes for no tale of particular distinction.
Defoe proved an exceedingly prolific writer who penned some three hundred volumes in his lifetime.
In short—he was a literary rickshaw puller.

With this, I concluded my critique of these two writers’ works.
What conclusion had we reached through this critique? It was that technique held vital importance in literary arts.
If there were no technique, then even the most carefully conceived ideas would, regrettably, fail to yield significant results.
Shakespeare and Defoe had expressed identical thoughts, yet their results differed as tremendously as we had seen.
I concluded that such disparity arising from identical substance stemmed entirely from technique.
I had heard that certain Japanese literary figures these days persistently argued technique was unnecessary. However, as I had yet to encounter a clear articulation of their views, I could not definitively comment—but based on my explanations thus far, I believed that as long as one was a literary artist, technique simply could not be discarded.
Moreover, I believed my explanation contained absolutely no logical fallacies or other errors.
If one held the view that technique became unnecessary in writing—so long as compositions by renowned figures existed, regardless of performance quality—then I did not share this view.
Furthermore, among those who dismissed technique’s importance, there seemed to be many asserting that one must “touch life,” that technique was irrelevant, and that engaging with life was the true aim. Yet having received no clear explanation of this concept’s meaning, each time I heard these words, I was struck by a peculiar sensation.
Even if someone kept urging “Touch it! Touch it!”, a writer with no notion of how to do so would find themselves at a loss.
Mindlessly clamoring about “Life! Life!” without being able to explain what life actually was resembled striking a fire bell when no blaze was visible—while it might create momentary excitement, I surmised those who came running shouting “Make way! Make way!” would ultimately cause great trouble.
Before issuing demands to “touch life,” if one first clarified all such matters—defining life’s nature and what “touching” entailed—then declaring technique unnecessary under those circumstances would make debate possible then rather than now. Until that time arrived, I chose to refrain.
If you wished to understand my meaning of “touching life,” I could provide an immediate explanation—but since this matter followed naturally in sequence, I would ask you to wait until the next section.

Since I won't keep you waiting, I shall promptly move to the next section and explain.
In contrast to certain literary figures who endlessly clamor "Engage! Engage!" while dismissing technique as superfluous, painters—being less verbose than us and quietly pursuing their studies—do not recklessly sound alarms. Yet observing their actual practice, they seem wholly indifferent to matters of "engagement," single-mindedly honing their technical skills.
Needless to say, I am profoundly ignorant of painting's ways.
Though naturally unqualified to comment on pictorial matters, an outsider's perspective may occasionally prove instructive. Given both the rarity of this opportunity to address you gentlemen and the discussion's relevance to all literary arts, I shall make bold assertions: When depicting human figures, you employ models; when rendering flora, you sketch outdoors or indoors.
This constitutes truly admirable practice—far more rigorous than us literary types nonchalantly stringing together fanciful visions of implausible characters, landscapes, and incidents within our cramped quarters.
You are already well acquainted with its merits; for me to elaborate would be preaching to the converted. But following my lecture's sequence—though imperfectly comprehending—I shall state only what I believe grasped.
The benefits gained through such discipline may be broadly divided into two categories.
First: achieving clarity in perceiving an object's proportions, form, and hues—and acquiring skill in precisely reproducing these clarified perceptions with swiftness.
Second: developing lines and points that acquire intrinsic dexterity relatively independent of depicted forms and colors.
This latter technique being both skill and ideal's expression cannot be considered pure technical craft.
Indeed, Japan's traditional paintings derived their worth chiefly through this very method.
Yet when viewing them with discerning eyes, each work manifests particular ideals—revealing the painter's character—thus frequently inspiring profound appreciation.
Consider even a single brushstroke's execution (though insufficient alone): its vigor may convey ideals of volition; its curvature ideals of beauty; its chiaroscuro relationships intellectual implications; its modulation subtle emotions or temperate sensibilities.
(That intellectual and emotional ideals remain relatively subdued stems from their inherent nature.) Thus lines and points alone come to embody ideals.
Precisely as with epigraphic inscriptions or model calligraphy—from which arguments about discerning personality through script emerge—so too here.
Therefore does this technique gradually assimilate ideals through disciplined cultivation.
Yet the former technique—directly expressing objects' clear perceptions—while not wholly divorced from ideals, remains comparatively autonomous.
To clarify: even when rendering objects with photographic accuracy, works may lack manifestations of intellect, emotion, or will.
Some feel curiously uninspired.
Some possess an indefinable mechanical quality.

