Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

In my childhood, aside from school primers, the first things given to me at home and that I was permitted to read were so-called "military tales." Namely, I immersed myself in reading works lacking in human warmth such as Sanada Sandaiki, Kanso Gundan, and Sangokushi. Then, through works such as Journey to the West, Chinsetsu Yumiharizuki, and Nansō Satomi Hakkenden, I was introduced to reading materials that were somewhat tinged with "human emotion." There were also times when I secretly savored parts of Tamenaga Shunsui’s "Spring-Color Plum Calendar and Spring-Announcing Bird"—a dangerous book that existed at a relative’s house—like forbidden fruit. On one hand, I read stories such as Goethe’s Reinecke Fuchs, then newly introduced fairy tales by Grimm and Andersen, Arabian Nights, and Robinson Crusoe—either through translations in youth magazines like Shōkokumin and Nihon no Shōnen of that era, or in their original English versions as included in textbooks. On the other hand, I also came to love reading and memorizing works such as Keikoku Bidan and Kajin no Kigū—works considered at the time to be the most redolent of Western influence and refreshingly innovative. Even before that time, works like Mr. Tsubouchi's "Tōsei Shosei Katagi"—which had been reading material for senior students—still breathed new dreams into us country middle school students of that era. When Miyazaki Koshoshi’s "Kisei" (Homecoming) was published, it revealed the existence of another literary world to the youth of that time. On the other hand, serious biographical works such as "Cromwell," "John Bright," and "Richard Cobden" published by Min'yūsha could also be found on middle school students’ desks. At the same time, pure literary magazines such as Kokumin Shōsetsu, Shin Shōsetsu, Meiji Bunko, and Bungei Kurabu emerged, while numerous new writers like Rohan and Kōyō shone like the stars of the Pleiades, a comet-like Yamada Bimyō appeared only to vanish, and many female authors—with Ms. Ichiyō at their forefront—bloomed in unison like autumn wildflowers across the fields. In foreign literature, with my shaky language skills, I would skim through popular works like Irving’s "Sketch Book" and abridged English translations of Hugo’s "Les Misérables." After entering high school—Professor Natsume Sōseki’s Opium Eater—I was taught only parts of Silas Marner and Othello. Around that time, I was taught by Professor Natsume Sōseki to compose haiku, but even that did not involve any significant depth of engagement.

When I consider the literary education I received in my youth, I can recall only this much.
And so, over the subsequent thirty-odd years, while the number of literary books I occasionally encountered might indeed have been considerable, those that etched a deep and strong impression in my mind seem to be exceedingly few.

Among Japanese writers—excluding Professor Natsume’s works—there are a few pieces by Kunikida Doppo, Tanizaki Jun’ichirō, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, Uno Kōji, and several others; among foreign works, certain writings by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, Chekhov’s short stories, and more recently encountered ones like Arnold Bennett’s and Aldous Huxley’s short stories—these are about the extent of it.

The reason I have written out at length here such personal experiences—of no interest to readers—is because this entire preface is deemed indispensable as reference materials or a “preliminary investigation report” that must be submitted beforehand before presenting to the court of readers’ judgment the highly peculiar, narrow, and one-sided literary view I am about to articulate.

There is one more thing I must clarify: that I am, after all, a scientist by profession.
While engrossed in reading the aforementioned fairy tales, novels, and plays during my boyhood, I collected insect specimens and made plant herbaria, attempted to generate hydrogen in beer bottles to create a "singing flame" only to accidentally cause explosions, and tried but failed to construct magic lantern apparatuses and batteries.
And so, when I stood at the threshold of moving from middle school to high school, I directed the course of my life toward science without any hesitation.
And so, even now when I consider it, the path I should have taken could have been none other than this.
Looking back, for me at that time, literature was merely an object of passive enjoyment, but the realm of science seemed the most suitable world in which to live out my future active life.

When I graduated from university and entered graduate school—when I began what is called original research on my thesis topic and truly embarked on scientific life—a chance opportunity led me to simultaneously experience something akin to the beginnings of literary creation. Looking back now at my state of mind during that time, I feel I was truly immersed in the joy of a fulfilled life. Though family misfortunes brought no small measure of heartache and toil, within myself there existed another world unrelated to such matters—a world that alone appeared to be my primary reality, indeed the sole world worth living for. In that world, only "creating" and "producing" held meaning, appearing as the singular path forward in life. Any day without creating or producing even something small seemed wasted. While base desires for honor and fame undoubtedly accompanied my youth, beyond those lay a pure "joy of creation" that tensed my physiologically fragile frame. To me then, scientific research was creative work while even trivial essays became investigative paths mirroring science through observation and discovery.

Over the nearly thirty years of my life since then, my thoughts underwent various transformations; yet I suspect this historical influence will likely cling to me until life’s end.

Be that as it may, I judged that recording here—exactly as they emerge—the various thoughts arising when a private individual with such a background contemplates “Literature” and “Science” in opposition, and offering them to the readers of this lecture series, would not be entirely meaningless. Thus yielding to the editor’s invitation, I resolved to take up my humble pen. Of course, I intended nothing beyond providing one meager reference material. For these reasons, it is neither paper nor textbook, but an essay written as thoughts arose. While literary scholars’ theories abound, a scientist’s perspective remains scarce—thus I tell myself these fragments might at least serve as pebbles from other mountains, if only debris.

Literature and Science as Language

The content of literature is "language."
It is a record of human thought inscribed through language and also a prophecy.
Were language abolished, thought would perish, and simultaneously all literature would vanish.
Conversely, though not everything expressed in words constitutes literature itself, there exists nothing among such expressions that cannot be incorporated into literature as material.
This holds true whether it be a child’s fragmented utterance, commercial advertisement copy, legal statute text, or even the proof of a geometric theorem.
There exist novels in which proofs of Pythagoras’ theorem make their appearance.

Here, the term "language" refers strictly to language in its literal sense. While some argue that painting and sculpture or music and dance each constitute a form of literature expressed through their own unique "languages," we shall exclude such interpretations from our present consideration.

