Pathway to Japanese Literature

The title of this lecture was "The Attitude of a Creative Writer."
When I spoke of "attitude," you were to interpret it as roughly corresponding to one's mental disposition or manner of perceiving things.
It went without saying that from this mental disposition and manner of perceiving things—ten people, ten perspectives—various worlds took shape and diverse worldviews emerged.
To give an example, were you to ask me about the shape of the moon, I would immediately have answered that it was round.
I trusted you all had no objections.
However, when I recently came across something written by a Westerner, not only did it state that we ordinarily perceived the moon as semicircular, but there were even two or three lines added explaining why we did not consider it perfectly round, which left me rather astonished.
We, as a result of education and habit, observed the external world through a particular lens and contemplated social phenomena with a certain attitude, thus coming to regard this as the true external world and the true state of society.
However, should one by some chance have encountered people of a completely different type—be they merchants, politicians, religious figures, or anything else—
When one met esteemed individuals with whom one had distant connections and tenuous relationships and listened to their opinions, astonishing things occurred.
It was not so much astonishment at errors existing in those people's worldviews as it was a manner of surprise that came from marveling—"Could the world truly be perceived in such ways?"
It was exactly the same as the difference in our conceptions regarding the moon’s shape that I had previously described.
If I put it that way, humans became fragmented, their hearts lacking mutual unity—an extremely uneasy state of mind—but on the other hand, there were also many instances where they maintained an unchanging standpoint that remained constant no matter who viewed it, adopting attitudes as if prearranged; thus no confusion arose to the point of causing distress.
(At least in practical terms) While a man named James had been arguing that all phenomena we were conscious of had undergone selection, he presented this example:—Regardless of the debate over selection, I believed this example was most appropriate for our present explanation, so I borrowed it to elaborate.
Suppose there was a square here then.
The standpoints from which this square was viewed became various.
From the side, from the vertical, or from the diagonal—if one slightly changed the eye’s position and angle, it could be seen in countless variations.
And each time, the shape of the square differed.
However, our considerations regarding the square were in perfect agreement, as if prearranged.
Among all perspectives, among all forms—only one.
That was to say, we considered the shape perceived when our line of sight fell perpendicularly upon a square’s surface to be the legitimate square.

If I may rephrase this in a way convenient for myself, we were in complete agreement in our attitude toward observing squares. To present another example, there existed what we called foreshortening in sculpture and such matters. This was something everyone understood—when viewing a posture where someone extended their hand or leg forward from our angle, those limbs appeared shorter than they actually were. Yet we inherently perceived them as being longer than they appeared. Therefore, when those of us lacking artistic sensibility attempted to draw hands or feet, we tended to depict them in their original proportions on paper regardless of directional orientation. Yet when actually drawn, the proportions felt somehow unbalanced. Though unsatisfactory, our very guts refused acceptance, leaving us with an odd sense of contradiction. When examining a child’s drawing, this feeling emerged with unguarded honesty. If I might interpret this conveniently at present juncture, it would mean our attitude toward limb lengths maintained perfect consensus—as though prearranged.

Thus, the world could be perceived in manifold ways depending on one's manner of observation.
To state it radically, one might say each individual maintains their own distinct world.
Yet simultaneously, certain aspects of that world remain uniform regardless of who beholds them.
From inception we had conspired—"Shall we view it thus?"—tacitly submitting to convention's constraints.
As human minds grew increasingly intricate, so too did observed phenomena become more complex.
Not that complexity inherently increased, but rather that viewing simple matters through elaborate mental frameworks produced effects akin to objects themselves undergoing intricate metamorphoses.
To rephrase this through my earlier metaphor: as civilization advanced, both a convoluted world and convoluted worldviews took form—even as domains unifying this complexity continued their expansion.

Therefore, since creative writers too are human beings, each must undoubtedly possess their own distinct worldview and gaze upon their own distinct world.
However, once they have received the designation of "creative writer" and become distinguished from officials, merchants, lawyers and such, this title cannot be dismissed as merely an empty appellation like Suzuki or Yamada.
In reality, they may possess characteristics befitting this designation that distinguish them from other professions.
Therefore, if we were to study the standpoint of these individuals, I thought it might prove somewhat instructive - which is why I have selected this topic for my lecture.

Therefore, when I discussed methods for researching this problem, the first approach was historical study.
This involved comparing works that encapsulated creative writers' worldviews, synthesizing their characteristics, assigning them designations such as "naturalism" or "romanticism," and then tracing their development chronologically.
This was what we call literary history.
Recently in Japan, discussions of naturalism had flourished considerably, with various magazines publishing numerous explanations on the subject—from which I myself had greatly benefited.
That we Japanese came to understand matters such as how naturalism developed in France and the current state of naturalism in Germany was, I considered, entirely thanks to this historical research and most beneficial indeed.

However, when I speak of my dissatisfaction with this type of research, one might suspect there could be drawbacks such as those outlined below.

(1) When attempting to regulate one's own practice through historical research, might there not arise a tendency—before sufficient grounds are established—to conflate the present (that is, the new) with value?
Since all mental phenomena are processes, it naturally followed that phenomenon B occurred subsequent to phenomenon A.
Therefore, the value of B was not determined solely by B's inherent properties; it was naturally also governed by phenomenon A, which had occurred prior to B.
It was precisely because the phenomenon of hunger arose in the mind that the phenomenon of finding the meal delicious subsequently occurred; thus, it remained difficult to assert definitively that it had been delicious solely because the cuisine was superior.
Therefore, when we recognized phenomenon A in our minds, it followed that we had to make every possible selection regarding the nature, intensity, and various conditions of phenomenon B that should arise next.
It was precisely like pulling a cart that had begun descending a slope—the preceding step governed the subsequent one.
The subsequent step had to proceed in a manner that aligned with the momentum of the preceding one; otherwise, things would not go smoothly.
Since human history was bound together by such chains of causality, its value could not be understood by isolating individual links.
To put it grandly, it would not have been unreasonable to say that an hour's consciousness contained a person's entire lifetime of consciousness.
Therefore, it seemed that people found the present to hold the greatest value.
It was felt to be the most significant.
It was believed that the present served as the perfectly suitable standard for all things.
Therefore, when tomorrow came, it all seemed utterly absurd, and I often found myself wondering how I could have felt that way.
When I thought back after ten years about a woman I had once loved, I marveled at why I had become so utterly infatuated—yet at that time, that infatuation had seemed perfectly reasonable, logically inevitable, utterly natural, and could only have been thought of as something absolutely valuable.
Whether we spoke of a nation’s history or solely the history of literature within a nation, they were naturally bound by this same causality.
Modern French people might consider the events of their revolutionary era to be absurd.
Even if they were to imagine the Hernani incident that had heralded the Romantic school’s victory, I thought they would likely have felt something along the lines of, ‘Ah, one needn’t have gotten so carried away.’
But if this was indeed causality at work, there had been nothing to be done.
What we had to be cautious about was that when our mental state had not yet reached such circumstances, to take upon ourselves others’ causality and fret anxiously seemed to me somewhat akin to suffering another’s abdominal ailment as a headache.

However, should one attempt to establish their own standpoint by taking historical research alone as the fundamental principle, they may all too easily fall prey to this pitfall.

The thing was that if what you were currently researching had been your own history, that might have been acceptable—but it was someone else’s history. People each sowed their own arbitrary causes and reaped the results, taking the present as their standard with satisfaction. If one studied this from afar and concluded that since his present was thus, one’s own present must also be so, it imposed an undue strain. Even though their own inclination did not lean in that direction, they had to perform work as if it did. It became, so to speak, a social obligation. If one were to harshly criticize it, it would not be actions or positions originating from oneself but rather become imitation. It came down to imitation. Of course, since we were naturally inclined toward imitation, there was no harm in doing so. Depending on time and circumstance, imitation could be extremely expedient and convenient because it allowed one to immediately apply only the end result while bypassing the intervening steps, procedures, and cumbersome processes. Indeed, beginning with telegraphs, telephones, steam trains, and steamships, all so-called tools of civilization currently employed in our country had been created through imitation. Perfectly splendid. There was something immensely gratifying in the image of having others pound the rice cakes while one lay back and devoured them. However, if one were to immediately apply this phenomenon to literature and conclude that it must be carried over into that realm as well, I believed the measure would be slightly miscalibrated. For disciplines such as physics, engineering, and other sciences or their applications developed along a fixed trajectory as research accumulated over generations—fields where whichever nation undertook them first gained advantage, provided they applied comparable intellect and effort of equal measure. Moreover, those who lagged behind by a day had inevitably to traverse the same path (being a single route) forged by those who had advanced a day earlier. Since the path we trod was single and those ahead had already advanced, we on this side could clearly discern our destination; thus, it became most prudent to shed our armor and concede as swiftly as possible. To speak of imitation might sound unseemly, but there was nothing more splendid than reaping sweet rewards without exerting any effort. In this regard, I wholeheartedly agreed with imitation. However, when it came to the internal history of humanity, or when that internal history manifested as external phenomena, matters did not appear to proceed so simply. Whether we spoke of customs, habits, or sentiments, it could not be claimed that only those which had appeared in Western history constituted customs, habits, and sentiments, and that none existed beyond them. Furthermore, the final destination that Westerners had reached today after many changes in their own history did not necessarily become the standard.

(Though it may be their standard) in literature, this does not hold.
Many people say Japanese literature is immature.
To my chagrin, I too think so.
However, admitting our national literature's immaturity differs from proclaiming contemporary Western literature as the standard.
I maintain we cannot definitively state that today's immature Japanese literature must evolve into modern Russian literature should it develop.
Nor can we accept any reasoning that it must progress through Hugo to Balzac and Balzac to Zola to attain qualities identical to current French literature.
Unless theoretically proven that immature literature develops along a singular path inevitably converging at one terminus, declaring modern Western literary tendencies must become those of Japan's immature literature remains a rash conclusion.
Furthermore, I find it difficult to conclusively argue this tendency's absolute correctness.
In single-path sciences, novelty may equate to correctness within limits—but since developmental roads branch intricately and must diverge, we cannot declare Westerners' newness inherently correct for Japanese.
I believe literature's non-linear development becomes clearest when comparing contemporary national literatures—particularly the most advanced—setting theory aside.
Even in this age of developed transport systems, Russian literature retains its Russian essence, French its French manner, while German and English preserve their distinctive traits.
Thus literature differs from steam trains or electric trams—imitating today's West brings little satisfaction.
Rather than that, expressing phenomena arising naturally from one's mental state without strain may instead possess that lifelike quality of authenticity.

That said, Japan is not a country that survives in isolation. After all, at this juncture where we have been engaging with the West amid growing commotion, we must study Western modern literature, examine its historical origins, and at least come to understand that Westerners currently write from such a standpoint. Even if being engrossed in imitation is deemed problematic, it remains naturally necessary to reference their standpoint and other aspects. While literature possesses the characteristics I previously outlined, within those characteristics flows considerable influence from sciences developing in linear progression. Thus observing how this immutable element—acting as a constant—infiltrates literature's various facets alongside scientific advancement cannot be comprehended by Japanese lacking developed scientific thought who merely brandish their own inclinations. Should they persist thus, they may ultimately present the bizarre spectacle of confronting rapid-fire cannons with a Masamune masterpiece sword.

Thus, while historical research carries the aforementioned drawbacks, it must not be neglected; therefore, my hope is that through conducting such research, I might comprehensively demonstrate through factual evidence that what we call Modern Spirit exists thus—and that works lacking this spirit can scarcely function as literature.
By "Modern Spirit," I do not mean the sort of argumentation that takes works newly created this month or last and declares "this work embodies the Modern Spirit" and so forth.
By surveying famous masterpieces that have moved people’s hearts over the past one or two centuries (or even further back if preferred), and identifying their characteristics—they need not be singular,
and even contradictory coexistence poses no issue—through this process of identification.
By doing so, I believe the relatively enduring elements of creation—transcending trends of a year or a decade—will become broadly clear.
I believe characteristics that will remain unchanged at least until the time of our children or grandchildren will emerge.
If a standard is indeed required, then it is precisely through this approach that one might say a certain standard could be established.
Just because they have gone through such trouble to grasp the Modern Spirit does not mean that works predating this effort lack it.
For example, there are not many people in the present day who hold ideas like those seen in Dante’s Divine Comedy.
Nor would there be any man attempting to produce works imitating the Divine Comedy.
However, were one to extract the Modern Spirit from that Divine Comedy, there would be no end to what could be drawn forth.
The parts that appeal to contemporary people’s hearts are precisely what constitute the Modern Spirit.
Even if one were to publish The Decameron exactly as it is through Shunyodo, there would certainly be no readers.
However, within it there are plenty of elements of the Modern Spirit—that is to say, aspects akin to naturalism that move us in various ways.
Going back much further in time—what of Homer?
When considered as a whole, it seems rather foolish.
While there may be no one who wishes to write another Iliad, I believe that very Iliad still contains no small number of aspects readable by modern people, enjoyable to read, striking in their impact, and romantic in nature.
When we consider this, works should be evaluated not merely by their temporal newness or oldness but by referencing the Modern Spirit.
And in truth, this Modern Spirit resides within the heart of each and every reader.
However, since it has settled into a nebulous standard of sorts, my proposal is nothing more than a motion to make this amorphous entity clearer and more universally applicable through historical research.

There exists a work titled Main Currents in Nineteenth-Century Literature, written by Brandes, whom you all know.
When read, it proves rather fascinating.
He attaches headings like "the German Romantic School" or "the English Naturalist School," then lines up numerous authors under these titles for discussion.
This makes for engaging reading, but what struck me as peculiar was how those thus categorized under a single heading seemed confined within their classifications, unable to emerge as themselves.
The English Naturalist School would never permit alignment with the German Romantic School.
The writing style gave the impression of virtually declaring there must not be a single point of commonality.
Of course, the authors Brandes critiqued may indeed have been as distinct as oil and water.
Yet when presented this way, those belonging to the Naturalist School mustn't glance toward the Romantic School.
Those corralled into the Romantic School mustn't set foot in the Naturalist domain—when such distinctions come to be perceived as innate, later generations taking up the pen feel compelled to categorically align with one camp or the other, inevitably breeding misunderstanding.
Nowhere does he explain why these two schools differ so fundamentally in philosophical terms that they cannot align at all, nor theoretically demonstrate that literary schools must necessarily diverge thus.
It resembled passively listening to the author explain various schools' poetry and prose with repeated murmurs of "Is that so?"
This presents a slight problem.
It would be like dividing academic factions into Waseda School and University School then leaving it at that.
However unclear such distinctions truly are, this approach not only pressures Waseda and University adherents against voicing similar theories on certain points—even when their actual arguments align—but forces them to insist on differences.
Simply labeling them Waseda or University invites judging by names alone.
The synthesis of modern spirit I propose aims to remedy this flaw—seeking both to release these confining constraints and allow substantiated principles worthy of their names to coexist.

However, since this kind of research felt rather daunting for me and proved quite difficult to undertake, I believed that approaching matters historically tended to foster a tendency to overvalue modern Western writers beyond their true worth.
Therefore, I decided to discuss the attitude of a creative writer from a standpoint other than historical research.

(2) Another criticism I wish to level against historical research—though this may sound somewhat philosophical—is as follows. All history consists of established facts. Since they are already facts, human power cannot alter them. As they exist immutably, they constitute an indisputable truth in this regard. However, the question remains whether this represents the sole truth. To rephrase: Do all traces of human development extend along a single straight path? If one could definitively assert this, Japanese history would equate to Western history, and Western history to Greek history. Yet I believe most people, while acknowledging these national histories as factual, would regard them as fundamentally distinct. Admittedly, one might abstract a common trajectory from these histories and argue that human development must follow such a course. Nevertheless, I cannot accept that Japan, China, England, and Germany have all repeated identical phenomena in identical sequences throughout their pasts. As this discussion risks becoming too abstract, let me illustrate with a more concrete example: A certain school of Japanese painting is highly prized by Western artists overseas, while Japan deliberately sends students abroad to study Western painting. They hold each other in mutual esteem—doubtless because each recognizes deficiencies in their own tradition. This may be well and good, but if we leave Japanese painting untouched while continuing Western painting in its current form, will their histories ever converge? Will Japan produce a Raphael or Velázquez, while the West yields masters like Utamaro or Hokusai? This seems improbable. Rather than such projections, would it not be more fitting to conversely argue that Western history took its present form precisely because Raphael and Velázquez emerged there, just as ukiyo-e history developed as it did because Utamaro and Hokusai were born in Japan? Therefore, had Raphael never appeared, Western painting history would have changed proportionally; without Utamaro, genre paintings would have assumed a markedly different character. Thus even within a single painting history, two versions emerge depending on Raphael's presence or absence. (One factual, one imagined.) Similarly with genre paintings—depending on Utamaro's existence beyond factual history, an imagined history takes form.

