Pathway to Japanese Literature

Since ancient times, there has existed a lineage of poetic forms inherent to the Japanese people, based on the syllabic meter of five and seven.
Since first appearing in the era of the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki up to the present day, it has permeated not only tanka and haiku but also various song forms and folk ballads.
Within this grand system, what has drawn a distinct, singular line throughout ancient and modern times is the thirty-one-syllable tanka.
From this line, renga branched off midway, and from there sprouted another branch giving rise to haikai renku.
The hokku – what we now call haiku – was always like the flowers and fruits adorning the nodes of these branches since the age of renga.
Later, Senryū sprouted buds at the branch tips of zappai that had diverged from haikai.

The course from renga to haikai appeared to have had many complex twists and turns.
There was an irregularly periodic ebb and flow between elegance and humor, between aristocratic and plebeian elements.
This current appeared to have converged and blended into a great confluence called Bashō through the Teimon and Danrin schools.
After passing through this confluence point, haikai seemed to disperse once more in all directions, branching into numerous separate rivulets.

On one hand, when tracing transitions in the ethnically and nationally unique worldview manifested in poetry since the Kojiki, Nihon Shoki, and Man'yōshū eras, one could observe how the pristine thought of ancestral Japanese people gradually transformed under foreign religious and philosophical influences. Yet even from this perspective, works from the mature period of Bashō school haikai appeared fused with all philosophies—from Shinto and Confucianism to Buddhism and Lao-Zhuang thought—into a unified whole.
Thus while Confucians became mired in Confucianism and Buddhists clung to Buddhism, haiku poets outside these traditions—without adhering to any single doctrine—appeared to have absorbed and digested all elements, making their essence an inherent property of the Japanese people.
In other words, Bashō was purely Japanese.

In this sense, to expound upon the essence of haikai was to expound upon the essence of all Japanese poetry, and would ultimately lead to expounding upon the religion and philosophy of the Japanese people.
However, that was no easy task.
Here, I could only keep such awareness in mind and, standing upon that foundation, present my humble observations regarding the essence of Bashō school haikai itself—there was no other path for me to take at present.

Haikai was one manifestation of the spirit of aesthetic refinement that permeated all aspects of our nation's culture.
Whatever the literary origins of the term *fūga* might have been, the fundamental element of what had been called the spirit of *fūga* in ancient Japan appeared to be a state of unconstrained mental freedom.
It represented "thoughts without guile," the "vast vital force," nirvana, and heaven.
It constituted an attitude of composure that found leisure amidst busyness, and a state of mind that maintained accurate perception when standing at life's mortal boundaries.
The exhortation “Devote yourself to the sincerity of *fūga*” could be understood as advocating that one—through a mind like still water and clear mirror, liberated from self-interest—perceive phenomena’s true essence by consulting pines on pine matters and bamboo on bamboo matters, thereby naturally entering the gate of sincere intention through what was called the great path of knowledge via investigation of things.
In this regard, it had to be acknowledged that the spirit of *fūga* shared common ground in one aspect with natural science's spirit.
Thus advancing beyond establishing forms and comprehending principles to reach where one forgot forms and discarded principles—this had been considered *fūga*'s ultimate expression.
This ideal needed also to be recognized as connecting not only to all ancient artistic disciplines of our nation but extending even to various martial arts' essential principles.
Moreover, it maintained an underlying thread of commonality with what was termed Western humor.
One could not claim that “Humor on the Gallows” lacked somewhere a whiff of *haikai*.

It seemed that glimmerings of the spirit of *fūga* appeared everywhere throughout the poems of the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki as well as within their main texts.
However, in that era, it still manifested itself in a positive form untinged by notions of impermanence.
Yet as we moved from the *Man'yōshū* through the *Kokinshū* eras, this spirit became increasingly permeated by the passive-conservative overtones of foreign religious philosophies.
That is to say, it had come to be imbued with *sabi* in its ordinary sense.
That this nihilistic tinge of impermanence permeated all medieval culture was well known.