When I speak of technique, I refer precisely to this variety of technique.
Those I wish to censure are individuals who aspire to become painters through mastery of this technique alone.
Naturally, I presume none of you gentlemen consider such technique sufficient for attaining painterly mastery.
Yet I suspect that in your diligent pursuit of technical refinement, there may arise moments when—unbeknownst to yourselves—you succumb to this very failing.
To return fundamentally to our prior discourse: as I have stated, literary art expresses ideals through sensory media.
Thus its primary principle dictates that any ideal failing to manifest sensuously thereby forfeits existential significance.
I maintain that technique first acquires value precisely as this expedient means for rendering ideals perceptible.
Such technicians devoid of ideals we designate by that term denoting artists possessed of worldly sophistication and technical virtuosity.
Why then do we deem paintings imbued with such sophistication and virtuosity vulgar? Because their canvases manifest no ideals whatsoever.
Or should some semblance of ideals appear, they prove superficial, narrow, vulgar—utterly divorced from life's essence.

I declared—appropriating the fashionable parlance of our times—that I do not touch life.
The meaning of what I term "touching life" has likely become broadly comprehensible through our preceding discourse, but honoring my pledge, I shall formally explicate it—a relatively straightforward and lucid matter.
At least, such is my conviction.
We seek continuity of consciousness.
The method of continuity and shifts in consciousness's content grant us a spectrum of choice.
This spectrum yields ideals.
And we designate the realization of these ideals as "touching life."
There exists no alternative means to touch life beyond this.
Since these ideals bifurcate into four categories—Truth, Beauty, Goodness, and Solemnity—those capable of actualizing all four ideals are individuals who have touched life with equal profundity.
Those manifesting Truth's ideal touch life with rights and gravity equivalent to those manifesting Beauty's ideal.
Those demonstrating Goodness's ideal touch life with rights and gravity matching those demonstrating Solemnity's ideal.
Whichever ideal one expresses, each touches life identically.
To assert that solely one touches life while others cannot constitutes—despite logical demonstrations thus far—an untenable, arbitrary pronouncement.
Truth stands as an ideal capable of attaining both depth and breadth.
Yet proclaiming Truth alone touches life while other ideals falter resembles a colorblind person's utterance—one who denies existence of roads beyond Truth's domain.
In all compass directions lie roads; all merit traversal, all claim equal significance when weighed as essential.

The four types of ideals undergo differentiation.
As they undergo differentiation, they give rise to transformation.
They hasten the opportunity for progress while undergoing transformation.
Among these transformations, those who realize the newest ideal are called individuals acknowledged for imparting new significance to life.
We call those who realize the deepest ideal among transformations people who have profoundly touched life.
(Needless to say, profound is an adjective that should be applied across all four aspects: Truth, Goodness, Beauty, and Solemnity.)
(To claim something is profound because it is miserable or profound because it is dark is meaningless language.) We call those who realize the broadest ideal among transformations people who have widely touched life.
Those who combine these three and realize them through perfect technique are called ideal literary artists—that is, saints of literature.
Saints of literature are mere saints; it is only when technique is added to this that they become saints of literature.
To speak of the saint’s ideal—there is nothing particularly special about it.
It is merely to interpret the problem of how one should survive.

When developed ideals and perfect technique combine, literary arts reach their culmination.
(Therefore, it follows logically that we must interpret literary culmination as shifting across eras.) When literary arts attain this zenith, those encountering them will receive reductive influence—provided the necessary karmic conditions have ripened.
This reductive influence constitutes the supreme and highest influence that literary arts can bestow upon humanity.
The phrase "ripened conditions" signifies either that the ideal manifested in this consummate literary work resonates with one's own ideal, or that one's ideal—drawn forth by this work—achieves profound enlightenment in the very instant it receives illumination at some novel depth, breadth, or dimension.
The maxim "Those without karmic bonds lie beyond salvation" speaks not solely to Buddhist doctrine.
Those harboring fundamentally incompatible ideals can neither influence others nor be influenced themselves, regardless of their desires.