Even the most meticulously constructed mental blueprint in an author's mind does not qualify as literature. Nor does orally recounting such plans to an audience make it literature. Whether rendered in hieroglyphs or shorthand symbols—in any decipherable script—unless recorded on clay tablets or papyrus, one could scarcely deem it worthy of the name literature. In essence, literature too must exist as an empirically verifiable entity. To claim that the unwritten novel contemplated by a certain individual before their death was a masterpiece remains utterly meaningless.

When considering the psychology of creative production from actual practice, it appears that what one has conceived is not merely transcribed mechanically into characters as originally imagined. Rather, the momentum of phrases manifested through characters on paper reacts within the author's mind, drawing forth latent consciousness that could never have emerged through mere abstract contemplation—when this consciousness materializes in characters and once again acts upon the author's mind, it evokes subsequent thoughts—this seems to be the actual phenomenon.
This psychology of the creator must simultaneously be the psychology of the reader engaging with their work.
If it were not for this process—whereby the cumulative effect of what one has read up to a given moment acts upon the reader’s mind, causing something faintly stirring in the depths of their consciousness to be drawn to its surface by the force of subsequent words and illuminated there with a vivid flash—then that work would find it difficult to sustain the reader’s attention and tension while propelling them forward to its conclusion.
In contrast to this, when reading an excellent work by an excellent writer, it will likely seem as though the writer proceeds while always leading by just one step ahead of exactly the same movements and flow of the 'my' in the reader’s mind.
The phrase "breathless fascination" likely refers to this state of tense mental activity in the reader's mind under such circumstances.
Slapping one’s knee and shouting in joy occurs precisely because what one seeks appears before one’s eyes at the very moment of seeking.

The reason such phenomena are possible is ultimately that within the movements of the human mind or the flow of words, there exist fixed and universal laws or logic.
The author may not necessarily be consciously aware of these laws or logic, but they perform an adept experimental demonstration conducted in accordance with those unknown, unconscious laws.
It is precisely because they follow laws that phenomena similar to them could occur in the past and may occur in the future, and thus, that work will serve as both a record and a prophecy.

"The literature of the insane could not exist within our literature."
"That is because it operates according to the laws and logic governing an insane person’s thought."
"Those laws no longer possess any universality."
"This would likely be one criterion for defining what we call an insane person."

When we carefully consider it, the content of what we call science is also ultimately "language." In the vague concept encompassed by the term "science" as most commonly used by ordinary people, there are things such as radios, airplanes, and ultraviolet therapy. However, these are products created by science and should be distinguished from science itself. Moreover, the majority of what fills the pages and frontispieces of popular science magazines consists either of scientific product advertisements or what amount to gossip columns in the scientific community. Science, which forms part of "scholarship" as a product of human intellect, remains a record and prophecy written in "language," and thus must be universal in our world.

If it has not been set down in writing and made accessible for all to read, then it cannot truly be called science.
An unsubstantiated great discovery that a scholar never recorded or published might make newspaper headlines, but for the scientific world, this equates to absolute nonbeing.
The rumor that Mr. A is some great scholar with no publications yet grand aspirations remains phantasmal.
Before one can determine whether it withstands universal scrutiny and criticism, it must first be rendered in a form accessible to all—this goes without saying.

What anyone writing scientific papers would experience—provided they maintained intellectual humility and honesty—was that their research could not be considered complete until they had thoroughly written up and polished the results. They might believe their work nearly perfected before putting pen to paper, yet upon finally beginning to write, oversights and flaws that had escaped notice until then would become glaringly apparent. Thus it often became necessary to conduct auxiliary research to address these deficiencies. Furthermore, reasoning that had seemed perfectly coherent when merely contemplated might appear unexpectedly dubious when objectified as written text before their eyes, compelling them to start afresh and thoroughly reconsider everything from the beginning. Such instances were by no means rare. Therefore, I had to critically examine my own writings by adopting the reader’s perspective anew, anticipating every possible question readers might raise and addressing them preemptively. When a paper underwent such rigorous scrutiny, peer readers—through the act of reading—would themselves experience what the author had experienced, reason alongside them, share their doubts, interpret collectively, until finally reaching conclusions that aligned precisely with the author’s own. In this way, the paper became both record and prophecy.

Indeed, when peer readers peruse a faithful record of how an eminent physicist devised an original experimental method for a given research topic and advanced their inquiry step by step, they likely felt as though someone were taking them by the hand and vigorously pulling them forward into realms they wished to explore yet found daunting to approach alone.
Moreover, when reading excellent theoretical papers, one would often experience a similar sensation.
If the reader’s intellectual level fell significantly below the author’s baseline, no necessity was recognized in that work; consequently, no subtlety could be savored nor any emotion stimulated.
However, this held equally true for literary works; American stockbrokers would similarly fail to understand Bashō’s haikai.

Even with scientific works—that is, papers—the number of people who could truly critique them proved surprisingly small. The remaining majority simply adopted the results of those few credible critics as they stood, thereby approving only the abstracts and conclusions of the papers. This paralleled how one might know which of Bashō’s verses were good, quote them, and praise them without understanding his haikai poetry. Conversely, there emerged instances where the outlandish ramblings—resembling nonsensical sleep-talk—that so-called renowned authorities had casually scribbled unexpectedly gained fame, leading not only journalists but even established scholars to regard them as if they were great masterpieces or world-class academic papers. While similar phenomena frequently occurred in the literary world, literature faced difficulty in subsequently proving such "errors"—a point of clear distinction from science, where they could be unequivocally identified.

One crucial distinction between science as language and literature lies in its use of a unique linguistic system specific to the realm of exact sciences—one distinct from ordinary everyday language.
That language is none other than the "language of mathematics."