However, I believe the original path of *fūga* was never meant to render people regressive.
From regents and imperial advisors above to samurai, farmers, artisans, and merchants below, it was practiced across all classes, having accompanied and guided these people's active social lives as members of society.
Military commanders devoid of aesthetic sensibility likely proved inept at governing others; merchants who failed to grasp *fūga*'s principles probably accumulated insufficient wealth; tenement houses lacking even a single morning glory pot likely witnessed frequent marital disputes.
This constitutes the Japanese people.
The way of *fūga* ought to exist within any vigorous and dynamic Japan.

Fūga, being the freedom of mind attained through the removal of self and the correct perception of all phenomena, naturally gives rise to both the elegance and profound mystery idealized in waka and what came to be recognized as sabi and shiori—the very soul of haikai.
To lack yūgen along with sabi and shiori is to be blatant, contrived, lacking in perception, and consequently superficial and crude.
Bashō’s so-called sabi is neither melancholy nor Buddhist extinction.
Shiori is by no means something sad or weak.
Mono no aware, too, signifies neither facile sentimentality nor Song Xiang’s benevolence.
These do not refer to such subjective emotional movements of the self but rather denote the true emotional countenance of things—that which should naturally be recognized when one correctly perceives the genuine essence existing in the depths beyond phenomena’s superficial shell.
To recognize this requires a mind free from attachments.
For instance, a mediocre poet fixated solely on Buddhism’s superficial aspects might compose conventional verses about impermanence upon seeing scattered flowers—but that could never embody sabi or shiori.
Bashō’s sabi and shiori penetrate far deeper.
Consider sensing sabi in the “heart’s hue” of an old man silently guarding blossoms or perceiving shiori in the “heart’s form” of ten rice dumplings withered by autumn winds—these were natural perceptions attained through contemplation advanced by eyes clearer than ordinary people’s, piercing to greater depths.
He took what defied expression through any means save hokku—and rendered it precisely as hokku.

That the idealization of sabi and shiori likely dates back to a distant past preceding Bashō—this fact could also be discerned from Shinkei’s words concerning renga.
They revered “lingering emotion” and “vestiges,” placed their hearts where words remained unspoken, and cherished the “chill-desolate aesthetic”—but it was Bashō who became the first to fully realize those ancient ideals.

The various symbols expressed through sabi, shiori, vestiges, lingering emotion, and other such concepts all represented the true countenance latent beneath the surface perception of their objects—moreover, these could not be articulated through prosaic language but only through poetry in its purest sense.
The mission of haikai lay in using the artistry of seventeen syllables to vividly capture and express—with precision—those things better conveyed through silence than verbosity.
It extracted and depicted truths that Homer’s and Dante’s verbosity could never capture—cutting close to the hilt like splitting a watermelon, with the determination to fell a giant tree.

If we ask where the secret of this artistry lies, it can only be found in the rhetorical method of stimulating readers' associative activity through symbolic suggestion.
The fact that this method came to be consciously and exclusively practiced in the West and was ultimately proclaimed as the very essence of what constitutes poetry is a relatively recent development, and it appears that as an aftermath of such ideas, haikai came to be studied and imitated in places like France.
However, this method in its most highly developed form can already be found in Bashō's late-period haikai.

The power of suggestion is inversely proportional to the length of phrases.
The short poetic form of haiku is only natural.

I recall that among M. Métre’s remarks on haiku was a statement to the effect that “haikai makes readers co-authors.”
In reality, if there were nothing within readers that reacted to and resonated with the suggestions provided by the verse, haiku as a form could not exist.

As Mr. Chamberlain—who seemingly understood nothing of haiku—once said, it would become nothing more than a subject for an oil painting or similar artwork, and even Bashō’s famous verse would be reduced to “an autumn scene of a crow on a withered branch.”
The difference between a painting subject and a haiku arises from three elements: the selection of symbolic mental images from the subject matter, their arrangement, and the deft handling of language that activates the verse—but most crucial of all is the use of particles like *te*, *ni*, *o*, and *ha*.
What surpasses even that in importance is the metrical rhythm derived from the fixed seventeen-syllable poetic form.