The term "reductive influence" being somewhat peculiar, I feared you might not fully grasp it. To explain this, it meant the following. Literary artists—as I had just stated—expressed the ideals they had cultivated through expedient means such as language or color; the ideals thus expressed were nothing more than direct reproductions of a certain type of consciousness forming a certain continuity. Therefore, what it meant to reach a state of enjoyment in response to this was that one came to accompany the continuity of consciousness expressed by the literary artist. Therefore, unless the continuity of our consciousness aligned to a certain degree with that of the literary artist’s consciousness, there could be no such thing as enjoyment. The so-called reductive influence was a phenomenon that first occurred at the extreme degree of this alignment.

The meaning of alignment was naturally clear—this aligned continuity of consciousness permeated our hearts, leaving traces even after departing from the literary work. This was what we called influence.
Thus what required explanation was simply the term "reductive".
Yet these two characters were also encompassed within the concept of alignment itself.
To speak of alignment implied that my consciousness and his consciousness existed as separate entities merging into one—but this was a matter to discuss before alignment occurred. Once achieved, there ceased to be either one or two, for upon entering this state, we had already departed from ordinary human conditions and transcended the boundary between self and object.
This transcendence of the self-object divide formed both the starting point of this lecture and the foundational basis of all contemplation.
Therefore when encountering a literary work, if one forgot oneself and others—unconsciously, that is to say non-reflectively—and indulged unreservedly in enjoyment, there existed neither time nor space; only the continuity of consciousness remained.
This absence of time and space did not mean they were missing from the work itself, but rather that there was no temporal relationship between self and work nor spatial awareness of one's position—akin to forgetting whether reading took hours, or whether one sat in a study, countryside, or sickbed.
In ordinary circumstances, this forgetting proved impossible because one sometimes aligned with the author's continuity of consciousness and sometimes drifted apart—we remained ourselves, they remained themselves.
Even during alignment, a flea bite might abruptly restore self-awareness or a clock's chime suddenly return one to oneself—thus one could never fully indulge in pleasure born of flawless, uninterrupted alignment.
As long as one's consciousness and the author's alternated between merging and separating—whether through reading or viewing art—one could not attain pure, undivided immersion.
Common speech called this interference creeping in, time being frittered away, or mental scattering.
Some claimed there existed men who never once in their lives nodded at selflessness's realm or wandered ecstasy's domain.
Such men were vulgarly said to be enslaved by material things.
When such a man—through some karmic twist—suddenly attained this reductive alignment, he rejoiced as though a hideous wretch were beloved by a peerless beauty.

When ideals emerge primarily by emphasizing continuity within the "continuity of consciousness," literature comes into being.
When ideals emerge by focusing mainly on the content of consciousness itself, painting takes form.
Therefore, the former ideal manifests primarily through how consciousness transitions.
Consequently, works where this transitional method succeeds make readers more susceptible to reductive influence.
This we call dynamic reductive influence.
Then, the latter ideal manifests mainly through states where consciousness lingers.
Therefore, when the retention method succeeds—that is, when one discerns where consciousness wishes to linger and captures that moment—it renders observers susceptible to reductive influence.
This we call static reductive influence.
However, this merely distinguishes literature and painting through overlapping tendencies; in reality, no such clear division exists.
To consolidate these two elements within literature: transitional laws constitute matters for discussing literary dynamics, while states of retention represent considerations of literary material.
As both remain untouched in today's underdeveloped state of critical studies, limitless research opportunities exist.
In my literary theory—though incomplete—I have at least presented my own views; may they serve as reference.
Being newly charted territory from inception, they hardly suffice as proper reference material.
Yet should future scholars build upon that foundation—accumulating new knowledge to supplement my omissions and correct errors—I believe criticism may yet establish itself as scholarly discipline.
Due to circumstances inclining me toward creative work henceforth, I cannot predict my contributions in this direction. However, should earnest scholars arise to cultivate that field diligently, I am convinced academia will reap great benefit from them.