The various "concepts" in mathematics's domain all constitute a form of language.
They differ from everyday language through being meticulously selected one by one and possessing extremely clearly defined content.
Moreover, these words' "grammar" remains strictly delimited without permitting any ambiguity.
Thus when given a single proposition, what should follow as a 'sentence' becomes automatically determined.
In this sense mathematics might well be termed an "automatic composition machine."
Yet reality proves never so straightforward.
When applying mathematics to physical phenomena research—where it becomes a tool borrowed from another field—the user's individuality inevitably intrudes upon determining its application.
This explains why mathematical physics papers addressing identical problems display varied contents and conclusions across authors.
Through differences in initial problem approaches, computational assumptions introduced mid-process, and omission methodologies emerge gradual divergences in conclusions.
Moreover these diverse papers stand mutually independent yet each potentially valid.
Criteria for distinguishing superiority depend on authors' subjective choices in problem structuring and solution selection—judgments where evaluators' individualities often prevent unanimous consensus.

Even in literature, for instance, if one were to create a play dealing with historical facts, countless variations of works became possible through differences in the author's individuality, and indeed, any of them could potentially be masterpieces.
Moreover, it went without saying that they could exhibit a diversity of changes that could not possibly be compared to cases like those in physics.

Among the mathematics employed in physics, the most crucial are what we call differential equations.
This is a mathematical formula that determines the mutual relationships between various physical quantities; however, it not only shows the relationships between those quantities themselves but is also a relational expression written using what are called differential coefficients—terms indicating the rate of change whereby other quantities shift slightly in response to a slight alteration in one quantity.
One notable characteristic of such differential equations is that not a single concrete problem can be determined by the equation alone.
In other words, one equation encompasses all of an infinitely diverse group of problems while simultaneously representing each and every one of them.
Thus, if—in addition to this equation—one provides mathematical formulas indicating several boundary conditions (boundary conditions) and initial conditions (initial conditions), whose numerical values differ depending on the case, then and only then is a concrete problem established; and at the very moment of its establishment, the solution formula becomes theoretically determined at least in principle, leaving the scholar merely to turn the handle of the mathematical machine.
This represents the ideal case; however, in practice, when solving equations proves difficult, they perform various "omissions" under numerous assumptions deemed "plausible" for the situation.
In other words, a selection process is carried out.
The criteria determining this selection are no longer necessarily universal and unambiguous but are instead established through the combined influence of factors such as scholars' academic common sense, intuition, hunches, and, in any case, elements that are not strictly scientific in nature.
Of course, there may be cases where one can re-examine whether those omissions were appropriate and make an empirically based judgment to some extent in the end; however, there are a great many cases where this is not necessarily so.

After having contemplated in this manner the essence and role of differential equations as representations of natural phenomena, when I turned my gaze back to the world of literature and considered whether anything resembling this might exist, I felt before my eyes the swaying of various vague phantoms of analogy.

If there were something that could be called the laws of human thought, what would they be like?
When faced with such nearly meaningless, vague doubts—if one were compelled to provide some answer—I cannot help but think that recalling those differential equations mentioned earlier might be one viable path.

First, taking the simplest example, let us consider the relationship between temperature and human sensation.
Even if all other meteorological conditions remain identical, a person’s momentary sensation cannot be determined solely by the temperature at that instant.
Whether the temperature rises or falls—at what rate it ascends or descends; whether that rate remains constant or fluctuates—the temporal pattern of such variation would produce diverse sensations. Should these temperature-related perceptions be representable through numerical variables, their relationship to ambient temperature could be expressed through differential equations that formulate laws governing human thermal perception.
Yet reality proves far more complex: people’s sensations manifest infinitely diverse variations through not only humidity coexisting with temperature—alongside atmospheric pressure, wind velocity, solar radiation—but also through endless permutations of an infinitely multivariate composite: the aggregate of all physical, physiological, and psychological experiences preceding that precise moment.
When considering still more intricate cases—how one feels upon a loved one’s death; how one reacts and acts—not only does quantitative determination of emotions and behaviors become impossible; every determining factor and condition involved escapes even theoretical containment within physical methodologies’ expansive reach.

Nevertheless, the above considerations suggested an intriguing speculation.
That is, there existed what might be called laws of human thought and laws of emotion.
That was something determined by what might be called differential equations that none of us yet knew.
We were not conscious of the equation itself, but knew—albeit in an extremely fragmentary manner—individual special solutions for various concrete cases where those laws applied.
Moreover, we held something akin to a vague premonition regarding the equation itself.
Therefore, if there had been an exceptional superhuman who could grasp the entirety of those equations, insert various possible boundary conditions, initial conditions, and so forth, and thereby find their solutions—
And suppose they described those problems, solutions, and conclusions in terms we could understand and presented them to us.
It might be said that what we, having read it, were taught about phenomena in the human world through this resembled what we were taught about physical phenomena in the natural world through theoretical physics papers.

However, such differential equations remain difficult to even envision, at least in our present day.
Yet it is not impossible to conceive something resembling a first step along the path toward such things.

Before physical science reached its present state—that is, before laws were discovered and first formulated into mathematical equations—we knew only the solutions to individual concrete cases.
And then, we examined all concrete cases that had existed in the past and conducted "experiments" to artificially create various situations.
We organized and arranged all the results of those experiences and experiments, and finally, through induction, reached the threshold of laws.

Can we not view literature as an "experiment" in that sense?
This becomes the next question to arise.

Literature and Science as Experiments

For example, the number of experimental studies conducted on this problem before the law of conservation of energy was established must have been enormous.
For example, since the relationship between heat and mechanical energy was first suspected from the heat generated when boring out cannon barrels—beginning with experiments like patiently shaking water in flasks until it slightly warmed—progressing until the mechanical equivalent of heat was quantitatively established, then continuing similarly until electricity, radiant heat and light, chemical heat, and even the energies of electrons, protons, and all things came to be measured in a single common unit—the variety and number of experiments conducted through this progression have truly been immense.

The phenomena occurring around us according to the laws of the human mind are far too complex.
When attempting to discern laws by observing this alone，above all else，the environmental conditions are far too vague and elusive to grasp.
Therefore，we attempt various hypothetical experiments.
For instance，a college student imbued with nihilistic ideology is made to kill a usurious old woman.
And then，various selected factors such as charming townswomen and detectives are applied to this.
And then，how the college student protagonist reacts to this is observed.
This is one experiment.
However，in this case，the laboratory is the novelist’s brain，and the subjects being tested are not actual entities but abstracted models of college students，girls，detectives，and the like.
Such models exist in everyone’s mind，but only in the case of superior authors can they serve nearly the same role as real objects.
When reading the works of such superior authors，we realize that all of their protagonists’ actions indeed follow a necessary progression under unalterable laws.
“Fate” is but another name for “laws.”