The shorter the poem, the more strictly it demands adherence to formal conventions.
Otherwise, one cannot tell whether it is a poem, a painting subject, or a maxim.
Moreover, as recent studies by our nation’s scholars demonstrate, the 7-5 syllabic rhythm is inherently tied to the nature of the Japanese language and cannot be subject to arbitrary human reasoning.
Deformed haiku that disregard this fundamental scientific fact may be unrestrained, but they are not free.
The fluid freedom characteristic of haikai can only be realized within the resonance of its poetic form—a form bearing two thousand years of inertia and momentum.
This is what it means when we say haikai is a form to be chanted.
One of the starting points for the fallacy whereby Westerners with half-baked knowledge liken Bashō to Aurelius or Epictetus also lies here.
Deviant haiku rooted in the same fallacy will only arouse interest in hearts warped by the futile training of Japanese people who have forgotten their own yellow skin.

What kind of essence is distilled within this brief poetic form?
It is none other than the myriad emotions and scenes approached through *fūga*’s spirit—the very transformations of heaven and earth—yet precisely that which seizes timelessness amid transience while seeking to wander freely across reality’s illusory borders: this formed the essential objective of the Shōfū school’s orthodox style.

Regarding timelessness and transience (*fueki ryūkō*) and the distinction between reality and illusion (*kyojitsu no ben*), these matters had been exhaustively discussed by scholars past and present, leaving no room for further elaboration here; ultimately, they constituted guiding principles common not only to haikai but to all expressive arts of our nation—serving as the watershed demarcating art from scholarship. To state it in plain terms, this meant expressing the eternal world of time and space by capturing a concrete cross-section thereof. One must express essence through phenomena; it meant filling latent vessels with manifest objects. To speak of “true emotion” or “poetic sentiment” amounted to saying the same thing. This might have been considered an elementary principle teachable in rhetoric’s introductory stages as general doctrine, but to truly embody it required the lifelong ascetic discipline undertaken by Bashō himself.

To embody transience required determining at least either time or space—or both.
The establishment of seasonal themes served to meet this necessity.
Hokku without seasonal themes might rarely exist, but those remained exceptions to be excluded.
Nijō Yoshimoto had compared the transitions between verses in linked verse to the vicissitudes of the floating world and likened them to the cycle of four seasons.
This was a concept applicable only to the Japanese people—who had cultivated sensitivity to these changes while inhabiting a land where climatic variations manifested with extraordinary complexity and diversity.
Thus, the fact that seasonal themes had been codified since renga times and rigorously maintained in haikai was by no means accidental.
For instance, the "haikai" by Frenchman Julien Vocance—composed in 7-7-7 syllables while depicting trench life during the Great War—entirely lacked a seasonal theme; therefore, however generously we might assess it, we could not recognize it as true haikai.
(See Kaizōsha *Haiku Lectures* Volume 7, Mr. Gotō’s “French Haikai Poetry”.)

Among seasonal themes, those concerning celestial phenomena and weather aside, those related to geography, human affairs, animals, and plants serve to determine time while implicitly defining space.
At minimum, they hold the latent capacity to determine these dimensions.
Thus, by merely offering one such seasonal theme, haiku poets grasp a nodal point within readers’ associative web—their co-authors.
Yet infinite threads connect to this knot.
To powerfully vibrate one particular thread among them requires seizing another knot and plucking the taut string stretched between them.
This means extracting a cross-section from the web of Timelessness to reveal within it the visage of Transience.
The impetus driving this plucking must lie in the verse’s “workings” and “momentum.”

A hokku is created by juxtaposing elements.
Skillfully juxtaposing them constitutes mastery.
However, it cannot be made by merely gathering two or three elements at random.
That Bashō taught to forge [hokku] like hammered gold—this too refers precisely to the aforementioned method.

Montage, as theorized in recent film art, remains fundamentally an art of juxtaposition.
By colliding two elements, it generates something entirely distinct from each individual component—what might be termed overtones or combination tones.
This must stand as cinema’s essential technique while simultaneously serving as haikai’s indispensable principle.