Now then, were these Raphael and Utamaro necessarily individuals who had to emerge? If one attributes it to divine will, then so be it; but if we consider the matter without such ceremonial airs, we might as well say that two-thirds of their emergence was due to serendipity. If Raphael’s mother had married another man instead of his father, Raphael would never have been born. If Raphael had injured his arm as a child, he could not have become a painter. If his parents had made him a monk, he still could not have accomplished those great works. Even if he had accomplished those great works, had he not made them known to others during his lifetime, they would never have endured for posterity. Thus, we must conclude that the history of Western painting has reached its present state as the result of truly precarious, tightrope-walk-like feats. If the balance deviates even slightly, it would immediately become a different history. While this argument may still be insufficient in theoretical terms, practically speaking, I think it can be said—when we induce from the previously mentioned implications—that there exist countless and infinite histories of painting: Western painting history being but a single thread among them, and Japanese genre painting history likewise constituting merely another such thread. I have merely taken painting as an example in this discussion, but it is by no means limited to painting. The same would hold true in literature. If this holds true, then regarding the given Western literary history as the sole truth and attempting to adjudicate all matters by appealing to it may be somewhat too narrow. Since it is history, there can be no dispute about the facts. However, I believe we may assert without overstepping that histories not given can be constructed in countless variations within one's mind, and that their realization becomes possible at any time as long as the conditions are met.

Therefore, I wish to assert that regarding Western literary history as the sole truth is mistaken; however, were that the entirety of the matter, there would be no particular need to expound upon it here.
In critical moments we may find ourselves governed by Western history's trajectory, yet when judged through ordinary objective reasoning, the literary histories of West and Japan stand as two distinct threads—both factual, both true—a reality evident to any observer, rendering such distinctions ultimately inconsequential.
Moreover, broadly speaking, should there be those who argue we ought to model all things after the West given its advanced state, this position remains perfectly acceptable.
I myself am in complete agreement.
My contention lies simply in believing fewer errors would arise were we to adopt Western models only after interpreting history through my proposed lens.
Failure to do so invites inevitable drawbacks.
And indeed, we often tumble into such pitfalls while remaining oblivious to our predicament.

For example, in the first half of the nineteenth century, a man named Scott appeared in England and wrote numerous novels.
Because his works constituted an era-defining new phenomenon, the public came to regard him as Romanticism's representative.
This itself presents no issue, but once elevated thusly, Scott becomes identified with Romanticism and Romanticism with Scott.
When so identified, every element found in Scott's works comes to be seen as both necessary and sufficient to constitute Romanticism.
To be sure, his works contain medievalism and adventure tales.
While encompassing features variably interpreted as Romanticist traits, they regrettably also mingle realistic elements.
Yet since Realism had separately raised its banner against Romanticism's camp, their opposing stances rendered impossible extracting Scott's realistic elements for Realist inclusion.
Similarly difficult became separating sporadic romantic elements within Realist works for Romanticist adoption.
Thus misled by labels, people imagine these works exist naturally with refined purity like gold or silver.
Yet reality shows them mostly alloyed.
Therefore strictly speaking—were we to properly define Romanticism qua Romanticism and Naturalism qua Naturalism—we should naturally extract definition-satisfying elements from any creator's work for categorical subsumption.
Consider whiteness as attribute: one properly extracts this quality from chalk sheets flags snow—subsuming them under this concept.
But if we admit all white-hued things regardless of form/material/temperature into whiteness's category without exception—though only color achieves unity—people mistakenly perceive total unification across all aspects.
Since distinguishing white objects by hue remains valid, we must simultaneously distinguish them by form and quality too—handling each concrete entity with two- or threefold flexibility to reach truth.
Take another example: there exists a man.
This man attends school.
At such times he must be counted among teachers.
He wields a brush.
At such times he rightly joins writers' ranks.
He returns home.

Then he must be categorized both as a husband and as a parent.
Although this person exists as a single individual, it must be said that he possesses qualifications for classification into this many categories.
Literary works are no different.
It would be prudent to decompose these works, synthesize them, and classify certain parts of each entity into their appropriate schools of thought.
To assert that no such complex works exist constitutes an argument fixated solely on past history—a premature conclusion failing to thoroughly examine how multifaceted literary works may become in future.
Even when examining only past works, there should not exist solely such monotonous ones where an entire work or an author's complete oeuvre could be grouped under a single doctrine and deemed valid.
Yet when constrained by history, this classification falters.
This occurs because literary history's various 'isms' originate not from theory but emerge piecemeal from individual works—grasping them wholesale and bestowing names based solely on their most conspicuous characteristics.
Since originators already exist thusly, subsequent works' classifications too become forcibly crammed under some -ism within this framework.
Rather than rigorous classification, it becomes categorization by individuals.
To perform proper classification requires detaching from individuals, discarding works as wholes, and dismantling completed products.
Conventional historical research fails to teach us this method due to entrenched tradition.
In essence, this constitutes the fallacy of affixing -ist labels solely to conspicuous traits—a misconception arising from privileging actualized histories among countless potential ones while treating human creations (emerging almost randomly) as indivisible entities.
Therefore, by approaching through theory at this juncture, we may formulate arguments applicable to all conceivable histories while gaining means to abandon notions that Hugo's or Balzac's works must be treated as monolithic blocks—simultaneously dispelling misunderstandings that no -isms could exist beyond those historically actualized through conventional development.

(3) I would like to briefly state one more danger concerning historical research. If one regards principles as an immovable foundation—as previously mentioned—this necessitates dismantling writers (that is, their works), creating inconvenience; conversely, if one takes writers (their works) as an immovable foundation, then flexibility must instead be introduced into the principles themselves.

When speaking of introducing flexibility: since a single work often contains—or at least may contain—various doctrines simultaneously, when critiquing, analyzing, or explicating such works, we must reform the habit of rigidly restricting them under a single doctrine. Even doctrines that appear historically contradictory should be allowed to coexist—without hesitation, we must enumerate all those sufficient to explain any part of the work—lest we fall into the same inconveniences described earlier.

However, due to historical relations, literary works are treated as wholes unto themselves, and because the name of some -ism is employed to encompass these whole works, a peculiar phenomenon arises. There exists a person Kō who produces a work called A. This work then becomes labeled B-ism. (Though in most cases this cannot be neatly encapsulated in a single term) next emerges a person Otsu who publishes a work called A′. Critics then recognize similarities between A and A′, categorizing them both under B-ism as well. There may also be cases where authors themselves proclaim B-ism. In either case, it amounts to the same outcome.

Thirdly appears a man named Hei who writes A″. Due to similarities between A′ and A″, these too become grouped under B-ism. If we suppose this process continues incrementally up to An, what would result? Kō and Otsu are distinct individuals. Otsu and Hei likewise differ completely. Being different individuals, no matter how much they imitate one another, works of entirely identical nature cannot emerge—particularly when each follows their inherent tendencies and exerts their individuality fully, inevitably allowing foreign elements to infiltrate.

Moreover, as these foreign elements transmute under B-ism's name—their meaning eroding with each iteration, definitions shifting through abrasion—this transformation ultimately culminates either in empty labels or becomes mere instruments stirring needless turmoil within literary circles. There exists the tale of Bashō's disciples quarreling after his death over who was Shōfū's legitimate heir, each proclaiming "It's me! I am!" While raising Shōfū's banner might have held practical significance in its time—like grand endeavors shaping the realm—stepping back from that vortex of contention reveals it as utterly meaningless.

The flaw I now describe remained purely an intellectual matter, entirely divorced from practical concerns; however, should one insist on rigidly upholding doctrines passed down through generations, I feared their traces might ultimately prove no more valuable than the post-Bashō Shōfū disputes.
Yet such occurrences were quite common in our daily lives—when debating with friends for even an hour, we would often forget our original starting point and spark debates over utterly unrelated issues without ever noticing.
A and A′ were similar.
Therefore, it was passable to categorize both under B-ism.
A′ and A″ were also similar.
Thus both could well remain under B-ism.
When comparing An−1 and An subsequently, they still proved similar.
Hence while both might persist under B-ism without issue, problems first emerged when contrasting the original A with the final An.
I somehow felt B-ism grew inadequate.
Scott's Romanticism and Morris's Romanticism appeared to differ considerably.
Morris was said to resemble Chaucer.
Though Chaucer was indeed a poet, it seemed more fitting to classify him as a Realist.
If we refrained from interpreting Romanticism as Medievalism, then placing both Scott and Morris within the same Romantic school became peculiar.
This time comparing Morris and Gautier—
No observer could constrain them within matching categories.
Yet both continued passing as Romanticists.
One theory held that France's Naturalist school represented Romanticism developed to extremes, claiming it never followed separate paths.
Thus Naturalism ended up resembling Romanticism's branch store.
Some seized upon Ibsen to call him a Naturalist.
Try as I might, I could not reconcile Ibsen with Maupassant.

On the other hand, there were those who labeled Ibsen a Romanticist.
Yet Ibsen and Hugo did not appear to inhabit the same literary field at all.
In essence, this predicament seemed to stem from the unreasonable insistence on forcing all creative works into one of two or three rigid doctrinal categories through sheer persistence.
When taking Ibsen as our foundation for analysis, to presume that existing doctrines—moreover a single one among them—should suffice for such explanation, or to dogmatically insist they must suffice, struck me as bearing precisely those flaws inherent in conventional historical research methods.
By slightly shifting our foundational premises, I believed we might rupture this constriction while simultaneously mitigating some portion of its attendant ambiguities.

(4) I intended to present one more point before proceeding to the main subject, though this might not qualify as purely historical research. The three points I had discussed thus far were premised on recognizing literary history's continuous developmental trajectory—thereby exposing such fallacies as: the reckless discarding of tradition in novelty's pursuit; the imposition of doctrinal labels like "such-and-such-ism" upon works born of happenstance, then demanding these works wholly embody said doctrine despite inadequacy, thereby treating them as unbreakable wholes; and finally, the confusion emerging as doctrines incrementally shift in meaning over time. What I would discuss here related to history, yet seemed scarcely concerned with historical development itself. That is to say, rather than distinguishing literary works through doctrines formed by particular eras' or individuals' characteristics, we should instead employ traits manifest solely upon the works themselves—transcending both creator and temporal context to apply universally across ages and cultures. Having detached ourselves from era and author alike—relying solely on characteristics inherent to the works—we found no alternative but to classify them through form and subject matter. First distinguishing works by form yields poetry versus prose—a distinction so universally known as to require no elaboration. Yet even this division left the creative attitude frustratingly elusive. While preferable to no classification at all, it offered scant practical benefit. Next classifying by subject matter: works chronicling events became narrative poetry (a term rooted in Greek tradition, though we might substitute narrative prose); those voicing personal emotions became lyric poetry (equally termed lyric prose); those depicting character and life's panorama fell into novels or dramas; while still-life renderings earned the label descriptive prose. This more granular classification—while proving somewhat more revealing of creative attitudes than the poetry-prose dichotomy—still merely handled given works as received artifacts, summarizing their traits without probing deeper origins. Most approaches failed to demonstrate how novels emerge through specific transformations from foundational stances, or how lyric poetry arises through particular evolutionary shifts from deeper sources. Since we could not attain such depth, it became preferable to abandon resultant works entirely and instead trace downstream from their causal origins—much like embryology investigating how horns develop in cattle or scales form in fish, rather than declaring "horns mean cow" post facto—thereby achieving intellectual resolution.

The reason I have titled this lecture "The Attitude of a Creative Writer" and intend to approach my explanation solely through psychological phenomena—neither grounding my argument in historical development nor concerning myself with conventional classifications such as narrative poetry versus lyric poetry—is precisely this.

So when we speak of the creative writer's attitude, as I mentioned earlier, it comes down to the question of from what standpoint the writer views the world and in what manner. Therefore, to examine this attitude, we must assume the existence of two things. One is the writer themselves, which I will tentatively name as the self. One is the world that the writer perceives, which I will tentatively name as non-self. Since this falls within the bounds of common sense, there should be no grounds for objection. As I see no need to delve beyond common sense here, I intend to proceed from this foundation; however, regarding this concept of "self," I wish to offer a brief explanation now to lay groundwork for later developments.

That said, when I speak of explanation, I do not mean abstruse matters like the philosopher’s “Transcendental I” or the psychologist’s concept of Ego. Rather, the self is something perpetually in motion—(the stream of consciousness)—and thus continues unbroken; when we distinguish it, we arrive at the division between past self and present self. Of course, once we begin debating where exactly the past commences and the present takes hold, there will be no end to it. One could even revive arguments akin to those of ancient philosophers—that since we cannot point to where an arrow flying through the air is at this very instant, ultimately the arrow does not move at all.

Yet if we persist in such quibbling, there will indeed be no resolution. However, comparing my present self of ten years past with my future self of ten years hence reveals no indistinct boundary between past and present—thus I believe we may safely draw this distinction. Therefore—the current self can look back upon the past self. This is only natural; anyone can do so provided they possess memory. At such times, one can observe the inner state experienced by the self as if it were another’s condition.

To say this can be done does not mean it must always occur, nor that one is compelled to view it thus. For example: suppose I deliver a lecture here today. Later, lying in bed at home while reflecting on that scene, I might imagine not that I gave the lecture—but that someone identical to myself did so—would you not agree? In that case, let us frame it thus: At year’s end last December, in desperation over being unable to see my way through financially, I borrowed money from a friend. At the time of borrowing, I felt keenly that I had done so—yet looking back now, somehow it no longer feels like an act performed by myself.

“Is that not permissible?”
Then when I was a child,I wet my bed.
Reflecting on this today,I could somewhat recall my emotional state at that time through memory,yet found myself unable to accept it as an act committed by my current bearded self.
I believe you would all share this sentiment.
Tracing further back—though perhaps you've heard enough—allow me one more observation.
Having reached my present age,I have never once experienced any sensation resembling birth.
Yet upon retrospection,I must indeed have emerged from my mother's womb during some hour designated Horse or Tiger,in some year and month.
Though asserting this certainty,I possess no recollection of crying,nor any sensory memory of encountering worldly odors.
When inquiring with my parents,I am assured that tears were shed.
Yet from my perspective,I must protest—“You jest!
Surely there has been some confusion of persons.”
Thus does it appear that our inner experiences,in proportion to their temporal distance from the present,become observable through an attitude akin to examining another's psyche.
From this perspective emerges within what we term Self an element susceptible to treatment bearing qualities of Non-Self.
We therefore conclude that our former selves,having attained equivalence with Non-Self,might properly be classified under its domain without contradiction.

Having thus distinguished between self and non-self, we then proceeded to examine the self’s attitude toward non-self.
According to psychologists’ theories, the elements constituting the content of our consciousness at any given moment are chaotically vast, and they state that a single point among them can become clear through attention.
This is stated independent of time.
When I previously spoke of "a moment in time," I asked that you consider this as merely a descriptive term.
For example, when I stood on this lectern and glanced around, the faces of over a thousand people entered my view all at once.
There was a sense that they had entered my vision, but somehow they all shared the same face—or to put it unkindly, people whose eyes and noses weren’t properly aligned appeared lined up before me.
It wasn’t entirely that I lacked composure and my eyes merely darted about.
This inherent vagueness remains fundamental, as psychologists themselves affirm.
However, in this case, unfortunately there was nothing in particular that captured my attention, so it remained merely vague, with no particular clarity.
If there had been a beautiful woman in beautiful attire present right before the lectern, the area about six feet around her might have become quite clear; but unfortunately, as she was not there, I found myself unable to fully explain my psychological state.
Therefore, we called this broadly bounded, nebulous content the field of consciousness, and within it, the relatively clear points we referred to as focal points.
This was, as I had previously stated, a simultaneous case that did not place emphasis on the passage of time, but the same could be said regarding temporal progression.
However, since explaining this would have become tedious, I omitted it.
Furthermore, as I considered that things conjured up in the mind through imagination would also be perceived in much the same way, I omitted this explanation.
Now regarding the examples I mentioned earlier—they were explained solely through visual impressions for clarity’s sake; I ask that you kindly understand their actual scope to have been far broader.