Also, a girl who was assaulted before puberty manifests fervent religious devotion as a result of the intense emotional turmoil from that time. And suppose there exists a work that faithfully conducts such an experiment: from the life of the purest nun, she is deceived one morning by some worthless villain and plunges into the most wretched dark existence. Readers of this work will come to realize that within her lies something akin to an unchanging energy, manifesting in various forms in response to her environment, and that it is this energy which guides her fate.

In this manner, the author placed a special human into a test tube, poured special reagents into it, heated or cooled it, subjected it to electromagnetic fields, exposed it to ultraviolet rays and X-rays, or conducted spectral analysis.
Through these reactions, they discerned the essential nature of the subject under examination while simultaneously gathering data required to deduce properties and effects common to those diverse environmental factors.
However, unlike cases involving matter and material energy—since all elements of the subject reside within the author—it goes without saying that these experiments end in failure unless the author possesses the most incisive powers of observation, analysis, and synthesis.

However, the fact that such experiments are possible was proven by all excellent works from ancient times to the present day.
People such as Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, and Ibsen cast humans into critical environments such as life-and-death situations and observed them like guinea pigs in a test cage.
However, someone like Chekhov extracted and demonstrated the truth of human nature from the actions of people placed in mundane, everyday environments.
And thus, Bashō—a haiku poet of our Japan akin to a mendicant monk—narrated within a mere seventeen characters both the astonishing experimental results concerning the mysterious interplay between nature and humanity and the "discoveries" thereby obtained.

When we consider matters in this manner, it becomes evident that nearly every manifestation of literature could be regarded as an experiment conducted through differing forms.

There is no need for particular annotation regarding works created under banners like Realism and Naturalism.
These have already become research materials for psychologists and are cited in their papers to such an extent.

Even literature that appears non-realistic and unnatural at first glance cannot be denied consideration as a splendid experiment when thoroughly examined.

Even in tales of superhuman realms that drew upon mythology, if one were to peel away just a single mask from their personas, they would reveal themselves as ordinary humans. They merely placed within environmental conditions that slightly extended reality’s possibilities these artificial humans—crafted by distorting, exaggerating, or pruning certain aspects of human disposition—and then observed what transpired. Whether it be the tall tales of Julian’s "True Stories," Musōbei’s "Dream Tales," or Wells’ futuristic narratives—they were all of this nature. All fairy tales were such. All of them were such—from newspaper serials and farces all the way to the comedies of Aristophanes. The phenomenon of eliciting laughter, anger, or tears could occur only when experiments revealed the laws of nature. When slightly more complex laws were revealed, we were stirred by Chekhov and Chaplin’s “tearful laughter,” and advancing one step further, we would come to perceive Bashō’s “lonely desolation.”

Dividing literary genres into narrative and lyric might have been a valid and convenient classification from such formal standpoints, but from the unique perspective represented here, this distinction lost much of its significance.

Even in what were considered the most lyrical genres—poetry and song—which in common parlance would have been described as simply laying bare the author’s entire subjectivity, they still constituted splendid experiments when viewed by a dispassionate observer.
What slightly differed from other cases was that in this instance, the author themselves became the test subject material or animal—jumping into test tubes, crucibles, cages, or the like to be burned and tormented, then singing, shouting, and recording that experience.
Or perhaps a friend of the test subject—or in some cases, a sympathizer born a hundred or even a thousand years later in future generations—would sing in sorrow or sing in joy, either on their behalf or by becoming possessed by—or possessing—them.
For example, we could turn our own heartbreak into poetry while simultaneously creating songs of Tekona of Manma and Werther.

What we call detective novels are also a form of experimental literature; however, their slight distinction lies in their structure: they conceal an object, conduct various experiments to uncover it, enlist readers as assistants to advance these experiments step by step, and ultimately reveal the hidden item.
They are akin to treasure hunt guidebooks.
On the other hand, in papers that faithfully record the paths of scientists’ discoveries, there often exists something even more detective-novel-like than the finest detective stories.
In reality, all scientists must be great detectives.
Mediocre detectives always fixate on the wrong leads, letting the crucial criminal escape; meanwhile, great detectives—undeterred by rumors or camouflage—steadily unravel chains of solid evidence, advancing step by step toward their objective like the god of fate himself.
However, when we ask whether actual detective novels demonstrate such an inevitable chain of verification, they do not—in most cases, they merely skillfully create that appearance while in reality being riddled with major flaws.
In other words, while they may be experiments, many are in fact deceptive ones.
This seems likely to result from forcibly seeking novel contrivances, thereby naturally increasing the possibility of such forced elements arising.
However, if readers do not readily notice these flaws, the objective can at least temporarily be achieved.
In other words, they need only captivate readers by exploiting their illusions and lack of awareness—in this regard, no different from conjuring tricks or magic.
When it comes to such works, detective novels might be said to form a distinct school separate from true "experimental literature."
In contrast to such fabrications, within true detective accounts that faithfully record actual events, there are instances where the authors’ or narrators’ unconscious minds expose truly astonishing secrets of human nature.
Such works can still be named as a splendid form of experimental literature, at least from our current standpoint.
In the same way, faithful transcripts of various criminal trials in court can sometimes pierce the truth of human nature far more powerfully than poorly written novels and move readers’ hearts.

From this perspective, the position that all faithful records occupy in the world of literature, as well as their significance, becomes the next question to consider.