There are various policies for selecting the two elements to be juxtaposed.
The outcome of such juxtaposition becomes entirely different depending on whether the thread connecting the two elements passes through the upper layer of common-sense-logical consciousness, is tied to an episode from classical works, or is connected in the darkness of the subconscious mind.
The defining characteristic of the Shōfū school’s haikai method lies entirely in this act of juxtaposing elements through threads of latent association.
Profound mystery, lingering emotion, austere sublimity, lingering resonance, and delicate refinement—all are none other than the timbre produced by the subtle vibrations of this string.
It seems that when the ancients questioned whether to combine elements from within the structural framework or from without, they were indeed addressing this very issue.
Moreover, regarding the linking of verses, the saying “Proceed from the shallow to the deep, then return from the deep to the shallow” also seems to touch upon this same issue.
“Haikai does not speak directly of the thing itself, but rather plucks its periphery and uses that resonance to stir people’s hearts.”

This method of montage through the subconscious was most strikingly and effectively employed in linked haikai.
The principle of linking in linked verse—that it should resemble plum blossoms exuding fragrance on a hazy moonlit night—referred precisely to this approach.
Terms like scent, resonance, transition, lingering impression, status, and scenery were ultimately seen as nothing more than classifications based on various manifestations of this dynamic latent association.
Through these methods, it became possible to “shape the inanimate into sentient forms and thereby breathe soul into creation.”

To those long familiar with haikai and accustomed to its subconscious associative activity, the associations stirred by many tanka of Teika and Saigyō struck one as far too overt and explicit in their appeal—an impression that could not be dismissed.
The poems of Mr. Saitō Mokichi’s *Red Lights* delighted us precisely because they were rich in latent suggestion.
It was precisely this latent quality that rendered haikai’s unintentional method of juxtaposition akin to how objects combine in dream phenomena.
While dream transitions were overtly impossible, translating them into the language of the subconscious through psychological analysis revealed them as necessary progressions—moreover, these transitions narrated a “transient aspect” of some facet of the dreamer’s innermost secrets.
Here too, it is said, we find “the interplay between reality and illusion.”

There exists a theory that dreams lack color.
Putting aside whether this holds true, consider how this notion contrasts with the statement: “Verses from other schools resemble polychrome paintings;
Our school’s verses should be like ink paintings.
At times, they are not entirely devoid of color—
yet in essence, other schools prioritize *sabi* and *shiori* above all.” This juxtaposition yields infinite fascination.
What surfaces in dreams, *haikai*, or ink paintings exists as symbols for suggestion—entities fundamentally distinct from oil paintings’ realistic depictions.
Color, through excessive stimulation, more often diminishes than enhances this symbolic power of suggestion.

Be that as it may, a hokku could not be created through material selection and juxtaposition alone.
The next question became how to arrange this within a seventeen-syllable vessel.
In this aspect too, the haiku of the Bashō school appeared to have truly reached the furthest extent possible.
Even when using relatively ordinary materials—much like flowers coming alive through their arrangement—a verse could suddenly leap into motion through the workings of a few words.
For instance, even with a commonplace combination like “a cuckoo over the river,” it was said that Bashō had repeatedly refined and polished the verse to make it function.
When comparing this famous verse to the Chinese phrase “White dews lie upon the river; water’s radiance meets the heavens,” the essential secret of haikai became clearly evident.
Bashō unhesitatingly cut away the verbosity of white dew and water’s radiance, replacing them with the voice of a cuckoo whose form remained unseen.
This stood merely as an accessible example illustrating that haikai was an art of cutting and montage.

That haikai is an art of cutting is akin to the art of flower arrangement.
Moreover, when Mr. Okakura states in *The Book of Tea* that “the tea ceremony is an art that hides beauty to discover beauty, a technique to suggest what one hesitates to reveal,” this too is the same principle—ultimately constituting another aspect of suggestive art grounded in the aforementioned Way of Fūga.
“To state everything leaves nothing.”
“A verse expressed five or six parts out of ten will never weary the listener.”
“Pressing one’s expression to about seven or eight parts out of ten makes it too explicit,” and “It is precisely what remains in the verse that allows the lingering image to emerge”—all these share the same nature.
Such economy of cutting arises from the fundamental convention of the short poetic form while simultaneously becoming the very reason necessitating that brevity.