First, if we liken our minds to a broad, long river, the entire width would not be clearly visible; only certain points within it became prominent, and these prominent points took turns flowing downstream along the current.
And this sequence of prominent points constituted the core of our internal experience; since a portion of this experience manifested in various forms through creative works, the manner in which these focal points were selected and connected determined the creative writer’s attitude.
If we did not take a one-shaku width merely as its full width, but instead placed emphasis solely on a single point within it, then naturally the process of selection and rejection came into play.
And since this selection and rejection was determined by our attention—whether intentional or natural—I believe we may safely state that the directed arrangement or application of this attention constituted what we call attitude.
(I will not discuss here the nature or development of attention itself.) When I was in London some years ago, I once walked through the city with Professor Asai, who had recently passed away.
At that time, wherever we went—in every town we entered and at each building we passed—Professor Asai would comment on colors, exclaiming “That’s a fine hue” and “This shade is splendid,” continuing his chromatic observations until we finally returned home.
Truly befitting a master painter, he was indeed different—I came to fully realize that Professor Asai perceived the world as being constructed through color.
Then there was also an old man of about eighty—a retired military officer—living in my boarding house.
He was a man as regular as clockwork, taking his walk at the same time and place every day, but whenever this old man went out, he invariably returned with a spoon.
However, they were not as large as Japanese rice paddles.
They were Britannia metal spoons used as children’s toys.
When I asked the landlady of the boarding house, she said they were lying in the street.
However, even when I went for walks, I had never found any lying around.
Yet the old man alone strangely managed to find and bring them back.
And then he meticulously arranged them in his room.
Apparently he had amassed quite a considerable number of them.
And I was impressed.
It wasn’t that I was impressed by anything else in particular, but I couldn’t help being considerably struck by how this old man’s worldview had been constructed entirely from spoons.
This was merely one example.
To elaborate—as I mentioned at the start of this lecture—it varied from person to person; they seemed capable of creating any number of wondrous worlds entirely at their discretion.

When we consider philosophers like Kant and Hegel, they appear to have constructed worlds that ordinary people could never comprehend.

As it is utterly impossible for me to individually present this complexly developed world as a completed entity, for clarity’s sake I shall take an extremely simple experience common to ordinary people, explain how practitioners’ attitudes diverge, and demonstrate that these shifts in attitude can be directly applied to understanding changes in creative writers’ approaches.
I shall address only the most rudimentary aspects, touching upon general points alone, in the belief that this may serve as a partial interpretation of fundamental principles—this being the rationale that prompted my undertaking.

The simplest of our experiences is sensation.
In recent psychology, this term has come to be given a kind of limited meaning, representing one aspect of certain simple total experiences; however, I use it in the sense of total experience for convenience's sake.
Since I employ the term merely for convenience, I believe you will understand there being no actual conflict upon hearing my explanation.
Now, certain psychologists appear to argue that sensation constitutes a simple experience obtained through decomposition, whereas our actual lived experiences begin from more complex origins—but that poses no issue.
As long as sensation expresses simple experience, it suffices for my purpose.
If this proves inconvenient, you need not adopt such terminology.
To avoid tedious explanations—and since illustrating through examples will allow quicker comprehension—I shall immediately proceed to concrete instances.

At times when passing by a sake merchant's shop, you might have seen a clerk in an indigo-striped kimono with a Chinese twill apron tied triangularly under his Ogora sash, carefully loosening the straw-wrapped spout of a barrel to pour a modest amount of sake into a cup before bringing it to the tip of his tongue.
Given his profession, when observing him refrain from proper savoring, he spat out the sake with a puff even before a droplet could touch his tongue.
Then he drew from the next barrel in identical fashion, deposited it onto his tongue's tip just the same, and proceeded onward one after another.
Yet no matter how many times he repeated this ritual, he never actually drank.
One might expect him to relish it, but he persisted in spitting out every drop.
Later, this same clerk returned home from the shop to have his evening drink with Kami-san using a serving tray.
This time, he drank it properly.
He never spat any out.
Perhaps finding one bottle insufficient, he might have grabbed a tokkuri with his reddened hands and dangled it before his wife's eyes, hinting at another.
First, these two approaches to sake—though strictly speaking one constitutes spitting rather than drinking—prove fascinating when compared.
While "research" may seem too grandiose a term, through clever explanation I could make it sound rather impressive for your amusement.
Fundamentally, both the shop-tasted sake and that gulped beside the long brazier represented identical experiences for this clerk.
True, shochu versus vermouth or beer versus white sake differ entirely—but considering alcohol of matching type, grade and value spat at work yet drunk at home, only expulsion versus consumption differed; the tongue's sensation remained constant. Thus he essentially replicated the same taste experience.
To this extent, any observer would deem it identical.
But does this consistency hold throughout? It diverges.
His shop tasting aimed to assess quality—mouthfeel components like prickly texture or mild finish that indicated market value and origin—whether Nada, Itami, local brew or nigori—in short, evaluating its qualifications.
Viewed through evening drinking's lens, the character changed utterly.
Depending on circumstance he might smack his lips while remarking "This batch tastes fine—must cost ninety sen per sho," but this involved no study of pricing.
Even were ninety sen to become one yen, so long as it pleased his palate when drunk, all proved satisfactory.

From this perspective, both approaches differ fundamentally. The clerk's occupation consists in utilizing sake's flavor to discern its properties, whereas relishing that same flavor to obtain gustatory satisfaction constitutes the essence of evening drinking. Both undeniably share the same experiential basis. What diverges lies in how this experience is processed. To rephrase this shared phenomenon: their focal points differ; their orientations of attention diverge. To employ this lecture's pivotal terminology, their fundamental attitudes differ. (This analytical framework may deviate slightly from Wundt's theories. While I hesitate to contradict an authority of his stature, my approach proves indispensable for coherent explanation—hence its adoption here. Moreover, I maintain this methodology encounters no substantive obstacles.)

Proceeding one step further, if I were to explain how these attitudes differ, the clerk’s approach constitutes an attitude of casting the sake’s flavor outward. That is to say, he uses his own sense of taste as a means to discern a part of that which lies outside himself—(what I earlier termed “non-self”). To use a simile, the taste of sake flies out from the tip of the tongue and works in the direction of diving into the sake to settle there. In the case of evening drinking, this operates in the opposite direction. Within non-self there exists what we call sake, and due to certain circumstances, that sake comes flying in from outside to invade the self—or rather, we recognize that the self has been invaded. To put it concisely, one is an attitude that shifts from self to non-self, and the other is an attitude that shifts from non-self to self. One can be described as an attitude where non-self acts as host and self as guest, while the other may be called an attitude where self becomes host and non-self guest. From the clerk’s perspective, the taste of sake itself becomes an attribute of the sake, so this could be termed an attributive experience. From the perspective of evening drinking, the taste of sake becomes a matter of one’s own happiness or unhappiness (or if that seems too grandiose, pleasure and displeasure), so we might call this a receptive experience. To put it in Western terms, I think it would be appropriate to call this affective. Alternatively, from the perspective of the clerk emphasizing sake external to himself, this could be termed an objective attitude; while from the viewpoint of evening drinking—where the stimulation received by the self is regarded as an intimate part of oneself—it might be called subjective. Alternatively, since the clerk’s attitude constitutes one that seeks to clarify non-self, I think it appropriate to term this intellectualism; and since the evening drinking’s attitude consists of sensing through the self, I think it appropriate to term this sensualism. (The two -isms mentioned here—intellectualism and sensualism—are constructs I devised for convenience; I ask that you view them as separate from the psychological school of voluntarism.)

I believe you have mostly grasped this by now, but to be thorough, I should like to present a somewhat more complex example involving temporal progression.
I once read an account of Western lithography that described their techniques as truly astonishing.
What makes them astonishing is that these craftsmen could glance at an original artwork and instantly determine which colors to mix in precise proportions to reproduce its tones.
They would then execute this formula exactly, achieving perfect tonal fidelity.
This is essentially how their process worked.
Painters, however, operate differently—first conceiving in their mind what tonal effects to apply where for artistic interest.
They then mix their pigments—if Impressionists, applying pure colors side by side directly onto the canvas.
Thus they achieve their desired tones.
Comparing these two approaches, both employ technical means to attain chromatic objectives—in this respect they appear identical.
Yet we must emphasize that their attitudes upon achieving these colors differ fundamentally.
The painter takes delight in the color itself.
He rejoices at having produced an excellent effect.
Beyond this pleasure, the technical knowledge required to achieve the result becomes irrelevant.
Yet without having internalized this knowledge in some form, such results could never be achieved.
Being unable to produce means being unable to enjoy—hence artists must absorb these processes through either implicit practice or theoretical study.
The lithographer's interest lies elsewhere—once commissioned to reproduce a work's tones faithfully, his task concludes.
Whether the colors stimulate retinas or evoke associations matters not at all—his concern resides solely in the colors themselves as objective entities.
His satisfaction comes from discerning exactly which pigments blended in what proportions created each hue.
Thus we might reasonably say he values not the pleasure derived from color, but rather the knowledge of color production—or more succinctly, knowledge about color itself.
Now both practitioners undeniably experienced the same completed colors.
Yet while the lithographer extrudes this experience from himself—recognizing color as an attribute of non-self and distinguishing it from other attributes—the painter receives it as stimulus reflecting from canvas to self, attending solely to how the color affects him.

Therefore, I think it appropriate to term the lithographer’s approach as an objective attitude embodying intellectualism, and the painter’s approach as a subjective attitude embodying sensualism.

First, through this I established interpretations of objective, subjective, intellectualism, and sensualism—though these pertained to extremely simple experiences. Since such experiences constituted single complete wholes, while they might be divided into two aspects through how one directed attention toward them—that is, through attitude alone—to presume humans were structured such that they must adopt either of these extreme attitudes and dispose themselves accordingly constituted a discussion that lacked moderation.
It was precisely for clarity’s sake that I drew such a clear-cut distinction; however, in cases where they diverged this distinctly, I believed it would not be incorrect to assume there existed only one at each extreme in all instances.
The majority of cases lying between these extremes likely encompassed both aspects.
If considering them as combined proved inconvenient, then it became preferable to say they were intermingled in a certain proportion.

Thus I appear as some self-important psychologist who has indulged in unnecessary prattle.
Feeling somewhat inadequate in this position, I should like to examine both aspects more thoroughly.
To convince you of the necessity for maintaining this distinction within simple experiences, I must explain how these two aspects—gradually diverging left and right through their development—ultimately become entirely distinct entities.

Since explanations should preferably remain simple, let us suppose here that there exists either an object or a person.
We shall consider this object or person as given.
The problem then becomes how methods of description develop in each case when applying both aforementioned attitudes to it.

Before proceeding, I must offer a brief preface: here we regard A as already given when present, and since the matter concerns how to describe this given A, it follows that the describer holds no right to select A.
However, when we previously likened our minds to a broad river, only a single point along its width became clear; this clarified point alone formed the focus of consciousness, while all else passed through in obscurity.
This focus develops where attention is strongest—and as I stated earlier, attention constitutes attitude.
Therefore, mental attitude possesses the prerogative of selection and elimination.
To posit A as given here does not mean mental attitude lacks the right to select A.
This discussion concerns A that has already been selected.

Under normal circumstances, I ought to have discussed how these two attitudes mentioned earlier create foci of differing natures through their particular modes of operation.
However pursuing this course would have led us into exceedingly complex territory; moreover I considered that the attitude of selection fundamentally aligns with that of describing what has been selected—there being no essential difference in their tendencies.
If we imagine Westminster Abbey catching the eye of someone like Professor Asai—that color enthusiast I previously mentioned—he would have selected this architectural subject through personal inclination; yet when proceeding to describe it (whether through mental composition, verbal explanation or written account) he would simply apply his original selective attitude while minutely focusing on details.
Though he might employ materials beyond mere architectural description—associations or symbolic concepts perhaps—to explain the Abbey's chromatic qualities; since these explanatory tools themselves were chosen through that same selective attitude; ultimately this amounts to an identical process.
(Of course exceptions do emerge.
Attitudes may shift midway through such processes.
Yet I must request your forbearance regarding these trivial contingencies.)

Therefore, regarding A as given, I wished to discuss only how the manner of describing it gradually diverges and moves apart.
While A itself remains unclear in nature, I believed the methods for describing it could be categorized into three under the intellectual (objective) attitude and three under the sensory (subjective) attitude—each from one side paired with one from the other.
Whether these pairings were accurate or not was certainly important, but upon comparison, my interest lay in where they aligned well. Moreover, since narration already fell within literature’s domain, I resolved simply to offer my spontaneous thoughts for your consideration.

The first stage constituted the state when description expanded a step into both objective and subjective aspects, and what interested me lay in viewing these left and right doors as a pair.
I thought I would term the objective description during this period as "perceptual".
That is to say, I intended to use this term to mean describing something as a synthesized whole—acknowledging it as such—where slightly more complex sensory attributes than the previously mentioned taste of sake coalesced into a unified entity.
If, for example, there was a Western-style desk here, one had to first acknowledge each of its attributes individually—that it was hard, black, smelled of varnish, square-shaped, had legs, and so forth—and only through synthesizing these acknowledged attributes did a complete description take form.
However, it seemed that this act of linking attributes served to further solidify objectivity compared to the earlier example of the taste of sake I had mentioned.
If one were to treat sight, hearing, and other senses with a purely subjective attitude, color remained merely color and sound merely sound; they remained relatively indifferent to the fact that this color and this sound were attributes jointly possessed by a single non-self entity.
Therefore, beyond stating that both color and sound were attributes of non-self, when we synthesized this color and this sound as attributes belonging to the same non-self entity, it came to mean that we confirmed the object's existence more decisively than before—thus this had to be termed a narrative that placed emphasis on an objective attitude.
What had to be noted here was that we must not interpret this as the disappearance of subjective elements.
As long as one actually saw colors and heard sounds, whether one synthesized these experiences and cast them outside the self or not, colors and sounds remained, on one hand, subjective facts.

With this, you had likely grasped the general meaning of what I termed perceptual description.
However, as attributes grew more complex, descriptions became increasingly lengthy.
When they became lengthy, not only did it inconvenience the one narrating, but those listening also found it difficult to synthesize all at once.
Therefore, to simplify this description, it became convenient to naturally resort to bringing out something similar to what needed describing that had already coalesced within the listener's mind and have it serve as a substitute.
For example, when explaining a persimmon to a Westerner who had never seen one, likening it to a red eggplant led to quicker understanding than describing the persimmon itself.
Of course, this substitute red eggplant had to already exist within the listener’s mind; so long as it did, depending on how it was conceived, this anticipated the conceptual description to be discussed in the second stage. When we reached that point, I attempted to explain it in as unproblematic a manner as possible.
In any case, using such substitutes did not constitute pure description—it was merely an expedient—so if examined too strictly, some inconsistencies were likely to emerge.
However, practically speaking, not only did this substitute method hardly harm my central argument, but it actually resulted in making my ideas clearer to you all—hence my decision to proceed in this manner.
Not only that, but by proceeding thus, it became remarkably convenient when comparing [the objective approach] with its subjective counterpart.

Thus, in conclusion, the most convenient form of perceptual description becomes describing things through forms perceived by the eye, heard by the ear, touched by the hand, tasted by the mouth, and smelled by the nose—such as likening a Western-style desk to a Chinese-style desk, a persimmon to a red eggplant, or a donkey to a mule.
I shall establish its general form as "A is like B."