Literature and Science as Records

Historical facts appeared unable to exist apart from literature. Leaving aside mere chronological tables, when so-called historical facts were recorded by historians as reasonably coherent chains, they ultimately had no choice but to be viewed as those historians' "creations." Nowhere did there exist such a thing as "Japanese History"—only someone's "Japanese History" existed. Events whose actual connections remained unclear were often linked through historians' conjectures and speculations due to missing crucial links in the chain. Thus what we call history had to be considered remarkably unreliable as a true record in the proper sense. Even when events occurred very recently, conveying their truth proved unexpectedly difficult. When McKinley was first elected president and potato prices skyrocketed, Wisconsin farmers attributed this to the election's outcome. In reality though, it stemmed from a drought in production areas. Recent newspapers carried reports of a wife who killed herself because her husband ate all the tofu without sharing any with her. Though perhaps not reaching such extremes, one could imagine history containing an unexpectedly large number of similar cases.

Moreover, what we call history is typically the history of kings, victors, and rulers—as a chronicle of humanity, it remains deeply inadequate.
At the very least, human history exists merely as chance threads woven through this tapestry.
Through history alone, we can only perceive our ancestors' lives and psychology through the faintest of glimpses.

What remedies this deficiency is first and foremost personal diaries and essays.
That such works come to be cherished and esteemed by later generations stems not necessarily from their status as "literary works," but rather from their nature as "records."
Even a diary penned with unsteady brushstrokes by some nameless court lady may possess evidentiary value as a faithful record while simultaneously generating literary worth.

The second category comprises various tales and novels.
Whether the characters appearing within them actually existed or not is hardly a matter of concern; the human archetypes represented by those fictional figures and the patterns of events described undeniably existed.
This stands far more certain than any so-called "historical facts," beyond all doubt.
This can be stated provided the work in question is not a later forgery.
For no matter how richly imaginative an author may be, falsifying their era’s depiction remains fundamentally impossible.
Thus, just as a bullet’s trajectory simultaneously represents all possible trajectories, just as a single planet’s orbit precisely embodies celestial gravitational laws, so too can Hikaru Genji and Lady Aoi’s actions be considered to represent the laws governing their era’s gendered lives and psychologies.
In this sense, works like *The Tale of Genji* and *The Tale of the Hollow Tree* prove far more faithful records and serve as empirical materials surpassing middle school history textbooks or articles in cultured nations’ major newspapers.
Fascinatingly, the degree of such value appears nearly directly proportional to what we commonly term literary and artistic merit.

History repeats itself.
Laws remain unchanging.
Therefore, past records become prophecies of the future.
Needless to say, just as science's value depends on the reproducibility of its records, so too does literature's value rest upon this quality.

But that was not all.
Just as science forecasts unknown phenomena, literature could also anticipate new human phenomena of the future.

There existed a great many mechanisms of material civilization—predicted by imaginative authors of old—that had already been realized in modern times.
Electric lights, airplanes, submarines—even tank warfare—had all been envisioned by novelists long before the European Great War.
Not only popular customs and living conditions among the masses, but even various intellectual currents of their eras—there were not a few instances where exceptional authors had insightfully foreseen these through their keen intuition.
The possibilities of the future were nothing more than slight extensions of present possibilities, however absurd they might appear to ordinary people of today.
When humanity's insatiable desire pushed this outer shell of possibility outward—ever outward—the shell stretched endlessly, limitlessly, like taffy being pulled.
Those who expanded this boundary were likely the select few among scientists and writers.

Literature and Science as Art

If we posit that both literature and science are ultimately "records of fact" interpreted broadly and "prophecies," then the question of how such things relate to what we call "art" inevitably arises.
In other words, this raises the question of how such records and prophecies can be considered "beauty."
This is no simple matter.
However, if we let extreme scientific materialists state their frank observations, one might consider that anything beneficial to humanity from some perspective would always be beautiful when placed in an environment where its inherent utilitarian value is maximized.

Even if we omit enumerating here the examples that should substantiate this idea, given that readers are well aware such a concept is itself nothing novel, there should be no major hindrance in advancing our current inquiry. What I intend to discuss here concerns the consequences that follow from acknowledging such a view.

That is, for literature to be art, it must be a record of truths useful to humanity. Conversely, it is argued that all truthful records are art. No matter how fantastical the dreamlike tales or how sentimental the lyric poems may be, it is argued that because they are true records, they are both beneficial and beautiful. It is likely that up to this point, many readers would at least agree with some qualifications. However, if one were to advance a step further and assert that all outstanding scientific writings are art, it is likely that many people would find it difficult to readily agree. However, this view is not actually so absurd; it has already been discussed not only by myself but also by others on numerous occasions.

Even taking familiar examples, those who read Fabre’s *Insect Memoirs* or Tyndall’s *Glacier Studies* will perceive their content as both science and art.
Darwin’s *On the Origin of Species* is undeniably also a work of literature.
Wegener’s *The Continental Drift Theory* is assuredly more artistic than an ineptly written novel.
Moreover, for those versed in the “national language” of a particular scientific domain, I believe one cannot censure those who discern a kind of supreme beauty in reading Einstein’s relativity papers or Broglie’s wave mechanics treatises.
Though matters concerning inanimate matter and its abstract conceptual relations may not stir emotions expressible through overt clichés, the joy of grasping truth remains undiminished.

Yet because of the opposition inherent in the very names "literature" and "science," these two worlds have been conventionally and sharply divided.
Literary scholars have been considered to face no hindrance at all even if they know neither scientific methods nor facts, and scientists have seemingly been thought able to manage without even setting foot into the world of literature.
However, it seems to me that these two worlds could stand to be a bit closer—rather, I believe they must be brought closer.

The Border Between Literature and Science

In the world of science, there exists neither social obligation nor human sentiment.
What resides in the world of literature beyond these obligations and sentiments are reflections of those very things.
Yet when science speaks to literature across this border, its voice compels us toward profound contemplation.

Consider how insect life bears no relation whatsoever to human codes of obligation or emotion.
The contents of a "Plant Sociology" textbook share not a single thread of connection with human social existence.
Nevertheless, one cannot deny that novels written by authors deeply versed in such works differ fundamentally from those produced by writers ignorant of them.
Nor can we claim that authors comprehending thermodynamics' laws approach narrative events identically to those lacking such understanding.