Finally, I would add one last remark.
We inherently possess this vulgar instinct of desperately wanting to live.
From this vulgar perspective, we establish the distinction between self and object.
Thus arises the desire to choose which continuity of consciousness to obtain; as this selection broadens, a kind of ideal is born. This ideal branches into philosophers (or scientists), literary artists, and practitioners—whereupon these literary artists in turn create four types of ideals and further branch them, each realizing their own desired continuity of consciousness.
In short, all these are mere derivatives extracted from life's fundamental question of how to exist.
Therefore, no matter what they undertake, they never stray from practical interests.
Society labels artists and literary figures as idlers, viewing them as engaged in some superfluous pursuit.
To speak truthfully, there exist countless people engaged in more unnecessary activities than artists or literary figures.
Among those dashing about in carriages from dawn till dusk, who can say how many pursue endeavors even more superfluous than those of literati or artists?
Even if one, deluded into believing oneself the nation's sole useful timber, acts with frantic urgency as though entitled to tenfold survival rights—it will never suffice.
Their concepts of usefulness and uselessness are framed in such puerile terms as to be worthless.
If you wish to rage, then rage—no amount of fury will avail you.
You rage precisely because you fail to grasp the logic.
Rather than raging, you would do better to bow your head and come inquire about the reason.
Should you humbly come seeking understanding, I shall gladly enlighten you at any time."
"As for myself—when I mention having left school to idly nap on verandas all day, my friends all laugh.—They aren't laughing; they might secretly envy me."
"Indeed, I do take afternoon naps."
"Not just afternoon naps—morning lie-ins and evening dozes too."
"But if I devise methods to realize grand ideals while reclining, I might surpass those so-called 'national assets' racing carriages against trains around the clock."
"I don't merely lie down—I recline intending to contemplate weighty matters."

“Unfortunately, I just haven’t thought of it yet.”
“I am by no means an idler.”
“You are not idlers either.”
“To consider someone an idler is to reveal that the one who thinks so is themselves an idler; if not that, then a fool.”
“Literary artists may require leisure, but they are not idlers.”
“An idler refers to someone incapable of contributing to society.”
“It refers to a person who cannot provide an interpretation of how one should live and teach the meaning of existence to the common people.”
“Such people are idlers even if they work until their shoulders heave.”
“Literary artists are not idlers, no matter how much they nap on the veranda.”
“It would be disastrous for literary artists’ leisure to be lumped together with the idleness of shiftless aristocrats or the indolence of lazy rich people.”
“Therefore, if artists come to regard themselves as idlers, it would be akin to abandoning their own vocation—a transgression against heaven.”
“Artists must absolutely never allow themselves to be deemed idlers.”
“No matter how much they nap on the veranda, they must not be deemed idlers.”
“However, to assert this boldly that one is not an idler requires possessing conviction equal to the assertion.”
“To put it another way: having interpreted the question of how one should live, one must cultivate the resolve to remain unmoved and unshaken—since one’s own ideals stand far higher—maintaining an aloof composure toward those who dare speak impertinently despite understanding neither life’s meaning nor ideals.”
“If one has not achieved this, then no matter how much technique they possess, their written work will lack dignity.”
“It ought not exist.”
“If someone timidly takes up their brush thinking ‘I’ll be laughed at if I write this’ or ‘I’ll be scolded if I say that,’ then that man’s unresolved convictions and half-baked ideals become transparently evident in his writings, rendering him utterly spineless.”
“No matter how much technique one has, in this state they cannot even attract people, let alone exert influence.”
“Let alone exert reductive influence.”

“It is such literary artists that people call idlers.”
“The ‘worldly sophistication and technical skill’ that Chairman Masaki spoke of clings to such idler literary artists.”
“In conclusion, what we need is ideal.”
“The ideal does not reside in writing, nor does it reside in painting; it resides in the person who possesses the ideal.”
“Therefore, to realize ideals through the power of technique is to realize a part of one’s personality.”
“Even if one merely strings together phrases and chapters in a glib manner about matters not rooted in their character, they remain nothing but idlers.”
“In common parlance, this is what they call being unsuited to one’s character.”
“If something is unsuited to your character, you will be deemed an idler whether you do it or not—so you might as well save yourself the trouble and not do it; that is the only advantage.”
However, when someone possesses a new ideal, a profound ideal, or a broad ideal and wishes to realize it in society, but society’s foolishness prevents its realization—it was precisely then that technique served its greatest purpose for this person.
When the general world hindered one’s development in the real world, one’s ideal had no other path than to manifest as a literary work through technique.
And if even one in a hundred—nay, one in a thousand—should achieve sufficient alignment of consciousness with this work; if taking a step further, they united with the truth, goodness, beauty, and solemnity that flashed forth wholly from its depths to leave indelible traces upon future life; if advancing still further they attained the wondrous realm of reductive influence—then the literary artist’s spirit, through intangible contagion influencing society’s greater consciousness, obtained eternal life within humanity’s inner history, thereby fulfilling their mission here.

——Delivered at Tokyo Art School, April 1907——