As for what constitutes the subjective counterpart to perceptual description—since I find myself somewhat at a loss for terminology—I shall temporarily borrow the term “simile” as used in conventional rhetoric.
However, since this may not seem like a conventional simile at all, I ask that you bear this distinction in mind.
According to ordinary rhetoricians’ theories, similar things are explained using similar things.
Were this all there were to it, there would appear no essential difference between explaining a persimmon as resembling a red eggplant or likening a Western-style desk to a Chinese-style one.
Yet when we examine actual examples, we find some that differ markedly in nature.
That person’s heart resembles stone.
There exist expressions such as “That man is like a tiger.”
In such cases I have borrowed the term “simile” to denote first-stage subjective description.
This stems solely from certain descriptions conventionally classified under “simile” sharing tendencies with what I term first-stage subjective narration.
Now consider my earlier example—“That person’s heart resembles stone”—where placing “heart” and “stone” side by side offers no basis for comparison.
Even in “That man resembles a tiger,” it remains true that tiger and human can never coincide.
Yet people employ these expressions without sensing incongruity.
This implies there must exist some point of similarity.
By examining these points of similarity,I believe we may clarify the distinction between these two modes of description.
When we find such comparisons between human hearts and stones inadequate,might this not arise from our tendency to cast our experience of stones from self into non-self—that is,to perceive outside ourselves an immovable mass we name “stone”?
Once thus externalized and named,and so long as our attitude operates from self toward non-self,the stone persists eternally as stone—utterly incomparable to the human heart.
Our experience of stones undeniably comprises attributes like hardness,coldness,and starkness;yet once these attributes become fixed as defining the stone’s essence and clarifying its significance,fexibility vanishes.
We become irrevocably bound to the stone.
Bound thus,we cannot possibly describe hearts of wholly different nature.
The hardness resides in the stone’s being hard;the coldness in its being cold—we cannot strip these qualities from stone to confer them upon heart.

However, if one changed their perspective and experienced that hardness and coldness as emanating from the stone—not through acknowledging the stone itself, but through being acted upon by the stone—then the coldness became one's own coldness, and the hardness became one's own hardness. For upon encountering the stone's experience, one immediately detached from the stone itself, retaining only the feelings of coldness and hardness. Therefore, should anything evoke this same feeling, one could transfer and apply it to anything whatsoever.
Thus did the description that "that person's heart is like a stone" become meaningful.
This represented a case of comparing entirely different natures—indeed, it was rather extreme.
The more the attributes of the comparing and compared entities resembled each other in one or more points, the closer we approached an objective comparison, thereby gradually becoming connected to perceptual description.
For example, even a simile such as "that person was like a tiger" leaned somewhat more toward perceptual description when compared to the comparison between stone and heart.
The reason was that in the point where a tiger was an animal and a person was also an animal, this already constituted a comparison with objective value.
Even without the concept of 'animal' altogether, it would not have mattered—as long as there were similarities in where they slept, what they ate, and how they walked, there was objective value.
No matter how dissimilar the skin might be, no matter how different the leg shape, no matter how mismatched the number of beards—as long as there existed some point of similarity, it was a comparison with that much objective value.
However, if one had insisted on similarity in the aforementioned points, there would have been any number of comparative objects that asserted even better similarity.
For example, saying that person resembled their father or was like their mother was far more appropriate than saying they were like a tiger.
One should have been able to produce a proper perceptual description.
Yet abandoning this to bring forth a tiger—the comparison possessing least objective value—occurred because they selected ferocity from among all dissimilarities, recognizing it as the most crucial similarity.
Now, this selection was determined by our attention, as I had stated earlier—in other words, it was decided by our attitude.
Then the question became whether this attitude was objective or subjective.
If one objectively viewed ferocity as an attribute of tigers, then ferocity ultimately remained the tiger’s ferocity and could not by any means be separated from the tiger.
On the other hand, since human ferocity could also be viewed objectively, both types of ferocity could be compared as entities detached from the self.
However, by reversing the direction of the same experience and comparing only the feelings arising from ferocity received from a tiger and ferocity received from a person, this constituted a subjective attitude.
Therefore, in this case, both could be perceived, and both were correct.
However, when we considered what actually occurred, while there were naturally variations depending on individual habits and circumstances, in many instances, it seemed that many people placed greater emphasis on the subjective aspect.
Therefore, when I used a tiger in this type of comparison, it was because the tiger possessed the least objective value, and also because there existed a tendency to focus on even those parts with objective value through a subjective attitude, that I regarded this as descriptive of that aspect.

As evidenced by the stone and tiger examples, gradations already exist in subjective intensity. Proceeding further to descriptions like "the moon resembles a sickle" brings us one step nearer to perceptual expression. (I shall forgo detailed analysis here as it would prove tedious.) Through this progression—as objective valuation incrementally strengthens—we ultimately attain perceptual description.

The contrast between perceptual description and simile (as I term it) fundamentally manifests as follows.
The former makes intellect primary through objectivity as its defining characteristic, while the latter prioritizes sensation through subjectivity.
Yet when describing their ordinary state, both aspects intermingle somewhat—precisely as I have demonstrated through examples.

I now moved to the second pair of stages.
In one aspect of this second pair, I wished to name the objective attitude as conceptual description.
Then for the subjective attitude of its counterpart aspect, I again borrowed terminology from conventional rhetoric and designated it as metaphor.
The meaning I would now explain.

When one looks at something twice and thinks "Ah, that's it," we call this recognition.
When one repeatedly observes something over multiple instances and still concludes it remains essentially unchanged, we call this cognition.
If instead of repeatedly observing one object we examine multiple examples of its kind—Item A and Item B—then upon encountering another instance Item C of that category recognize it either as representative of its kind or merely another specimen—this constitutes conception.
The spotted dog next door was thus.
The white dog across the way was thus.
When experiences accumulate of dogs here and there being thusly observed all dogs come to be summarized as being thus.
When this perception solidifies further what was merely observed transforms into prescription—escalating into must-be-thus.
Once reaching must-be-thus one can form concepts applicable comprehensively across all dogs.
Because this must-be-thus concept exists one applies it even to unseen dogs and dogs yet unborn.
Now when walking through streets holding this concept one may suddenly hear a bark.
The individual promptly recognizes—ah—it has barked.
One declares this creature dog.
I wished to call this declaration this-is-dog conceptual description.
The dog stands singular.
Its ears may droop tail curl emit woofing sounds.
Yet mere observation of these traits yields no conclusion applicable universally across canine species.

Therefore, the dog in this instance is either a single dog or a representative that had existed beforehand in the mind.
The dogs that originally reside in one’s mind either enter under the name 'dog' or exist merely as abstract relational knowledge, thus lacking concrete form. A dog possessing form inevitably becomes a representative instance—though being synthesized from individual special cases, it has already lost its intimate subjective significance.
The personal element has perished.
To rephrase "dogs ought to be thus" is to say that all people should conceive dogs in this manner.
In other words, it departs from the stance of "however others may be, this is how I am."
What becomes universally applicable ultimately constitutes that which is objectively certain.
Therefore, despite the concept of a dog existing solely within the mind, its value becomes clear only when projected into the non-self world beyond thought.
On the other hand, those subjective elements become entirely lacking when compared to perceptual description.
Yet it is said that our knowledge has expanded within the non-self world.
However, since we customarily recall a single dog when speaking of dogs, in many cases the subjective elements prove less deficient than logic suggests; in this respect, it connects to first-stage perceptual description.
(Even here, declaring "this is a dog" adopts the most elementary form.)

This time, I shall move to the subjective aspect—that is, metaphor—as one door of the pair.
This, as you are well aware, is an altered form of simile—what rhetoricians have deemed a bold simile.
Instead of saying that person’s heart is like a stone, one declares their heart to be a stone and asserts that person is a tiger—this is the category in question.
In contrast to the first stage of comparison, here we identify the heart with stone and the person with a tiger.
Therefore, this constitutes an even greater disregard for points of objective dissimilarity than simile.
Therefore, in this regard, it can be considered an even more pronounced narrative of subjective attitude without issue.
(As other points follow the same argumentation as with simile, I shall omit them.)

When we reach the third stage, I believe a curious contrast emerges.
At this stage, both sides ultimately revert to symbols.
Strictly speaking, since even "dog" constitutes a symbol and "the heart is stone" represents a form of symbolism, what formally emerges in the third stage had already been germinating from the very beginning.
The most interesting example of symbols arising from an objective attitude lies in numerical representation.
For instance, x² + y² = r² is said to describe a circle through this relation.
A mathematician of my acquaintance once remarked that merely seeing this equation makes a circle materialize before his eyes.
It is rather terrifying.
Yet even if one comprehends this equation's meaning, I suspect it would take considerable time before circles thus manifest visually.
Furthermore, while x = Acos 2πnt denotes vibrational patterns and λ = 597μμ purportedly expresses light colors through wavelength—both appearing utterly arcane—these formulations condense matters otherwise demanding protracted explanation, all to economize effort.
Thus there can be no doubt they encapsulate relatively complex objective relations.
Consequently, while knowledge in the non-self world comprehending these may expand considerably in breadth and depth, one might say there remains not a shred of subjective experience—my own experience—in return.
However, since x² + y² = r² represents any circle qua circle, it directly corresponds to the concept of circularity.
Moreover, as some claim this formula instantly conjures a singular circle before their eyes, for such individuals it serves equally as perceptual description.
A truly expedient formula indeed.
Yet observing that no mathematics-loving colleague ever remarks on finding this equation either pleasing or disagreeable suggests it remains largely divorced from subjective description.

I shall now turn to discuss symbols on the subjective side.
Historically speaking, this would require citing French poets or such whom I do not know, which proves somewhat troublesome.
However, as I stated beforehand, since this does not concern literary history proper, I must beg your indulgence in permitting me to use homemade examples where possible.
In essence, please understand that any example will suffice so long as it conforms to this perspective.
Whether we declare that person's heart resembles stone or assert it to be stone itself, from the standpoint of employing stone to represent the heart, this remains a form of symbolism belonging to the subjective realm.
Yet when this advances further—when mere mention of 'stone' evokes the heart without explicit comparison—I would designate this as third-stage subjective symbolism.
Of course, I must note that some forms perfectly matching this description contain no subjective elements whatsoever.
Consider instances where a floating tea stalk portends visitors or a sneeze signifies gossip.
These symbols born of arbitrary conventions do not belong to our present category.
Nevertheless, even such mechanical symbols hold significance—through habitual association, one might see a tea stalk and anticipate guests, or sneeze and fancy oneself discussed.
For such individuals, these symbols retain subjective value.
Thus through mere mental disposition—whether ginseng becomes O-san-don's symbol or a gourd represents scholars—all prove as efficacious as sardine heads in superstitious rites.
Advancing further still, a crow's cry may portend calamity, wave sounds echo eternity's resonance, or starlight gleam as fate's harbinger.
At this stage not only does subjective value intensify, but analysis reveals these symbols transcend mere caprice.
Yet even this remains relatively insignificant.
Though connected to earlier stages, through layered development extremes manifest peculiar phenomena.
Let me briefly elucidate.
We derive our moods—subjective content—from the non-self world.
Yet this non-self world stabilizes only through mechanical laws' equilibrium.
Should this balance falter, immediate collapse ensues.

Therefore, there were times when desiring to enter such a mood that the forms of the non-self world capable of evoking it proved absent.
In other words, the mechanical laws governing the non-self world refused to operate according to our whims.
Thus emerged our desire to translate into an enduring formula those non-self forms arising when these laws' operations merged with our mood—when they generated precisely that mental state we had long yearned to attain.
Consider this haiku: "A hototogisu crosses Heian-kyō diagonally."
Heian-kyō persists through mechanical laws' equilibrium; it does not crumble lightly.
Yet even this cannot be witnessed in today's Meiji era.
The hototogisu itself being a swift bird,
its passages through Sujikai prove fleeting.
Before one can exclaim surprise—both bird and crossing vanish.
Since their disappearance denies us recapturing that mood, we preserve Heian-kyō at Sujikai's transient moment as though eternal.
Now suppose such consolidated moods—or forms, objectively speaking—gradually amass within minds.
Suppose they intertwine,
broadening and deepening.
There arises then a peculiar mood.
Though we might discover or imagine non-self forms matching each constituent fragment of this mood,
extracting anything objectively corresponding to its entirety proves impossible.
Flowers fall short.
Women dissatisfy.
We flounder—not this way nor that.
To describe this condition—borrowing Western parlance—one might term it "infinite longing" (mugen no shōkei).
When first encountering this phrase at university long ago,
I comprehended nothing.

Even so, I cherished and brandished it about.
Even now, I must confess I do not truly understand.
I can offer an interpretation, but as I lack genuine possession of this "infinite longing" (mugen no shōkei), there remains nothing to be done.
Yet if explained through my method, it becomes at least a descriptive term—thus presenting no particular issue.
In any event, such a mood arises compelling me to employ those descriptors, plunging me into torment.
Tormented, I strive to articulate it yet find myself incapable.
Were I to abandon the effort entirely, that would conclude matters—but should I attempt to express even one-tenth of it however imperfectly, I must inevitably resort to symbolism.
I do not express ten things as ten—though to claim "not expressing" would be erroneous.
I cannot express them.
Thus emerges a description constrained reluctantly to one element before ceasing.
If one were to express moods purely as moods—declaring "profoundly sorrowful" or "mildly cheerful"—there would be no initial debate over expressibility. But when seeking this object of mood—deep, vast, complex—within the objective non-self world, one must have ten emotions represented through a single form, compelling remembrance of the remaining nine through this symbol.
Yet since this constitutes an inherently impossible task even for its originator, it naturally grows far less accessible to others.
There exists an adage about hearing one and knowing ten—but this requires those who can see one and sense ten.
Moreover, whether this manner of perceiving ten from one coincides with the original speaker's intent becomes an exceedingly thorny problem.
In essence, what we employ as symbols may belong to the non-self world—yet what they intimate remains one's own mood.
To speak with utmost precision—it is my mood, not another's mood, nor certainly any mood of external objects.
Given this tendency, I have positioned such symbols within subjective attitude's third stage and likened them to counterparts like mathematical formulae.
(In Simmons' treatise on France's Symbolist school appears this passage:
"By avoiding the tedium of describing each forest tree individually—by treating nature as one fleeing its awe—we draw ever nearer to nature."
Moreover, while common folk believe they grasp reality through daily trifles—when these cumbersome affairs are swept aside—they draw ever closer to humanity.)

“it draws near to the essence of humanity—that which arises before the world and should persist after its passing.”
He also quoted Carlyle.
“The true symbol clearly and directly expresses the infinite.”
The infinite unites with the finite through symbols.
It becomes visible to the eye.
"appearing as though it were being attained"
(While these two men’s words—like “infinite longing”—seemed somewhat akin to mere descriptive terms, I have quoted them here for your reference.)

With this I completed my explanation of three subjective-objective pairs totaling six narrative types.
By explaining this much I did not mean to claim exhaustive coverage of all literary works.
However I believed this sufficed for understanding our general approach to handling experiences.
You would come to grasp both attitudes' meanings and how narrative styles diverge laterally through them.
This divergence pattern applied equally to ordinary people and creative writers.
Thus ultimately both creative writers' and laypeople's attitudes converged identically.
Some might have protested "How trivial! What does this signify?"
Trivial indeed.
I too found it trivial.
But only through such thorough dissection did I recognize its banality—previously I had been as perplexed as you.
Yet trivial though it was I could now articulate these points.
These six narratives formed a continuum between extremes.
They flowed seamlessly without discernible boundaries.
Restated: Neither objectivity nor subjectivity required exclusive adherence nor offered practical confinement—shifting per context proved proper while rigidity bred impasses.
Extreme objectivity yielded narratives only scientists comprehended; extreme subjectivity those few poets grasped—exceptions both.
But ordinary people wandered freely between poles.
Creative writers too moved through this ambiguous middle ground like anyone else.

Therefore, I believe that the various schools or -isms emerging in Western literary history could likely be arranged—based on their tendencies—along either side of these three objective attitude modes or three subjective attitude modes. I should think that schools such as Realism and Naturalism would belong to the former category, while those like Romanticism and Idealism would fall under the latter. I am not asserting these claims through historical study of these various schools. As I extend creative writers' attitudes to their left and right extremes to verify their tendencies—given our awareness of this or that Western school's existence—I roughly grasp their nature and consider: "Let us connect these schools' names to the two wings I've analyzed and arrange them accordingly; might they not be divided thus into left and right?" This constitutes the full scope of my proposition. Therefore, through this anatomical analysis, I have no intention whatsoever of defining historically established schools like Naturalism or Romanticism.

In other words, there is no such notion whatsoever that these left and right wings are identical to Naturalism or Romanticism.
I set out from the dissection of psychological states.
Therefore, I dissected them as simply and fundamentally as possible to settle the matter.
However, these so-called Naturalist or Romantic schools express through their contained works characteristics that are not only considerably complex, but since the very texts forming their content do not purely represent any particular school, they cannot possibly correspond entirely with the two wings I had developed.
However, speaking of general tendencies, I believe such a distribution and arrangement would not be unreasonable.