The idea that examining a flower’s structure in detail under a microscope causes its beauty to vanish is an outrageous prejudice.
The beauty of flowers is only deepened thereby.
Only after learning about the plant’s physiological functions can one fully appreciate both the joy of flowers in full bloom and the sorrow of scattering blossoms.

As human culture advances, literature too must evolve.
There is no conceivable reason why literature alone should cling to past ignorance in a world where society's scientific common sense continues to advance.
Humanity's literature would have no recourse but to be left behind by human progress.
Rather, it seems to me that literary scholars must be even more scientific than scientists themselves.

On the other hand, among scientists, there had existed a groundless custom of deliberately avoiding discerning any human element from the scientific knowledge obtained through their research, as if such avoidance were what maintained their purity and dignity.
It is indeed utterly impossible to “logically” infer matters of the human world from facts of the physical realm.
However, it is an undeniable fact that knowledge of such phenomena in the physical realm served to suggest various things to humans and “remind” them.
For instance, when dealing with a human problem under the assumption that nothing besides A or B could possibly exist, one might often suddenly realize—through studying a phenomenon in the physical realm—that they had forgotten the existence of another possibility: C.

Even if we must absolutely forbid erroneous, forced analogies that resemble truth but differ in essence, it seems to me that science, acting as such a reminder, unexpectedly proposes an important role across various aspects of human life today.

This was by no means accidental.
At the foundation of scientific methodology lay various laws inherent and necessary to general human understanding alongside all forms of their application.
This form had begun being explored by so-called philosophers since antiquity in India and Greece; through philosophy’s long historical course it was gradually systematized and refined.
Having been adopted as modern science’s foundation and subjected to intensified scrutiny ever since, it ultimately formed—by our day—a vast systematic structure whose complex yet orderly arrangement surpassed ancient imaginings.
Yet such methods remained nowhere explicitly written in standard science textbooks.
They dwelled only implicitly within concrete examples’ treatment.
When multiple factors’ concurrent effects determined phenomena—to take one instance—methods were presented for analyzing each factor’s individual influence.
Stripping away all concrete elements from these methods left abstract cognitive forms.
Knowing solely a single active factor’s effect while others lay dormant—would their sum equal concurrent cases’ actual effect? Countless scientific examples proved this false.
Here operated synergistic effects between differing factors.
Nevertheless society routinely employed thinking that ignored these scientist-evident possibilities—novels founded on such approaches abounded.

In any case，the forms of human ways of thinking about things had existed，developed，and differentiated since before the advent of science，and current science developed under the shelter of a part of them.
However，the root of what developed under the shelter of science lies in the inherent laws of human understanding that had existed prior to science and were unrelated to its concrete content.

Even in the case of something like the law of causation, its conception had undergone various transformations throughout the history of science. What once appeared entirely divergent from causation theories like those in Buddhist teachings had recently shown a marked shift, even seeming to exhibit a trend of reverting back to older notions of causality.

At the foundation of science lie various abstract models of "ways of seeing and thinking about things" in the broadest sense. These can be applied to matters beyond scientific objects and are indeed actively employed. That science reminds us of this is neither rare nor strange. Of course, such perspectives are by no means exclusive; however, there appear numerous cases where they prove beneficial—cases that the general public all too often overlook.

Therefore, that scientists accustomed to such diverse ways of viewing things should point out various possibilities obtainable from such perspectives regarding phenomena in the human world and draw the attention of an indifferent public to them was not only fitting for scientists, but might indeed have been considered the most effective path of service uniquely achievable by those very scientists.

However, scientists’ way of thinking is not singularly unique.
Moreover, all that scientists can accomplish lies solely in indicating or suggesting possibilities.
Needless to say, issuing edicts about what must be concealed falls outside the purview of scientific duty.
This is something we must never forget—a truth all too frequently overlooked.

From such considerations, it becomes evident that the most suitable form for scientists to contribute to literature qua scientists would be what we call essays or zuihitsu: a genre blending empirical rigor with literary contemplation.

Essays and Science

The realm where science and literature should join hands is likely that of zuihitsu literature and essay literature.

There existed what was commonly referred to as science fiction.
There were also older works like Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.
In modern times, there were also works such as H.G. Wells’s *The Time Machine* and *The War of the Worlds*.
While all of these might have held considerable popular appeal as scientific chronicles of the future, the true scientific spirit appeared in reality to be surprisingly lacking.
Many of them were beautiful poems strung together like iridescent soap bubbles floating on the surface of the world of science, or amusing exhibits displaying marvels of civilization that piqued laypeople's curiosity; yet works that truly deepened the public's understanding of science's essence or suggested genuinely new possibilities for interaction between science and life remained surprisingly rare.
Thus, from the formal requirements of novelistic or dramatic composition arose the need to employ various forced and unnatural contrivances, so that in attempting to maintain consistency, one often ended up fabricating a grand lie that ultimately failed to cohere.
Therefore, these so-called science fiction works of this kind were generally embarrassing to scientists and could also become a significant cause of misunderstanding science among laypeople.

In contrast to this, essays in which scientists observe phenomena through perspectives unique to their discipline and contemplate matters via modes of thought particular to scientists—then faithfully document the logical progression of those thoughts—often contain elements both intriguing and instructive for specialists and laypeople alike.
Works such as Tyndall’s *Alps Travelogue* and the diary of Barbillon—a lesser-known scientist-literary figure—are examples of this.
Among Japanese works, there are Dr. Nagaoka’s *Tales of Summer in the Countryside*, Dr. Okada’s *Miscellaneous Weather Observations*, Dr. Fujiwara’s *Grasping Clouds* and *Meteorology and Human Life*, Dr. Ōkōchi’s recently published *Pottery Shards*, and—though I have only seen parts of it—Dr. Irisawa’s new collection of medical essays. All these could only have been written by scientists, yet they contain much that enlightens the public and casts new light on daily life.
Furthermore, even within the narrow scope of my own knowledge, there are by no means few outstanding scientist-essayists who remain unknown to the world.