The same two elements arranged in different sequences transformed the verse into something entirely distinct. This was something even novice verse composers knew. The *te ni o ha* particles created the distinction between renga and haikai through a mere single-character difference, while giving birth to the form of Transience within verses consisting solely of Timelessness. These points required no further exemplification.

The *te ni o ha* particles were unique to the Japanese language. "Our country is the foremost nation of *te ni o ha* particles." Western linguists remained entirely unaware of the formidable power inherent in this grammatical tool. This held true for tanka as well, but in haiku, this grammatical tool demonstrated its ingenious function even more remarkably. The *te ni o ha* particles were the gears and bearings of machinery. Only with these did the machinery become operational. Even verses that appeared to lack surface-level *te ni o ha* were exceptions—ones that could still be seen as possessing hidden *te ni o ha* in the shadows.

The matter requiring consideration regarding *te ni o ha* particles concerned cutting words (*kireji*). This regulation emerged from historical requirements dating back to the *renga* era when people believed *hokku* must possess self-contained forms through closure alone—if closed properly then all forty-eight syllables became cutting words; if unclosed then neither “ya” nor “kana” could function as such.

What did “closure” signify? Though challenging conceptually through my lens it appeared closure’s essence lay in achieving dialectical synthesis—two opposing elements comprehensively unifying into one whole—at least forming my current working hypothesis then.

The “ya” particle served as barrier opposing elements above and below itself yet dissolved through recitation’s rhythm allowing unification while overtones resonated—a process mirroring musical harmonics meanwhile “kana” while functioning exclamatorily also summoned initial syllables through repetition thus opposing final syllables against opening ones making them functionally equivalent ultimately revealing negligible semantic distinction between “ya” and “kana” historically.

According to this working hypothesis, even “The Karasaki pine stands hazier than blossoms” achieves splendid completion through the opposition and fusion of pine and flower—thus adding *kana* as a concluding particle would state everything too explicitly, leaving no lingering emotion and rendering it a high-handed, imperious, dogmatic proposition. By transferring the process of synthesis to the reader in this case, “*nite*” would appear to fully embody haikai’s essential technique.

The hokku must achieve completion, but the subsequent verses of linked haikai must remain incomplete. For this is precisely where the true charm of the linking verse lies—it is only when combined with the previous verse that a single complete mental image is formed.

Linked verse is, so to speak, a chain of poetry articulated through subconscious symbols—one could even view it as carrying the concepts of Poe and the French Symbolist poets to their logical conclusion. On the other hand, it also bears resemblance to what might be termed absolute films like *Un Chien Andalou*, which depict a dream world. Moreover, linked verse is music woven with symbols instead of through sound. Indeed, the form of a single volume of linked verse shares considerable similarities with musical forms such as the sonata. To consider linked verse inferior because it lacks a narrative thread throughout is akin to deeming program music superior and sonatas or symphonies inferior. Linked verse consists of a musical composition that is dimensionally several degrees more complex than music itself. The relationship between the previous verse and the linking verse is more complex than the consonance and dissonance of sounds. Each verse already possesses melody and harmony; between the mental images contained within those two verses exists a contrapuntal relationship. The various rules of composition that originated in renga and became established in haikai resemble those of harmonic theory: issues of overtone harmony give rise to the demand for the inseparable union of *tsuke-kokoro*; the consideration of verse-skipping (*uchikoshi*) is abandoned to pursue movement variations akin to musical movements, establishing formal protocols for associative linkages (*sashiai*), while the continuation of verses steeped in human emotion is cautioned against. To restrain wildness and disorder, themes such as the seat of moon and flowers and seasonal topics are repeated. And thus, through the pages of the poetry paper, the *jo-ha-kyū* structure naturally takes shape, and the entire volume forms a cohesive musical piece.