Now, as I have just explained, ordinary people wander between these two extremes.
Moreover, even when one selects a single narrative from these six types—the choice being the individual's own—those who hear or read it might interpret it as an adjacent narrative.
For instance, though someone might describe the moon as resembling an eyebrow with perceptual intent, a listener could receive it as simile.
A third party observing this could not declare either interpretation mistaken.
Both must be acknowledged as valid.
Might we then not say this:
While Naturalism and Romanticism inherently appear to branch left and right according to their tendencies, at certain junctures they become amenable to either interpretation—their classification ultimately determined by the reader's own attitude.
This was no matter of one or two isolated phrases.
Though perhaps disproportionate in scale, I shall relate an example to seek your judgment.
When Romanticism burned brightest in Germany—as you know—there existed a renowned woman named Caroline, wife of Schlegel.
This wife grew intimate with her husband's friend Schelling, ultimately severing ties with her spouse to unite with Schelling.
Moreover, in her correspondence at that time, she wrote: "The bond is hereby dissolved."
"I never conceived our union as spanning two lifetimes from the outset," she declared.
Since this already marked her second marriage to Schlegel, joining Schelling made her his third wife.
As for her husband—when divorce was proposed—he not only consented with chivalrous promptness but reportedly maintained cordial correspondence with Schelling even after their separation.
Let me share another such tale.
In Tokyo's outskirts stood a lodging town where a hardware store faced a fabric merchant across the way.
Yet the hardware proprietor's wife—for reasons unclear—departed her household to wed into the fabric shop opposite.
Thus from the very morrow of her remarriage, she sat at the new shopfront facing her former husband across the thoroughfare.
My informant wore a countenance verging on scandalized reproach as he laughed, remarking how rustics could be so blithely unconcerned.

If we take these two stories and examine them, we find they are strikingly similar.
However, while the former occurred at Romanticism's very core, the latter—though I hesitate to assign its school—appears more akin to a work of Naturalism.
Yet since the factual substance remains identical regardless, there is no helping it.
How then does this same matter come to be classified as Romanticism or Naturalism?
Well, if I were to explain it thus:
Romanticists emphasize subjective tendencies; love stands as both this tendency's most conspicuous manifestation and its most sacred element.
It is precisely because this element called love exists that forms like marriage or cohabitation hold meaning—once this essence vanishes, any form becomes irrelevant.
The party requesting divorce papers acts with resolve; he who grants them does so with understanding—thus both remain unburdened by formalities.
Yet in the fabric store case, though it might seem love-driven, perhaps this was a loveless marriage from inception where staying or leaving mattered equally.
However interpreted, we recognize not motives but an act violating conventional morality.
We perceive it either as bare humanity discarding virtue or primal instinct made manifest.
Caroline views her divorcing and remarrying as virtuous and beautiful.
The fabric store wife—well, one doubts she entertained such notions.
Thus observers concede such people exist with a bemused “So there are those who...” accepting it as fact.
Therefore when narrating these tales, only the narrative attitude differs.
Yet just as “eyebrow-like moon” admits dual interpretations per attitude earlier mentioned, so too might these marital accounts.
However much one writes of Kami-san subjectively or transcribes Caroline’s marriage objectively—readers may invert these modes.
Hence I deem it permissible to view Naturalism and Romanticism merging their objective-subjective narratives where possible.
(Though unlike “eyebrow-like moon”—a mere phrase—this broader matter resists decisive resolution.)
(Yet as these tales push both attitudes to extremes, I beg your lenient judgment.)

This served as an example demonstrating how a single attitude could be recognized in two different manifestations. However, I first wished to elaborate on what I had mentioned at the beginning of the previous section—that our attitude perpetually wavered between these two poles and could never be fixed to either extreme—before advancing our discussion further.

I resolved to explain this through as simple and commonplace examples as possible for clarity.

In ordinary conversation—indeed even in casual banter—we rarely believed ourselves to be employing subjective narratives.

We fancied that poetic, romantic phrases belonged solely to moments when one took up a brush to compose lyrical verses on paper.

Yet reality proved quite different—we persistently employed this mode of narration during lighthearted exchanges.

Expressions like “the worm in one’s belly won’t consent” exemplified this tendency.

No worm inhabits our bellies.

Even were such a worm present, none would consent.

And even if an unconsenting worm existed, who would deign to consult it?

Or consider when we say “my stomach rises”—how could a stomach that never sits rise at all?

We might also speak of “spinning eyes,” though I’ve yet to encounter anyone whose eyeballs actually rotated.

Nevertheless, all three expressions remained in common currency.

This occurred because we spoke through a subjective attitude and heard through that same subjective lens.

Only through this mutual attitude did such expressions gain communicative validity.

To phrase it grandiosely, our shared romanticist disposition enabled mutual comprehension.

Though I had prioritized brevity through concise examples, extending them at length would not alter their essential nature.

Adopting this attitude offered considerable practical advantages.

Conversely, remaining thoroughly romanticist still risked becoming tiresome.

“So you climbed Mount Fuji after all?”

“Yeah, I climbed it.”
“What was it like?”
“It’s just... indescribably tough!”
“Why?”
“First, your legs turn to lead, and your stomach turns to jelly.”
“Huh.”
“Then dynamite explodes at the base of your ears, and just as a great fire erupts in the depths of your eyes, a massive earthquake begins shaking inside your skull.”
“You couldn’t stand meeting someone like that.”
“I start to feel somewhat wary, thinking they might be a bit unhinged.”

Thus, when we elaborated at length, our narratives inevitably vacillated left and right between the six previously explained methods, ultimately settling wherever proved most convenient.
Creative writers were indeed no different in this regard.
Proof was better than theory: take any book, whether Naturalist or Romanticist, examine five or six pages line by line, and you would understand.
Romantic phrases appeared in abundance.
Even those who disliked romantic phrases shouldn’t have gotten angry or become so flustered—surely no one would have gone so far as to insist they must utterly suppress their indignation.
Romanticist texts were no exception; they never consisted entirely of Romantic elements.
You might perhaps have inquired: "Isn’t that just about phrases? Could your argument hold when applied to entire chapters or works?"
Indeed, when it came to an entire chapter or volume, even I found myself somewhat perplexed.
However, I did not think there was any need to surrender.
The reason was that in my view, whether it be a single phrase, two phrases, or even three consecutive phrases—all carried the essence of narrative. Moreover, since I intended to include as much as possible even those narratives beyond the previously explained types—such as recollections or critiques—the applicability proved unexpectedly broader than one might initially have thought.

I shall now advance one step further.
When examining the three narrative methods of the objective attitude through this lens, each serves to clarify certain relationships within the realm of non-self (though as initially explained, even the self may be regarded as non-self).
Their primary function lies in imparting knowledge.
To state it succinctly, their essential duty resides in manifesting truth.
By "essential duty," I mean a role that simultaneously permits engagement in subjective side work.
Should this side work fail to accompany them to some degree, the value of such narratives would diminish considerably.
It resembles how a university professor's income changes markedly upon leaving private institutions.
Indeed, consider someone like Mr. x² + y² = r²—wholly devoted to truth—who has virtually abandoned literature and must now sustain himself through scientific pursuits.
What benefits creative writers primarily concerned with truth is that truth itself carries inherent emotional attachments.
Take our earlier example: saying "a persimmon resembles a red eggplant" employs simile as secondary embellishment, while its fundamental purpose remains elucidating the persimmon's nature.
This serves to distinguish persimmons from grapes and pears.
When explaining persimmons through red eggplants today, whether the explanation succeeds, whether it captures the fruit's essence, whether apt comparisons are drawn—the degree to which one exclaims "Ah, I see!" varies significantly based on how closely persimmon and eggplant actually resemble each other.
This "Ah, I see!" moment perpetually adheres in varying intensities.
Though similes too require this exclamation, that constitutes mere supplementary labor—their true purpose lies in internalizing a stone's cold hardness, then perceiving human hearts through that acquired sensibility. Thus, the comparison's validity between stone and heart becomes secondary.
While persimmons and eggplants present the simplest case, slightly greater complexity allows this very "Ah, I see!" to form entire novels.
(When demonstrating causality.)
Conversely, works like Bakin's overflow with subjective elements yet lack adaptability—relying on similes like "Shizuka Gozen resembles a tiger"—until they become ultimately unreadable.
You might protest: "I grasp your 'Ah, I see!' notion well enough, but remains that not subjective?"
I must concede this—yet it emerges through clarifying objective relationships: that moment recognizing resemblances, transformations, or causal chains with admiration differs fundamentally from savoring already-established objective connections.
Consider someone unfamiliar with Sanshō Hanshichi's sake shop episode—their initial admiring "Ah" upon first hearing it differs in nature from the deliberative "Aha" when intentionally revisiting the tale, though both constitute admiration.

We call this byproduct that emerges when objectively clarifying relationships of non-self 'intellectual sentiment.'
Byproduct does not denote something inferior.
Rather—no—this is precisely what proves necessary within literature's domain.
However, since it arises chiefly through an objective attitude accompanying truth's manifestation, and having already divided creative attitudes into subjective (emotion-focused) and objective (intellect-focused), to now reassign this intellectual sentiment to the subjective category would needlessly complicate matters—thus it remains ancillary.
Still, this may render things somewhat tangled and hard to follow.
I must apologize for my explanation's inadequacy.
(Though 'intellectual sentiment' may sometimes seem overly grandiose a term, I shall let it subsume all for simplicity's sake.)

As for the objective—that is, the intellectual—aspect, it stands as described above; however, concerning the subjective—that is, the emotional—aspect, its purpose resides in sustaining, nurturing, or fostering sentiments toward beauty, goodness, and grandeur.
I cannot expound in detail upon the interpretation of these three.
Should one interpret beauty broadly, it may rightly envelop both goodness and grandeur.
Nay more—it might even subsume truth itself.
This lies wholly within human discretion.
It is merely a matter of demarcating one’s domain of consideration and bestowing names accordingly.
I must beg indulgence to exclude mere beauties that gratify eyes and ears—pleasant sounds and such trifles.
Yet I do incorporate elements spanning beauty and ugliness within this shared ambit.
As for goodness, not only do I mean to embrace both virtue and vice through it, but also to admit matters divorced from morality—hope, love, and their kin.
Grandeur encompasses sentiments toward will’s manifestation (and naturally includes even its latent potential when acknowledged).
It admits all from heroic intensity or magnificence above down to baseness or delicate frailty below.
Herein lies partial encroachment upon goodness’ earlier-defined sphere.
Following the doctrine that all emotions oft spur will or tend toward its transformation, these two categories might intersect at some juncture; yet Grandeur takes as its foundation our reception of deeds and conduct, while Goodness roots itself in our reception of moral sentiments themselves—such being my intended categorical distinction.
In scholarly discourse, one might rightly subsume them under a single heading.
Furthermore, when discerning will’s manifestation or latency in the so-called material realm beyond human agency, this will transmutes into something resembling physical *energy*.
At minimum, it diverges in essence from human volition.
When Grandeur’s manifestation or latency thus shifts to the material domain, it draws nigh unto Beauty’s category.
Hence, contingent upon circumstance, one may thrust it within Beauty’s bounds without qualm.
Having thus—albeit imperfectly—established interpretations of Goodness, Beauty, and Grandeur, literature’s purpose in this realm lies in articulating our reception of these three.
Yet our modes of reception tangle in infinite variation; when distilled, they resolve into “pleasure-displeasure” and crystallize as “likes-dislikes.”

That is to say: encountering goodness and favoring goodness; seeing evil and despising evil; coming into contact with beauty and loving beauty; approaching ugliness and abhorring ugliness; beholding grandeur and admiring grandeur; regarding weakness and scorning weakness—these constitute the pattern we describe.
Naturally, conceptions of goodness, beauty, and grandeur differ according to person and time; moreover, it cannot be said that the three never encroach upon one another.
Indeed, in the aforementioned story of Caroline, if obeying love is considered goodness, reading that story may bring one full satisfaction; whereas if obeying her husband is considered goodness, it becomes rather an unpleasant tale.
However much the world may turn upside down, there should be no society devoid of sentiments toward these three; no matter how indifferent a person may be, there is no one who entirely lacks likes or dislikes in this regard.
If such [a society] existed, it would be nothing but impossible to maintain.
To put it another way, society cannot be reformed.
We can implement mechanical improvements such as refining laws or increasing police numbers, but there is no way society can function while neglecting the crucial fundamentals that govern human behavior.
For this reason, literature that aims to maintain and promote these sentiments comes into being.

I stated in brief the objectives of literature from both objective and subjective perspectives.
When I spoke of 'purpose' here，it did not mean that the writer themselves must possess such a purpose prior to narration.
Even if only the result aligned with such a purpose，there was no issue whatsoever.
It is akin to our marriages—one does not necessarily take a wife with the express purpose of bearing children.
However，in many cases，it appeared as though they married with the purpose of bearing children.
That being said，there was no reason one must take a wife specifically for producing offspring，so if the result was the same，it didn’t matter either way.
I wished to call those who produced writings that naturally fulfilled this purpose without keeping it in mind artists of the art for art school.
When people commonly spoke of the art for art school，it somehow seemed to refer solely to writers who deliberately disregarded morality.
However，I believed that even if a work ended up instilling moral sentiments，as long as one did not undertake composition from the outset with this purpose as its primary focus—if only the completed result naturally fulfilled this purpose—such a writer still belonged to the art for art school.
While Hugo’s attacks had certainly been historically necessary in that manner，if one interpreted matters as I did，I believed there would have been no need for so much debate.
At the same time，I believed it would have been perfectly acceptable to set out from the very beginning with a fixed purpose.
I believed the arguments of those who normally criticized this stance were as follows.
Even though the work itself was the artist’s purpose，establishing a purpose prior to creation and forcing the work to serve as a tool for that purpose created strain，thereby giving rise to the flaw of affecting the work’s value.
If this was indeed the case，then it was perfectly reasonable.
However，in this case，there was no such clear distinction between establishing a purpose that existed beforehand in one’s mind and making the work itself the purpose.
A sword is a tool for killing people.
Then，the act of killing becomes the purpose.
Therefore，the two things were entirely different.
However，if one considered the act of cutting itself—what then?
Is it a means or a purpose?
If one considers it from the perspective of wielding a sword，it is a means；but viewed from the standpoint of killing，it may well become a purpose.

To rephrase it, each step forward in the act of cutting achieves the purpose of killing step by step; once the cutting is completed, the purpose reaches its conclusion—thus, there is no real difference between cutting and killing.
I think the distinction between literary composition and its purpose differs no more than that between cutting and killing.
Even if we treat composition itself as a means, would not the purpose be accomplished simultaneously with that means?
At least, if one undertakes composition with such a purpose from the beginning—whether approaching it with that understanding or focusing solely on composition itself—I believe it amounts to the same thing.
Therefore, whether one belongs to the art for art school or not makes no difference.
In conclusion, it can be stated that the objectives of literary composition can be categorized as outlined above.

The two attitudes and their objectives in literary composition are as I have just stated, but there is one thing I would like to mention for your attention: it is this.
When categorized in this manner, it may seem that what belongs to one category must not belong to the other.
While it may appear that one must resolve this dichotomy and clarify one’s position definitively, such an impression would ironically prove troublesome. To forestall misunderstandings, I have already invoked Caroline’s case and Bakin’s example two or three times when opportunities arose to elaborate on this matter. Nevertheless, I wish to reiterate my caveat: works that depict truth do not solely capture pure truth.
Nor do such works exist.
Moreover, no matter how emotionally driven one may be, such works cannot narrate while being completely divorced from truth—at least not in lengthy narration—so it is.
I recently read Sudermann’s play *Magda*, which tells the story of a woman named Magda who, defying her father’s wishes and disliking the prospective husband forced upon her, ran away from home.
After fleeing home and wandering from place to place, she became intimate with a man, bore a child, and was then abandoned by him.
The man returned to Magda’s hometown and posed as a respectable gentleman, while at the same time Magda became a famous singer in Italy.
After wandering from place to place, she came to her hometown for a performance.
She reconciled with her parents.
However, just as her past misconduct during her wanderings was about to be exposed and stir up another scandal, the man she had once abandoned appeared and made a proper marriage proposal.
There, if the city were to prosper happily, it would make for an utterly commonplace plot—but just as matters reached their climax, the man seeking to become her husband pleaded that their past affair—specifically the fact that they had a child together—be kept quiet, as it would jeopardize his current social standing.
Although Magda had seemingly accepted matters up to this point, she became furious at the notion that they could become husband and wife while keeping such a relationship secret, and refused to comply no matter how much he pleaded.
The father argued that if she did not consent, it would bring disgrace upon their family.
If it were said that he had a wayward daughter, he could not show his face in society.
If it were said that even your sister belonged to your family, no one would want to marry her.
Therefore, he pressed her to consent and accept what the man was saying.
Magda absolutely refused to listen.
The father finally died of anger.
This was the conclusion.