However, in modern times, this type of specialized literature still seemed unable to emerge from its infancy—both due to a groundless misunderstanding that scholars writing for newspapers and magazines constituted so-called journalism in its pejorative sense, and because publishers and general readers alike failed to fully recognize its true value.
Yet from my perspective, I felt this branch of literature possessed a rather expansive future realm.

Not limited to those by scientists, what are generally called essays had traditionally been faintly acknowledged in the margins of the literary world, beside a dustheap.
Even today, in the editorial departments of monthly magazines, essays were classified into a category called “intermediates,” placed alongside café gossip and real-life love suicide stories, and seemed entirely segregated into a separate domain from so-called “creative works” such as novels and plays.
Of course, from the standpoint of formal classification methods, this was a natural thing, and no one would have raised an objection against this.
However, from the perspective of those standing in a slightly different position here, such distinctions were not necessarily absolute.
To achieve quick understanding, one needed only consider the most extreme case.
In other words, if one contrasted on one hand so-called "creative works"—novels employing utterly commonplace themes and treatments—with on the other hand "intermediates" in the form of essays brimming with highly original perspectives on nature and human existence, it became evident that the latter contained far more creative substance than the former, while the former would likely have been considered halfway toward those cheap imitations sold by the dozen.

Generally speaking, so-called "creative works" largely maintained coherent plots and often possessed stories that could be summarized in a few lines.
In contrast, mid-category essays generally lacked clear plots in most cases.
However, this distinction was not actually so clear-cut: there existed works in the creative section that essentially described mundane daily affairs in essayistic fashion, while conversely, among pieces labeled as essays, one found no small number containing portrayals of intricate interplays within groups' inner lives rendered with far greater depth and artful elaboration than ordinary novels.
If one were to cite an example, among recent works I encountered, two or three experiential accounts within Morita Sōhei's *A Leisurely Talk* could be considered creative works in every aspect—in terms of content, they constituted both excellent novels and plays.
To be sure, some might argue such experiential accounts were not "creative works," but accepting that premise would mean many popular novelistic works in our contemporary literary world likewise ceased to be novels or creative works.
Creative work was not synonymous with fantasy.
What mattered was whether authors demonstrated originality in their treatment of subject matter.
Goethe’s *Italian Journey* was a creative work, while those cheap novels were not novels at all—this required no fresh elaboration.

When one considers matters in this way, the distinction between so-called "creative works" and essays is, like many other "classifications," something gradual and indeterminate in nature.
Merely as a matter of convenience, works by so-called novelists and playwrights that "seem to differ somewhat from facts" are labeled as creative novels, while works written by non-novelists—or even novelists—that people recognize as "things that really happened" are classified into the essay category; this appears to reflect the actual state of affairs.

Pursuing this perspective led ultimately to viewing so-called creative works as contrivances that allowed some degree of deception to maintain consistency, while essays came to be seen as records of the author’s truth—or at least their subjective truth.
When viewed in this manner, might it not have been that those works which touched upon the true essence of literature as an art form—in the sense of being both “a record and prophecy of life” as discussed in the preceding section—were actually more numerous among the latter than the former?
And the latter seemed not so much to approach science as to follow a different path toward the same objective that science aimed at.

While the above arguments may at first glance appear to employ blatant sophistry, I believe that any reader who can set aside their preconceptions for a time and impartially reflect upon them will come to acknowledge that these contain at least partial truths.

Be that as it may, at present, the sole literary form that scientists should adopt to engage in "creative work" without self-deception as scientists is the essay, and I believe that this is by no means a meaningless endeavor as a first step toward a distant "future literature."

Literature and Science as Broadly Defined 'Learning'

Essays do not demand rigorous logical consistency. Even if logical contradictions exist, this in no way prevents them from being literature. However, even in such cases, there must necessarily be some form of "non-logical logic." This may be called the "logic of dreams." Without such elements, they cannot be considered readable works.

Non-logical logic refers to the laws of human thought that present-day humans have yet to discover, become aware of, analyze, describe, or name. To unearth and recognize this will be one mission of the broadly defined "learning" anticipated in the future. Both science and literature seem to continue their faltering steps toward the ultimate goal of this future "learning."

"The notion that 'literature and other arts must directly contribute to improving socioeconomic conditions' and its opposing view that 'literature and other arts must exist solely for art's sake'—the debates conducted between these two schools of thought strike me with my particular intellectual disposition as being utterly meaningless."
"It would seem only natural that if true 'learning' advances through the recording of genuine phenomena along with their analytical study and systematization, then politics and economics would inevitably benefit humanity; on the other hand, for something to be artistically beautiful, it must necessarily contain some form of contribution to what is here called 'learning'."
"No matter how much a work may at first glance appear to disrupt current moral values, nor how morbidly charged with pathological sentiments it may seem, if those who possess sound reason can recognize even the slightest so-called artistic value in it, this will be solely because the work contains both 'record' and 'prophecy.'"
"A 'record' is an objective fact, and this—as in science—harbors infinite possibilities for both use and misuse."

Of course, all knowledge contains the danger of misuse.
Scientific knowledge is no exception.
However, when viewed as a whole, science has advanced with the intention of promoting the general welfare of humanity.
Of course, in the present day, there are indeed many people who have become more unhappy than before precisely because science has advanced, but this seems to be a contradiction and tragedy arising from the fact that only the field of material science has forged ahead, leaving true social science—a social science somewhat more scientific than what is currently called social science—far behind.
In other words, it could be considered that this discrepancy arises from insufficient progress in both the scientific systematization of knowledge concerning the human mind and its practical application.

I believe that providing materials for such systematization may well be the mission of future literature.

Popular Science and Literature

There exists what is termed popular science.
It aims to explain scientific facts, their laws and principles, and examples of their application in a manner accessible to general readers.
Among such works, those by Faraday, Helmholtz, Mach, and Bragg stand as excellent examples.
The reason they excel lies not merely in imparting facts, but in teaching a scientific mode of thought and awakening the scientific spirit within readers.
To write such works, the author must still be an outstanding scientific investigator while simultaneously being a literary creator.