It is because of this passage that [the work] comes to differ in flavor from the trite love stories we have grown accustomed to since olden times, but it is precisely where the marriage issue ruptures that one can make people exclaim, "Ah, indeed!"
To say "Ah, indeed!" is none other than to mean it was novel.
It is reasonable to recognize new causality because we think such causality exists in today’s world.
This is because modern readers proceed through the text with eyes that recognize how, within people's hearts—even if not manifested to this degree in actual behavior—there likely exists, indeed must exist, something akin to Magda: that which cannot endure conventional expedient measures.
In this respect, this play has certainly demonstrated truth.
However, if we consider whether this play has no other merit beyond that, it certainly does have much.
The first merit lies in how this man's selfishness manifests through his attempt to whitewash past wrongdoings and present himself as a decent person—a disposition that compels readers to feel either hatred or contempt toward this particular aspect.
Yet since society forgives people as long as the surface maintains proper form—even if through falsehood—when one considers the man’s painstaking efforts to achieve mutual happiness by bringing matters to a proper conclusion through concealing past misconduct, it becomes somewhat pitiable.
One cannot help but feel sympathy for the father who is tormented by the thought that he must have her married publicly by all means—if only to strictly adhere to customary sanctions and clear his daughter’s disgrace.
Finally, when the daughter stubbornly resists conventional customs—refusing to the very end to enter a sham marriage under societal pressure, even if it means being disparaged by society and losing her social standing, thereby condemning her beloved child to lifelong obscurity—even those who do not share her sentiments cannot help but feel a certain admiration for this stance.
It is precisely these elements that make the play engaging, but these are all matters of subjective sentiment.
When viewed in this light, you will understand that works we thought contained only truth unexpectedly harbor other elements as well.
Contrary to this, no matter how subjective a work may be, there is none that does not contain any truth at all.
If they didn’t contain it, it goes without saying that they would be utterly unreadable.
Even that infinite longing cannot be fully expressed through mere interjections like "Alas" or "Ah" when attempting to narrate it; thus, despite its insufficiency, one must borrow objective forms to approximate its semblance.
Regarding that, there is such a story.
This is not a novel.
Assuming it to be factual—as it was written in some account—I shall present this merely as an example convenient to my purposes.
It is said that a certain Italian violinist, while traveling and staying for some time in Port Said, was taken notice of by a beautiful Egyptian woman of marriageable age, and they became intimately acquainted.
However, as this man had a fiancée back in his home country, when the time for his marriage finally drew near, he set sail from Port Said and embarked on his journey back.

However, when night fell—as the ship plowed through waves leaving a long wake in its path—that beauty suddenly appeared.
Her body and garments were translucent, yet her face remained vivid enough to unmistakably recognize her as that woman.
Only her complexion appeared deathly pale compared to usual.
Reaching from atop the waves toward the vessel, this woman gazed up at its gunwale while singing in a beautiful voice.
As her song resonated exquisitely across the water, all aboard were seized by an uncanny dread—until dawn broke and the beauty abruptly vanished.
Just as they sighed in relief, she manifested again that very night.
Stretching forth her hands, lifting her head, she glided over the swells trailing the ship's wake, singing through the dark hours in an utterly desolate voice.
With daybreak came her disappearance once more.
And when night returned, so too did she emerge again.

Eventually, as the ship finally arrived in Naples, the musician disembarked there and returned to his hometown, where a letter awaited him.
When he looked to see who the sender was, it turned out to be a friend in Port Said who had long been aware of his relationship with her.
When he immediately opened and read it, the letter stated that no sooner had you boarded the ship and set sail than that woman waded into the sea with a splash, ultimately vanishing without a trace.
—And with that, the story concludes.
Reading this story left me with an indescribably peculiar feeling.
The value of this story lies precisely in evoking such a peculiar feeling; thus, I understand which category it belongs to.
However, it is lacking in truth.
It was written as a factual account, but its value in that regard is rather lacking.
The matter of truth or non-truth must either be recognized through agreement among many people’s experiences, or there must exist someone—even a single person in the world—who acknowledges its existence and declares it truth; at which point others must come to recognize it—moreover, that person must be capable of proving its truth.
If something can be proven—even through experimentation—then its certainty remains beyond doubt.
However, when it comes to this ghostly tale, verification proves rather difficult.
It may become possible someday, but for now, it leans closer to falsehood.
Yet when considering matters like love in one’s heart or nostalgia—even if they cannot be shown to others, even if others cannot imagine them fully, even if one merely infers they exist in some approximate form within Person A’s or B’s breast—to me alone there remains nothing more certain than these feelings.
There exists no experience more profoundly real than this.
Therefore, if told this must indeed be truth after all, I have no choice but to concede they are perfectly correct.
Only when what holds truth for oneself becomes truth for others does socially valid truth emerge; thus, to construct this profound experience into an unshakable truth visible to all requires its objective grounding.
It was for this reason that at this lecture’s outset I preemptively declared even my own past experiences could be regarded as non-self experiences.
It is precisely present feelings that belong solely to me—yet I stated recalled feelings belong to another.
At minimum, I asserted they can be treated as belonging to those most intimately connected with oneself.
When we speak of “love,” it comprises but a single character.

When speaking of one's own love and another's love, even if their quantity and nature were identical, their owners would ultimately differ. The orientation of love differs. Its direction differs. Therefore, both one's own past love and another's love could equally be regarded as non-self experiences. At this point, we might step back to observe subjective love itself. The difficulty lies in how it fluctuates with time and circumstance—the degree of change becoming so strikingly apparent that its objective value diminishes considerably. More lamentably still, no matter how objectively one might perceive it, it remains inherently incapable of being objectively rendered. There was once a man troubled when a monk asked him, "Could you place your soul upon your palm and show it to me?" Had it been me, I would have written the character for "soul" on my palm and shown it to the monk. By the same logic, if told to perceive love objectively—if commanded to write of love objectively—I would simply write "love" and present it. I would write it as one writes "sweet" or "spicy." I would write it as one writes "white" or "black." Yet if told that this single character for 'love' proves inadequate—if instructed to elaborate at greater length—I would propose instead to compose a novel. Should this strike you as unsatisfying dregs in a teacup, then abandon such unreasonable demands; specify clearly whose love I must write—for though I grant love's objective existence, I cannot write of love abstracted from its roots any more than I could depict an uprooted potted pine—an absurdity from which I must beg leave to abstain. You may protest that this nearly eliminates subjective narration, but as I have reiterated since the beginning, there naturally exist instances where subjective and objective elements coincide—countless cases where judgment must rely on the writer's intent and reader's interpretation rather than formal principles. Thus in matters of form, coherence ultimately eludes us. Yet seizing this opportune moment, let me clarify these doubts by explicating the ghost story mentioned earlier. As stated, even acknowledging love's objective existence demands tethering it to an owner when narrating. It must be rendered through sensory appeal. Simultaneously, even when treating love as subjective experience, one must employ identical methods for its narration.

However, to conclude from this that they amount to the same thing would be somewhat mistaken.
The former approach recognizes love within phenomena of the non-self and depicts it; the latter approach acknowledges my own love and then casts it into the world of the non-self.
That is to say, its fundamental basis lies in the sentiment of love that I experience—this intangible, odorless sentiment—and establishes phenomena of the non-self corresponding to it.
The difference lies between [1] describing love as a constituent element within phenomena of the non-self—which nature provides unalterably—and [2] arbitrarily constructing phenomena of the non-self solely to narrate this profoundly experienced love bestowed upon me.
Therefore, while these two naturally coincide at certain points, when taken to extremes they diverge markedly in essence.
I consider that ghostly love story I mentioned earlier one such extreme example.
Here exists such poignant love.
This must be regarded as an answer forged in response to the challenge: How might one express such a thing? Can it ever be fully articulated?
To view this as some investigative report compiled under orders to survey society's varieties of love would miss the mark entirely.
Thus something of scant objective value was created.
It became something unrecognizable as truth.
Therefore when hearing this tale, you won't feel moved to exclaim “Ah yes! This must be how things are!” as with Magda’s conclusion.
Yet instead you may well think: “Quite reasonable—I wish it were so! May this come to pass!”
The phrase “may this come to pass” inherently suggests factual unreality—thus it ultimately degrades into falsehood.
When this degradation grows too severe, it becomes utterly unreadable.
It turns absurd.
Take even this story: had what trailed the boat been not a ghost but a living woman walking waves—casually calling “you” while beckoning—that would constitute true miracle.
A ghost’s existence remains unprovable either way, but living humans treading waves flagrantly violate natural law.
However much we might wish it so—this goes beyond jest! Such self-indulgence requires restraint.
There must be limits to mocking your audience—they may hurl the book aside, resentful at being treated like children.

(We must discuss the appeal of works like Journey to the West, Arabian Nights, or The Shaving of Shagpat as a separate matter.) Considering this, the meaning I previously articulated should now have become clear to you. That is to say, no matter how subjective a narrative may be, it must contain some degree of truth to remain legible—such works cannot be dismissed outright through one-sided categorization. While this ghostly example represents an extreme case and might be said not to positively embody truth, it should nevertheless be evident from my earlier explanation that it does not indiscriminately shatter truth. Moreover, since it is precisely this quality that prevents the reading from descending into absurdity, we may understand how essential the element of truth remains within narrative composition.

Having nearly exhausted my discussion on the purposes and relationships of both the objective and subjective attitudes, I would now like to say a few words regarding their respective characteristics.
Since I had naturally and unwittingly touched upon this issue even while explaining the relationship and purposes of both attitudes, I asked for your kind consideration in listening to this point.

Now then—you had likely understood that phrases, clauses, chapters, or broadly speaking, entire works emerging from an objective attitude rarely maintained pure objectivity—but let us assume they existed. Next, regarding the historically developed naturalist and realist schools—whether truly pure examples existed if strictly debated, I could not say—but again assuming they did exist, I would discuss these two schools by incorporating them into this category.
However, if it were asserted that neither naturalism nor realism was truth-centered, then that settled the matter; one simply ceased to engage with them.
Alternatively, even if it were truth-centered but said not to be what you called truth, one still had to cease engaging with it.
In most cases, I believed a reasonable interpretation of truth could be reached, and if one could connect—indeed, by connecting—my arguments formulated without regard for history with the entirely historically arisen schools, this would hold considerable interest for both you and myself, which was why I had proceeded thus; even should naturalism or realism defect from this category, I believed my argument would still remain a valid line of reasoning.
Therefore, there was no need to reiterate that the primary purpose of this category resided, as previously stated, in bringing forth truth.
Since truth was our purpose, we had to discard all feelings of preference.
We had to abolish the act of selection and rejection.
If I said this, you might have responded thus.
"If truth is our purpose, then we should favor truth; or at the very least, despise falsehood.
Is it not the natural course to take truth and discard falsehood?"
That was indeed so.
However, while truth and falsehood existed in the realm of writing, in the world of non-self—that is, in natural phenomena—there was no such thing as truth or falsehood.
Yesterday it had rained; today the weather had cleared.
If we were to consider rain as truth and clear weather as falsehood, it seemed clear weather would have found itself rather inconvenienced.
Reversing this, if we were to say instead that the rain was falsehood, then I believed the rain would have likely voiced its complaints.
Therefore, all phenomena in the universe were, by their very nature as phenomena, entirely true.
To like a fact because it was true or to dislike one because it was false—such selection and rejection were utterly impossible.
The occurrence of selecting truth and rejecting falsehood should have been said to concern precisely the works themselves that depicted these objective phenomena.
To elaborate, it was only when a bystander compared this work to nature itself, or contrasted Work A with Work B using nature as the standard, that truth and falsehood were established, selection and rejection became possible, and likes and dislikes arose.
Therefore, in literary works narrated with an objective attitude, there might be falsehoods—indeed, there should have been.

However, in the external world approached with an objective attitude, falsehood does not exist from the beginning; unless we posit that there is at least only truth, we fall into the same result as refusing to recognize truth's value from the outset.
Therefore, once one takes up the brush with truth as its foundation, there remains no room for interjecting personal preferences.
Thus it generally follows that there is no selection or rejection.
For example, there exists an ugly woman next door.
You say that seeing her grows tiresome.
That may be entirely at your discretion, but however unsightly she may be, what exists undeniably exists.
Should they decide not to register her in the family register due to ugliness, the ward office's investigation would become utterly unreliable.
It becomes falsehood.
If they were to exclude students they dislike from grade rosters on that basis alone, no institution would be less trustworthy than a school.
Considering this, nothing equals the fairness of characters depicting truth.
With an attitude of equal treatment for all, it should advance without hesitation or mercy.
In Brunetière's analysis of Balzac appears this passage:
Naturalist writers possess no right to value elephants over maggots.
While from biological development's standpoint elephants may occupy greater significance, this is by no means something naturalist writers arbitrarily deemed important through personal will—an intriguing phrase indeed.
(Brunetière's analysis of Balzac, being a single-author study, presents no systematic theory; yet regarding this point it proves most useful as reference material—I commend it to your reading.)
This notion of non-selection is in fact something I merely organize and elaborate from points scattered throughout Balzac's discussion.
This scholar also employs terms like "I," "Romanticism," and "lyricism" for explanation within the same work.
However, treating these two as distinctly separate entities may constitute a flaw.) Since we already adopt an impartial stance, there exists no selection of issues to address.
To say there is no selection does not mean everything entering the conscious realm becomes a focal point.
It signifies that any part of the conscious realm may relatively freely become a focal point.

It means not harboring aversion.
It refers to not being in a state where attention fixes solely on certain elements while meeting stubborn resistance that prevents focus from shifting elsewhere.
Therefore, rephrased differently, it also means abstaining from imposing one's own evaluations on phenomena requiring narration and avoiding hierarchical distinctions.
For instance: sitting across from a beautiful woman—a boon.
She recounts a love story—delightful.—Then abruptly she yawns.
—and suddenly disgust arises.
If one were to excise that portion simply because disgust emerged, the excision itself would render the account unfaithful to fact.
Yet since we commit to writing facts and transcribing truth, we must not discard a yawn based merely on capricious preference.
Omission becomes permissible precisely when justified as non-obstructive to truth.
Consider another illustration: here stands a physician.
To diagnose a patient's condition, he conducts urinalysis or stool examination.
To an observer, this appears decidedly unsavory.
Yet he exhibits no trace of fastidiousness, performing the tests with single-minded diligence.
He persists unfalteringly until ascertaining the composition of urine or feces.
Should there exist a physician who declares, "This filth warrants abandoning midway," such would prove calamitous indeed.
This would constitute abandonment of medical duty.
Nor does this apply solely to physicians—scholars too must heed this principle.
The zoologist laboriously retrieves a water droplet from a muddy ditch and peers through his microscope with rapt attention.
Do you not discern multitudes of creatures?
Yet all stand incontrovertibly nude; nay, they may periodically assume postures of dubious propriety.

The zoologist peering in observes this state of affairs and thinks, "Ah, this is terrible—it’s harmful to public decency; I should abandon my research." While no such fool likely exists, what if one did?
He may indeed be a zoologist of the highest moral character, but as a researcher of truth, I must say he is scarcely worth three coppers.
I believe literary scholars follow this same principle.
Since the aim is truth, to avoid it is cowardly.
We must write explicitly.
We must apply our brush boldly and without reserve; otherwise, we lose all dignity before truth.
(As I have explained in the philosophical foundation of literature regarding how this point occasionally conflicts with sentiments toward good, beauty, and the sublime, and as I previously exemplified how when one aspect strengthens, another weakens—I trust you recall this) however, it cannot be said that those who advance toward truth are necessarily devoid of preferences.
It is only while advancing toward truth that they rid themselves of preferences.
A doctor who examines urine cannot always be interpreted as being indifferent to urine.
If they were truly indifferent, they should be able to eat calmly even with a chamber pot placed on the dining table.
Even animal scholars who study insect mating would not have the courage to apply that attitude to all matters beyond insects.
We must interpret this as meaning that one becomes truly engrossed in truth only when researching it to the extent of forgetting all else.
Literary scholars who depict truth share the same attitude as these doctors and zoologists; it is an undeniable fact that in their daily lives, they remain people who cling to goodwill, concern themselves with beauty and ugliness, and take note of the sublime and inferior.
Willows are green, flowers are red—what other wonders do they say exist beyond this?
However, the actual world is not this drab.
It is human nature to want to moor a boat to a willow or to hold up a fan beneath flowering branches.

At this point arose such an outcome.
Literature that depicted truth needed only pursue truth to suffice.
As result they deemed acceptable even when clashing with other sentiments.
"—Readers might disapprove—but truth exists beyond selection or rejection.
It became impartial narration.
It became description divorced from preference.
Thus embedding private judgments in praise/censure plunged one into self-contradiction.
When those who conventionally upheld good and shunned evil in actual life beyond their works—who loved beauty and detested ugliness—displayed attitudes within their writings of reversed polarity promoting evil and encouraging ugliness; this constituted not merely mistaken standards but deserved being called double suicide through inverted application of errors.
When people who obtained state remittances under book-purchasing pretexts misappropriated funds through separate channels—already erroneous—then squandered everything on self-ruin despite legitimate uses existing; this surpassed questions of justification into realm of being rightly deemed intellectually deficient.
Fortunately no such writers exist in today's Japan—yet given Naturalism's prevailing currents alone might spawn such works anytime henceforth—I appended this humble opinion that mutual vigilance would prove wise.

Having thus roughly clarified the characteristics of literature that depicts truth, we proceeded to examine those of literature that narrates goodness, beauty, and the sublime to maintain or enhance sentiments toward them.
However, since this was a relational matter that would become clear through mutual consideration with the preceding section, I presumed you had already recognized the outline of my forthcoming explanation.
That is to say—though calling it partiality may sound peculiar—this attitude's lack of impartiality contrasted with objective fairness; it was fundamentally governed by preferences.
The principle dictated that only one part within consciousness's breadth must become the focal point determined by attention; thus where preferences related to attention, stronger preferences naturally attracted greater focus.
Therefore preferences governed this focal point.
When transferring these conscious contents onto paper—having clearly recognized likes as likes and dislikes as dislikes—writers would either avoid unpleasant matters entirely or depict detestable things through their disfavored aspects.
They rendered them in ways that conveyed disgust.
Ultimately they portrayed their favored subjects as tools for highlighting interesting elements.
Thus narratives became evaluative narratives.
Though evaluations often remained implicit rather than explicit, describing both likes and dislikes impartially resembled demanding one depict hot and cold properties while treating boiling water and cold water as identical—an inherent contradiction.
If one described both aspects evaluation became inevitable.
Moreover even when selecting only preferred aspects—unless all selections appeared equally valuable to authors—evaluations had to manifest whether overtly or covertly.
In this sense (meaning establishing distinctions) Brunetière’s concept of 'no selection or rejection' proved impossible in such literature.
Since interpreting 'selection' as strictly choosing A over B risked misunderstanding I felt compelled to clarify this point.
Given these inherent qualities characteristics elusive in truth-depicting literature emerged here.
That is it allowed discerning authors' tastes through their works.
If we accept that tastes constitute personality’s greater part then through works we might glimpse authors' visages without impropriety.
Thus when profound tastes manifested through works written by eminent figures—and when those wishing to receive their influence emerged—harmonious resonance enabled ripple-like transmission of taste granting even single works profound impact.
Yet in societies devaluing individuals worlds rejecting heroes eras thriving on egalitarian disregard for distinction nations treating reverence as superstitious residue—such results naturally failed to materialize.
Consequently writers found cultivating refined tastes fostering noble preferences acquiring uncommon elegance increasingly unnecessary.

In other words, it was because society did not demand that writers provide evaluations of phenomena.
It was because readers had become entirely those who said: “You need only provide the facts; we will take care of evaluations ourselves.”
What we wanted to know were facts; while authors might need to emphasize their role as mediators providing these facts, readers had become entirely those who declared that the author’s personality, tastes, and evaluations were rather a nuisance.
Though this nuisance was acknowledged, the question remained whether those who perceived it as such—each possessing their own evaluative standards—approached their work while applying those standards.
If they did not—though eliminating this attitude entirely was impossible—those who approached writing with truth as their foundation found their evaluative faculties growing more sluggish than anticipated; as a result, humans gradually became impaired.
One’s own taste—though none existed entirely devoid of taste—underwent cultivation through contact with kindred tastes; it was enlightened through encounters with divergent tastes; and it was refined by being drawn toward higher tastes.
Since society’s operation depended more than seventy percent on this taste’s manifestation, when such taste became isolated and withered away, societal progress halted.
The part that did not halt proceeded only like machinery.
“Mr. So-and-so divorced his wife because he wanted money.”
“I see—that too constitutes a fact.”
“That man reportedly stole to fund his geisha outings.”
“Ah—that too constitutes a fact.”
“Mr. So-and-so never keeps his promises—it’s intolerable.”
“Indeed—that too constitutes a fact.” Should one persist in this factual fixation without ever judging whether someone was detestable or admirable, such a person would end up merely observing the world with folded arms: neither shifting toward good nor avoiding evil, incapable of grand designs nor ashamed of baseness, their delight in dawn blossoms and evening moons utterly exhausted—a human rendered unfit as spouse, friend, or parent.

Having reached this point, we noticed a strange divergence inherent in both objective and subjective literature.
In literature that pursued purely and exclusively after truth，human free will was denied.
For instance，consider an A who killed B out of anger.
He fled fearing punishment.
He took his own life in remorse.
Assuming this progression，when anger became the root cause for murder，which then birthed fear of retribution，which itself spawned regret—culminating in suicide through regret’s consequence—we had to regard these layered entanglements of causality as products entirely shaped by natural law.
The killing，the fearing，the regretting，the self-destruction—none were acts of personal volition.
Upon committing murder，he inevitably felt dread regardless of inclination；this dread bred remorse despite evasion attempts；this remorse then compelled him inexorably toward suicide.
We could only view him as a man born under fate’s decree to ascend these fatal steps.
To rephrase using my earlier terms：this man’s conduct stood beyond evaluation.
It belonged to that realm transcending praise or censure.
Willows are green；flowers meet their end in crimson streams.
Thus we could neither condemn the murderer nor commend the suicide.
To assign blame，we must blame nature itself.
To offer praise，we must praise nature alone.
Rather than burdening humans with duty，we must impose obligations upon God or some equivalent force.
Yet when considering literature rooted in sentiment—where preferences and judgments exist—we must deem characters’ actions manifestations of free will.
One might turn right.
One might turn left.
Yet he forsook right and chose left.

Therefore, he becomes esteemed.
He is deemed commendable.
It is precisely because the act was committed through the exercise of his own will that we can hold the perpetrator fully responsible—and because we can do so, the responsible party himself becomes eligible both to be blamed and to be praised.
If one were to dismissively assume that it was not oneself who acted but rather the law of causality that brought it about, then even if we could recognize attributes such as good and evil in the act itself, the person who dared commit the act would have neither sin nor virtue.
When matters reach this point, human thinking must undergo considerable change.
Since I am born of nature and act according to its dictates, even if I commit sins or perform wicked deeds, there is nothing to be done. Do not resent me; do not envy me—it all comes down to this.
Therefore, they will likely act arrogantly and behave inappropriately.
In that case, we would only end up causing mutual inconvenience.
Society begins to crumble.
While whether literature's purpose lies in directly remedying this flaw may be beside the point, it is certain that sentimental literature possesses the effect of supplementing this deficiency.
Moreover, if the supply of this sentiment were to be cut off, we—deprived of vital nourishment—would only waste away day by day.

The characteristics of these two types of literature were as outlined above.
Given that they were as outlined above, both were important.
It was by no means a shallow-rooted notion—the kind that claimed if only one existed, the other might be expelled from the literary world.
Moreover, precisely because there were two names—Naturalism and Romanticism—they were conceived as opposing forces glaring at each other with reinforced defenses and deepened moats; yet in reality, only their names could be set in opposition, while their contents intermingled considerably as they moved back and forth between both sides.
Not only that, but there would also arise works that could be classified into either category depending on one’s perspective or interpretation.
Therefore, to elaborate on this distinction: not only did countless variations arise between the pure objective attitude and the pure subjective attitude, but when each of these variations was combined with others to create hybrids, innumerable secondary changes formed. Consequently, one could not simplistically assert that such-and-such a work belonged to Naturalism or such-and-such a work belonged to Romanticism.
Rather than this, I believed today’s shortcomings might be remedied if—instead of merely dissecting works to point out how certain passages exhibited romantic sensibilities in this sense and others naturalist sensibilities in that sense—one were to explain not only these observations but also avoid simplistically regulating the identified sensibilities under the mere labels of “romantic” or “naturalist,” instead clarifying what proportion of heterogeneous elements had intermixed within them.
One might consider whether today’s Japanese criticism was leaning toward categorizations akin to declaring Yamagata a Choshu man and Oyama a Satsuma man.
Rather than that, I believed that dissecting what kind of person Yamagata was and synthesizing what kind of person Oyama was would be a more appropriate method for evaluating the two marshals.
Even so, Choshu and Satsuma occupied fixed areas on the map, so their confusion seemed relatively minor; however, the two schools adrift along the currents of history retained their former names while their substance perpetually shifted—a far greater inconvenience.
Therefore, if one did not take literary works as the basis but instead took principles as the basis, I thought it would be appropriate to clearly define the significance of those principles, then arrange under them the parts of works that aligned with said principles, thereby treating these as exemplars of the principles.
I wished to reform the mindset that could not rest without identifying a single work with a single doctrine.
From this point onward, the nature of literary works would grow increasingly complex through the combination of heterogeneous elements, making it naturally imperative to acknowledge numerous transformations.
Therefore, to not only attempt regulating all matters by treating two or three principles as eternally fixed entities but also refrain from condemning how these regulatory standards shifted year by year constituted an extreme inconvenience for writers yet to emerge—and I believed it exposed the irresponsibility of critics.

I had nearly finished discussing the objectives, characteristics, necessities, and relationships pertaining to both objective and subjective aspects.
This concluded my general exposition.
While I believed this theory held universal validity, determining which approach proved comparatively more necessary in contemporary Japan presented a distinct problem—one I resolved to examine before concluding my lecture.
As previously stated, the purpose of literature rooted in sentiment lies in preserving, cultivating, and elevating moral sensibilities.
Now these given sentiments adhere inseparably to given social phenomena.
Consider filial piety—a sentiment fundamentally attached to the parent-child relationship.
Yet through complex social causation, this relationship within our Japan had undergone remarkable transformation.
When such relational foundations shift, evaluations of filial piety must inevitably follow suit.
Nevertheless, narratives persisting in applying evaluations tethered to antiquated familial structures could only serve to either maintain conventional devotion, enlighten the unfilial, or deepen existing piety.
None would claim parental neglect permissible simply because ours isn't an age of filial supremacy—yet how should we regard narratives employing absolute judgments reminiscent of bygone eras?
The character for filial piety undeniably retains prominence in the Imperial Rescript as a vital sentiment; however, given modern society no longer permits parents absolute authority as in former days, we must surely exercise measured evaluations attentive to these shifting realities.
To narrate through rigid traditional valuations would render works obsolete.
Their intended purpose would thereby fail.
In antiquity, submerging oneself in suffering's abyss for parental sake might have constituted piety.
Even through modern eyes such acts might retain pious aspects—yet should a daughter refuse such extremes, the matter's inherent nature would likely spare her accusations of impiety.
Thus had evaluations of filial devotion declined.
When soliciting Western perspectives on this matter, they professed utter inability to comprehend it from outset.
In Western contexts, filial valuation sinks yet further.
That such evaluative shifts ultimately stem from transformations in social conditions—as earlier discussed—meant understanding these changes eliminated any need to cling obstinately to traditional assessments.
Precisely through ignorance of this truth do anxieties multiply, contradictions proliferate, and suffering persist.

At such times, someone with keen insight would inform others of these changes in conditions—that is to say, were they to narrate it objectively, readers would think 'Ah, now I see!' and experience great liberation.
(In such a simple case, this might not amount to true liberation, but as it is merely an example, kindly indulge me in this pretense.) Thus readers came to appreciate it.
Writers succeeded.
Not only that—even from an external perspective, objective literature would likely prove more necessary than works of sentimental literature that forcibly maintained traditional evaluations.

Next, I must fully acknowledge—even someone as self-conceited as myself—that neither sentimental literature nor truthful literature has developed in Japan; however, were one to examine statistics of literary works published from antiquity to the present day, those belonging to sentimental literature would undoubtedly constitute the majority.
Not only that, but even from the perspective of literary value, those belonging to this category appear superior.
That is only natural, for objective narration arises from observational power—and this observational power should be regarded as having developed indirectly through scientific advancement, permeating the intellectual climate as a consequence.
However, regrettably, while the Japanese people seem to have possessed artistic spirit in abundance, their scientific spirit was inversely proportional and greatly deficient.
Therefore, even in literature, it seems that the ability to impartially observe phenomena outside oneself had not developed at all.
Since this would grow tedious, I shall refrain from citing examples, but I believe this alone should make the point sufficiently clear.
To put it another way, it would seem that children were all considered filial and wives were invariably deemed chaste.
Therefore, in both plays and novels, tales of extraordinary filial piety and chastity would appear as though such paragons existed in great numbers right in one’s own neighborhood—and moreover, audiences and readers would regard these works with expressions that all but declared them representative of the many such individuals who truly existed.
To say these archetypes existed would imply I have been living since the Genroku period, but I do believe that was indeed the case.
Those who watched such plays or read such books must have been earnestly and passionately losing themselves, utterly absorbed.
Otherwise, they should have been obliterated before being transmitted to the present day.
Thus, a certain young lady would become a morning glory, a certain wife would become an ornamental garden, and a certain young master would carry himself in the manner of Shinobu or Gonpachi.
That must have been satisfying.
From the standpoint of satisfying one’s own sentiments, it was undoubtedly satisfying.
It wasn’t just oneself—if one considered their children, wives, and husbands to be such paragons, they must have been thoroughly satisfied. Of course, the villains that appeared in those days were so extraordinarily vile as to be unimaginable, but since they existed solely to accentuate the virtuous, no one here would ever aspire to become one—so we can rest assured.
When it comes to hybrids of good and evil, they hardly appear; thus, matters remain supremely simple and convenient.
Thus, society was composed entirely of the kind of virtuous people who would appear in neighborhood family plays.
One would expect such a world to be perfectly peaceful, yet there were still marital quarrels and sibling quarrels.
I suppose they must have existed after all.
And yet it is strange that these quarrels serve as proof that they were perfectly virtuous individuals.

This may verge too much on paradox, but quarrels fundamentally arose because people mutually recognized each other as perfect human beings, only to find their actions unexpectedly contrary to such expectations. Therefore, to quarrel, an ideal was necessary. Next, it was necessary to acknowledge that this ideal and actuality were in agreement. Quarrels occurred daily even then, but since we were not ideal figures, there seemed to be no such boorishness as taking offense even among middle school students—which had become supremely convenient. Instead, though the standing of humans had somewhat declined, I found that in the end, it seemed more livable here. However, during the Tokugawa period, since everyone was regarded as ideal figures and assumed themselves to be ideal figures, it must have been terribly constricting. To explain why—despite being townspeople, they would be subjected to chest-beating reproaches and such. Despite being wives, they were scolded for acting presumptuously. Despite being children, if they talked back to their parents or such, they were reprimanded. People were constantly told "For someone in your position..."—it was an age when faults became fashionable. There was no society with more fixed ideals than one where "for someone in your position..." prevailed. Townspeople were to behave thus, wives were to act thus, children were to serve thus—all rigidly fixed by convention. Of course, since this could not be established without mutual agreement, whether it be townspeople, children, or wives—no matter how they were expected to be ideal figures—they fully intended to meet those expectations. Therefore, they must have considered themselves the foremost filial paragons, the foremost chaste women, the foremost townspeople—though the last was a bit odd—splendid figures regardless. With such self-conceit, there was nothing to worry about. Most things proceeded whether one liked it or not. All matters were settled deep within one's gut. Thus, they proclaimed themselves as nothing but ideal figures in their upper layers. It might have seemed somewhat hypocritical, but this was preferable as it proved easier to manage than artless vice. Among them, it was said there were many who did not even realize that matters had been settled deep within their gut.