Beyond the first-rate scientists mentioned above, there existed journalists in the positive sense—such as Flammarion and Fournier d'Albe—who had contributed to science's popularization and advocacy; however, from pure scientists' perspective, there inevitably remained something lacking in crucial aspects that could not be remedied.

However, among the many so-called popular science books circulating in society today, there appear to be a great many dubious imitations.
Works by professional popular science writers who merely possess incomplete knowledge of science's superficial layer and lack any personal experience as scientists are far from rare in distorting the essence of science through their representations.
On the other hand, even among works written by competent scientists, there seem to be by no means few examples where matters having essentially no connection to the main narrative—seemingly included merely to alleviate readers’ boredom—are tossed together like a hodgepodge, while hollow borrowed so-called "flowery prose" is decoratively interwoven.
In any case, works hastily cobbled together without arising from the author’s true intent will naturally possess neither scientific nor literary value whatsoever.

If scientists were to describe—in the most straightforward order and with the most ordinary language devoid of all embellishment—the profound knowledge they have acquired through personal experience, knowledge thoroughly masticated, firmly grasped, and completely savored until it has truly become their flesh and blood, then readers would not only grasp difficult concepts with ease and understand them with reasonable accuracy, but simultaneously receive boundless interest and inspiration.

In this sense, popular science lecture transcripts and essays can indeed be splendid "creative works" and even "artistic works."
Even when dealing with subjects from the biological or inorganic world that have no direct connection to human society, such creative works will inevitably annex new territory to readers' worldviews and, by extension, their philosophies of life.
If something serves to expand and evolve the humanity within readers, I see no reason why we should refrain from calling it literature.

Journalism and Science

When science comes into contact with the literary world, engagements with what might be termed journalism in a rather uninteresting sense inevitably arise.

Journalism is, as the term itself indicates, the act of writing manuscripts for day-to-day purposes and creating articles for newspapers and magazines from time to time.
In itself, it should carry no particularly negative meaning, but this definition already harbors various dangers.
Superficiality, rashness, inaccuracy, and irresponsibility—such things naturally tend to cling to it.
Moreover, for the sake of readers' temporary interest, all that is permanent tends to be sacrificed.
Furthermore, because topics are governed by temporal trends, the scope of coverage becomes narrowed, and simultaneously, the relationship between those topics and the broader whole tends to be lost.

Not only were popular science articles that had fallen into such journalistic pitfalls by no means few in number, but even works labeled as scientific papers were scarcely rare.
If one were to attempt to pick out such pieces among the many popular magazines and academic articles, it would have been considered exceedingly easy to do so.

However, on the other hand, even when published in daily newspapers or monthly magazines, it was by no means impossible for there to exist works that possessed permanent value as reading material without succumbing to such pitfalls.
For example, many of the essays by scholars in our country that I had cited earlier fell into this category.
The distinction between such permanent works and journalistic ones in the pejorative sense was by no means difficult to make.
Ultimately, it simply came down to whether reading them made one somewhat wiser than before.
And whether one discovered something new each time they were reread two or three times at different intervals.
In other words, while there existed the worst journalists who did not write for newspapers and magazines, there could also be people who remained completely immune to journalism's pitfalls even when writing for them.
Misunderstandings regarding this matter often appeared to hinder the proper dissemination of science.
This was regrettable.

Prose and Science

"I often hear criticisms such as 'Researcher A's papers contain solid content, but his writing is awkwardly obscure and difficult to comprehend.'"
"As for whether such a phenomenon could truly exist in reality, I myself harbor profound doubts."
"In actual practice, the papers of distinguished scientists frequently appear equally commendable in their prose composition."
"For writing to achieve crystalline clarity, a mind of equivalent lucidity stands as an indispensable prerequisite."
"When one encounters prose of utmost obscurity composed in their native tongue by an intellect of transparent clarity, we must likely regard this as nothing short of an extraordinary exception."

Conversely, there are cases where people say, "Researcher B’s papers may have ordinary content, but their skillful writing makes them interesting."
This too struck me as doubtful.
No matter how one might deploy the most refined rhetorical techniques to write about hackneyed facts, such writing could never be deemed 'interesting' by readers who were proper scientists.
In such works there must invariably reside some original insight and implication, some novel perspective and method of comprehension—in short, they must contain something embodying a certain 'generative capacity'.

During my middle school days when I was made to write compositions, I used to think that writing existed independently of its content.
So I desperately memorized so-called beautiful prose, but that illusion vanished with the passing years.
Rhetorical devices may act like friction-reducing oil for a machine, but without the machine itself, no work can be done.
Zeami’s writings on Noh may seem quite peculiar as so-called prose, but I believe they are in fact an unrivaled masterpiece of writing.

Therefore, depending on one's perspective, science is ultimately language and prose. One might say that scientific masterpieces marred by clumsy prose amount to nothing more than meaningless words.

I was often asked by young students how one could improve their writing. In such cases, I invariably gave the answers outlined above. If a passage in a paper remains nearly incomprehensible regarding its intended meaning despite repeated readings, this typically signals a flaw of disordered logic—a defect that even its author did not fully comprehend. Conversely, passages that become luminously clear upon reading surely represent matters the author had thoroughly mastered to their marrow, set down with effortless fluency.

This theory may indeed lean toward somewhat exaggerating a highly one-sided perspective born of limited vision, yet I believe it inherently contains a measure of truth.

Conclusion

While there remain numerous subjects meriting examination under the heading of "Science and Literature," I shall here lay down my pen and defer further discussion to another occasion.

As forewarned in the introduction, these theories constitute nothing more than the personal views of one individual shaped by particular historical circumstances and environment—what will likely be regarded as idiosyncratic theories lacking universal applicability.
Yet I believe that precisely by recording such unvarnished heterodoxies without embellishment, there lies particular value for discerning readers of this lecture series; thus I have unabashedly set forth my accumulated observations with stark candor and deliberate disarray.
I fully acknowledge that certain arguments may appear egregiously self-serving—a realization that fills me with both bitter chagrin and profound presumption—yet I venture to present them unaltered as an 'experimental notebook' laid bare for readers' critical dissection.

(September Showa 8, World Literature Lecture Series)