In this manner did matters proceed until the Meiji Restoration.
Then science arrived from the West.
Approximately forty years had passed since then, and the nature of society had changed considerably.
The practice of observing others and oneself through eyes trained in science had become quite prevalent.
However, because this spirit had not spread widely and was not considered very important, it had not made much progress up to that time.
When one considers why it was not considered important, it becomes quite interesting.
When one examines what lies within one’s own heart, there are not many things one can boast about.
Even I found many shameful things coming to light.
But no matter how many shameful things one discovers and exposes, it only becomes one’s own disgrace—they will not pay you much respect as a discoverer.
Therefore, even when you made such discoveries, remaining silent proved the wiser course.
Exerting effort to search things out, making yourself feel wretched alone, then closing yourself off with a bitter expression—none of this proved particularly uplifting. Thus you tended to neglect restraint, wandering day by day in a state where you seemed to grasp your own nature yet remained fundamentally uncomprehending.
If you persisted like this, you could remain self-conceited indefinitely—perfectly safe as long as no incident occurred—and die steeped in your delusions. There was no need to act like some mangy dog digging up freshly buried earth to sniff at a rotting corpse.
I too was one of them.
My wife too was one of them.
There were times when even I thought, “Is that really your wife?” so on their part as well, they must occasionally have grown disillusioned, thinking “Is that really my husband?”
Even so, I carried on pretending to be an exemplary husband, and thus I presumed my wife considered herself the paragon of virtuous spouses.
Such self-conceit was far more prevalent than one might expect—and while I hesitated to draw even you into our ranks—since expanding our sphere of influence as much as possible proved most convenient—I shall speak without reservation: one might well declare that this torrential current flowed through all under heaven.
There were those who—deep in their hearts—targeted the doctor while proclaiming passionate love with their lips.
On one hand they suppressed feelings of wanting a dowry—while on the other they put on airs as though admiring that young lady’s virtuous character.
It was neither hypocrisy nor anything of the sort—since both sides were sincere—it became quite fascinating.

Therefore, those of us with dull powers of observation must strive to accumulate the merits of self-cultivation as much as possible, then rouse bold and valorous resolve, endeavoring to write without fear of exposing our naked truths.

If an objective attitude is indeed necessary in today’s literature, then the question becomes what should be studied through this objective attitude.
I will state several points I have noticed for your reference and bring this to a conclusion.

The first concerned character portrayal.
This was an essential element in novels and plays, and if a writer succeeded in this aspect, it was even considered that the majority of their work had already been completed.
Therefore, when we investigated what constituted a popularly successful character, it inevitably came down to the term "activity".
Moreover, no matter how I considered it, I could not help but feel that we could not escape these two characters.
However, while there were various kinds of activity, if asked whether we could state in a single word what kind of activity this referred to, it might have seemed somewhat presumptuous, but I believed I might answer as follows.
In ordinary novels, what was acclaimed as successful character activity generally came down to the same thing as a lack of contradiction.
In other words, someone fundamentally grasped a certain essence and applied this essence to every one of their myriad actions.
Consequently, while their actions might take myriad forms, they could be neatly unified.
Moreover, when unified, these ended up reduced to this preexisting essence.
To rephrase it further, the portrayed character ended up being condensed into a symbol of one or two or three characters.
They became simplified into categories like "the courageous person," "the kind person," or "the miserly person"—in other words, made easier to remember.
Well, I supposed it was something like this.
In other words, just as there was considerable delight in finding that a novel possessed a fixed meaning which could be condensed into a single phrase, there similarly seemed to be a prevailing notion that successfully portraying a character who could likewise be condensed into a single phrase constituted literary achievement.
However, characters successful in this sense did not depict the full scope of an individual’s character.
(Except in special cases) it was something that had been created by arbitrarily extracting a salient trait from an individual’s complete character, then consistently maintaining only this extracted trait from beginning to end, thereby fashioning a character convenient for both writers and readers.
Moreover, these were not creations that followed the laws of nature, but rather creations that, to accommodate the needs of the novel’s world, broke those natural laws to some extent.
In ordinary circumstances, it was a fact that a certain characteristic within an individual’s character pervaded throughout their entire lifetime.
However, it was also a fact that a character was not formed solely by this characteristic.
Not only that, but it was a general fact that they possessed many aspects that contradicted or opposed this characteristic.
Therefore, as the proverb states, "No man is a hero to his valet."

This was an extremely simple example—perhaps too trivial to serve as one—but there existed individuals who appeared terribly neurotic about their health alone while remaining utterly indifferent to human affairs. There were men who proved exceedingly courteous to friends while being coldly ungracious to their own families. Were one to examine such points in detail, might it not be said that contradictions belonged to natural character while their absence defined fictional character?

Thus even among novelists and playwrights, some began paying attention to this point and eventually came to depict contradictory behaviors. Readers too grew to accept this phenomenon—the example of a wife who had been gentle and obedient suddenly rebelling against her husband under certain circumstances and transforming into a woman of fortitude beyond prior imagination stood as testament. Yet this merely represented conventional narrative methods advancing one step toward complexity through deliberate juxtaposition of clearly contradictory traits—a technique concentrating readerly attention upon two focal points through stark contrast.

Therefore when considering solely character complexity itself, such portrayals still remained profoundly monotonous. To persist in attempting objective depiction of a character's full aspects would inevitably yield forms far more varied than those appearing in previous novels and plays—forms that increasingly seemed mutually inconsistent as they multiplied through differentiation.

Consequently, the more objectively nuanced the description became, the more likely it produced characters resistant to cohesion—characters defying encapsulation in single phrases or convenient memorization—characters ultimately appearing ill-formed and crudely rendered when judged by traditional standards.

The conventional method resembled chronicling only a man's colds throughout his lifetime—extracting solely those fevered passages to create clarity at cost of fashioning that notoriously monotonous 'Cold-Catching Man.' To speak fundamentally, one had to depict three states—times of illness, health, and ambiguous inbetweenness—before any person's complete health portrait could emerge.

Yet such comprehensive depiction inevitably appeared scattered—lacking coherence even regarding something as simple as colds—though character proved infinitely more complex than this.

For example: taking a character labeled A with initial act A1 and sequentially depicting A2-A4 acts inferrable from A1 would still fail to reveal the complete picture—typically resulting in mere repetitions of one trait rather than true development.

In most cases, it approaches mere repetition of a single trait.
When actions A1 through A4 are linked by causal laws and demonstrate substantial similarity in content, repetition gives way to development.
Though this constitutes development with A1 as its foundation—being but one trait within the complete character—we cannot equate A1's progression with that of the entire personality.
I do not mean to say such repetition or development lacks literary value; however, given its current prevalence, I believe substantial room for innovation lies in advancing with objective methods toward full character portrayal.
To eyes accustomed to conventional novels, these depictions would appear disjointed—prone to fragmentation or mysterious transformation.
Yet as our interest in objective description grows, might we not approach an era where this disjointedness and mystery cease to seem peculiar?
To rephrase—might we not gradually disregard formal ruptures to some degree?
Let me first offer a necessary qualification.
Our world remains—as stated initially—a world of selection.

Both light and sound lie beyond our capacity to perceive when their vibration frequencies exceed or fall below certain thresholds. Even when speaking of a character's totality, I cannot claim all aspects are observable. We have no choice but to insert the modifier 'comparative' and request your understanding on this matter. When recording temporal phenomena with objective rigor—concerning any single entity—this continuity inevitably forms causal relations; thus however scattered, disjointed, or enigmatic it appears, we cannot deem it divorced from causality. This merely reflects our insufficient experiential grasp to systematize these causal patterns into laws—hence their appearance as fragmentation and mystery. Through repeated observation of such causality patterns and abstraction of their governing principles, fragmentation coalesces into unity while mystery yields to clarity. (Regarding character portrayal,) what warrants examination is the observation of psychological states. Depictions of such states scarcely exist in older novels. Yet from these states emerge compelling actions that undeniably produce intriguing consequences. I shall refrain for now from discussing the relationship between psychological states and character—(my thoughts on this remain insufficiently organized for further discussion).

Regarding the dissection of character, it is the dissection of psychological states.
While this is undoubtedly most closely related to character, to put it succinctly, the mental states of people today had become considerably more complex than those of people in the past. Consequently, even identical actions stemmed from motives that differed vastly in nature, and by observing this point, I mean to say there remained ample room for exploration.
For example, suppose there was a man who committed murder.
If we asked why they committed murder only to find that murder was not the objective but merely a means—suppose an artist were to emerge who intensely wished to experience the psychological state following the act of murder (though such individuals had not yet appeared in great numbers)—what then?
No matter how much one might explain, people of the Genroku era would never have understood.
This was because the evaluation of this man’s murder was valued far less than the evaluation of his own psychological experience arising from the murder.
To put it plainly, he did not consider the act of murder to be so terribly wrong.
Not only that, but such an intricate notion as deliberately committing a crime to keenly savor the psychological state afterward was utterly beyond the comprehension of someone like Ōishi Yoshio or Muro Kyūsō.
Of course, even people today might not fully comprehend it, but since they could at least imagine it, this showed just how complex it had become.
Moreover, even with the single word "love," one might think that by this point, so many varieties had emerged that the word itself had become insufficient.
In Shakespeare’s works, there were already depictions of love that, if analyzed, could be divided into several types, but as we reached modern times, one might think these distinctions were growing increasingly minute.
In the novel La Faustin written by the Goncourts, there was such an instance.
There was a famous actress who had maintained an affair with a British nobleman before losing contact for several years. When the nobleman suddenly found himself inheriting a vast fortune upon his parent's death—a circumstance that now rendered him impervious to others' opinions regarding marriage or other matters—he resolved that this was the moment to formally receive the woman he had long cherished. Overjoyed, he crossed over to France. As the woman too had continued treasuring thoughts of him exactly as on the day they parted in tears, given their profoundly intimate past, she could have no objection.
They were happily married.
If that were all, this too would have been trite, but what lay ahead was the crux.
Now, upon marrying, the husband, being someone without financial difficulties and somewhat uneasy about keeping his wife as an actress, suggested that it would be better if she were to retire from the profession.
However, whether it was because acting truly suited her disposition or not remained unclear, but she somehow did not wish to abandon it.
However, as these were her beloved husband’s words, she suppressed her reluctance and complied with his wishes.
Then, the two of them engaged in great extravagance together.
Being together in joy and spending money as they pleased, they ought to have been happy—yet strangely, ever since the wife quit being an actress, her mood somehow began to decline.

No matter how much the husband tried to please her, she could not lift her spirits. That said, she certainly did not hate the man, so there was no reason to neglect him. She truly cherished her husband from the bottom of her heart. It was simply that her heart could not become cheerful, but her husband—for whom even his beloved wife’s every smile and frown held more value than a thousand pieces of gold—could not leave her in such a state, and so they set off on a journey to Italy both as a diversion and a consolation. However, the husband fell ill while away. The wife did not neglect her nursing duties, but the illness was inexorable, and he ultimately passed away. Shortly before his death, when his wife drew near his bedside as usual to tend to him, the husband—in an uncharacteristically rough tone—pushed her back with his hand as if to thrust her away, declaring, “You are ultimately an artist.” “You’re a woman incapable of true love,” he declared. That was the conclusion. “You are ultimately an artist—a woman incapable of true love.” This must be considered a form of love. The famous love of Rūjin was also not ordinary love. It was Rūjin-style love. The love depicted in Sudermann’s Felicitas strikes me as a most distinctive form of love. If we consider this in Japan’s past, they generally appeared similar. The loves of Yaegaki-hime, Okoma Saizō, and Osome Hisamatsu were all much the same. Why did they all seem so similar? It could be interpreted that there had been no different types of love to begin with, or one might conclude that their observational skills had been dull—but for now, let us consider both possibilities. However, given that this was roughly the case, I believe that by closely observing our increasingly complex inner selves, we could produce various interesting depictions.

As this is becoming too lengthy, I shall proceed by concisely noting remaining points.
Next comes depicting fragments of life imbued with meaning condensable into single phrases—what rakugoka call novels with punchlines.
This form has grown sufficiently prevalent recently to require no particular elaboration.
I simply bring it to your attention.
The previous examples apply here as well:
“You are ultimately an artist.
You’re incapable of true love.”
This constitutes the thematic resolution point.
However, while punchlines aim for synthesis, the preceding two clauses focused on dissection—their purposes being diametrically opposed.
Thus I have briefly differentiated them.

Next are phenomena in life that have not easily drawn attention—that is to say, rare occurrences—which also carry significance; I believe there exists considerable new material in this area as well.
The other day I heard such a story from a friend.
This took place in that man’s native country: a geisha had become deeply involved with another man.
The two went out boating one day.
After rowing about those waters they found a convenient beach whereupon he abandoned their vessel and went ashore.
However—for there appeared along that shore what might have been a shrine—the beach gave way abruptly to cliffs from which stone steps extended long and narrow toward the sea.
He climbed those steps—so goes the tale.
From their boat she watched his retreating figure ascending those stairs—so goes the tale.
My friend recounted how at that moment she suddenly became disenchanted with her paramour—though neither I nor my friend nor even that geisha herself could fathom why.
I have encountered similar cases in James’s *Varieties of Religious Experience* and Starbuck’s *Psychology of Religion*, but never before heard one related as personal history.
Though perhaps too singular an instance—given how many such experiences must remain unrecorded—I suspect research into these matters would yield no small store of material.

In addition to these matters—phenomena overlooked through causal relationships or individualities breaking free from typification—I believe there exist various other aspects worth considering. However, these three or four points do not represent theoretical divisions so much as a simple enumeration of thoughts that occurred to me. Since stopping at any juncture would yield the same essential result, I shall bring this discussion to a close here.
Yet how many more years our nation will require narratives maintaining this relatively objective attitude remains impossible to determine with clarity.

In the West, where Enlightenment thought flourished extensively, the first half of the nineteenth century saw romantic tastes emerge as a reaction against the eighteenth century.
This changed and reverted back to an objective attitude.
It remained unclear what would become of the twentieth century.
As these two trends pushed and were pushed against each other, they would ultimately develop uniformly in a certain sense.
And so these developed currents would intermingle, giving rise to countless hybrid forms between them.
Swaying right or veering left concerned mere attitudes—the narratives born from them were never mere repetitions.
They would transform in some aspect as they progressed.
Crude as my theory might be, I considered that when society's scientific spirit grew relatively stronger than sentiment's force and approached imbalance, sentimental literature would rise in literary circles; conversely, when sentiment swelled enough to oppress scientific spirit, objective literature would inevitably emerge.
The literary world would perpetually develop through these forces' ebb and flow—regaining equilibrium only to lose it again.
Therefore, even were they to emerge simultaneously, there was no valid reason to regard attitudes manifested in Western literature as necessarily modeling Japan's own.
What I had earlier termed the necessity for objective literature in our nation today amounted to nothing more than a crude consideration derived from our current educational conditions.
Yet viewed from this same standpoint, sentiment's force did not appear so oppressive as to require literature approaching pure objectivity; thus works fixated solely on objectivity seemed nearly unnecessary.
Examining trends from the Meiji Restoration to today—beginning with fierce sentiment and experiencing its gradual decline over forty years—I currently deemed it most fitting to emphasize objectivity. However, should Japan's history proceed peacefully without irregular surges of sentiment like those prompted by the Sino-Japanese or Russo-Japanese Wars, it became evident sentiment would soon suffer oppression under scientific spirit. Hence I believed sentimental literature was fated to arise in the near future.
Though what content future sentimental works might possess and what evaluations they would ultimately receive remained inherently unpredictable, I held it an inescapable fate that we would employ objective descriptions developed by then to assess them.
I concluded this lecture with these final words.

--Delivered at Tokyo Youth Hall in February 1908--