The hokku was the compressed form of hyakuin, gojūin, and kasen; when expanded, it became the mitsumono, omoteai, and hyakuin kasen.
The theme of the hokku was not developed narratively through the literal level of words but unfolded limitlessly through the dynamic force of associative activity.
Moreover, one could view the progression from the hokku through the waki and third verse as a single thematic movement, just as the omote six verses might be perceived in this light.
That is to say, three verses possessed the functional capacity of a hundred or a thousand verses, and within the front six verses, one could encapsulate the form of an entire volume.

The distinguishing feature of linked haikai lay in its capacity to become a collaborative work by numerous authors.
As with linked verse in Chinese poetry, this rather appeared to idealize the merging of many into one.
However, in haikai linked verse, the essence lay where various individualities wove a symphony.
The compelling nature of the linked verse in the *Shichibushū* anthologies stemmed not only from masters each possessing distinct characteristics participating but also from a peerless maestro wielding the baton of his generation.
The *Buson Shichibushū*, though appearing resplendent and opulent, felt somehow monotonous and desolate as a whole—a lack of variation in wind instrument timbres seemed to be the cause.
The reason Bashō was a master lay in his ability to rightly recognize and allow the flourishing of personalities that differed from one extreme to another; thus after the leader’s death, their scattering and beginning to quarrel indeed stemmed from these marked differences in individuality.

The fact that this collaborative creation is possible and that good works can only emerge through collaboration is of course intimately connected to what I previously stated—that “the hokku makes readers co-creators.”
Whether one understands a haiku ultimately depends on whether they possess the associative world surrounding that verse.

Within the call-and-response exchanges among co-creators, if there is not at least modesty and propriety in restraint, nor—more actively—the manifestation of mutual aid as a virtue, then even if each individual verse holds interest, the entire volume will lose its wondrous charm.
It is impossible to critique and appreciate linked haikai without taking this matter into consideration.
If the “*ushin*” linking verses received head-on are important, then light “*kaishaku*” (acknowledgments) and “*nige-ku*” (evasive verses) become all the more necessary.
The former may be achievable by beginners, but the latter is a weighty role that can only be fulfilled by seasoned practitioners.

One of the fascinations of linked haikai as an object of appreciation lay in how it reflected the zeitgeist of its era through manifestations within a single volume.
In their linking verses, practitioners of the Bashō school appeared to revere what they called "timeliness."
They hoped to compile verses that naturally selected forms of prevailing trends inherent to their contemporary environment.
Verses lying outside an author's own experiential realm were also cautioned against.
Yet even without such strictures, given that linked verse comprised a composite of diverse worlds created by authors breathing their era's atmosphere, their works inevitably bore a far more pronounced imprint of the age than individual compositions.
From this perspective, modern haikai's attempt to exclusively create verses resembling those from the Genroku era revealed itself as fundamentally misguided.

To enrich linked verse’s variations, freely modulate its cadence, and enable the jo-ha-kyū structure’s formation, elements like Shinto deities, Buddhist teachings, love, and impermanence were appropriately distributed.
Thereupon, miscellaneous verses came to fulfill roles equal to or surpassing those of seasonal-themed verses.
If seasonal-themed verses were the string instruments, then miscellaneous verses served as the diverse wind or percussion instruments.
What rendered linked haikai symphonic was precisely the activity of these miscellaneous verses.
Among them, love verses had since antiquity been deemed most essential—indeed, no complete volume could be formed without them.

Regarding the love verses that appear in Bashō’s haikai, Mr. Komiya Toyotaka has published a thorough study in this lecture series.
As that theory also notes, the love depicted in haikai may be intensely passionate and poignant, but what lies beneath is the pathos of love—sabi and shiori.
That is to say, it is the elegance of love—love and sexual desire as one aspect of elegance.
Unless one possesses the mental composure to calmly observe love while being immersed in it, one cannot compose love verses in haikai.
In truth, Bashō was a man who directed passionate love toward all existences—humans and beasts, not to mention mountains, rivers, plants, and trees—and was one who had passionate love directed at him in turn.
Among Bashō’s verses, there exist those that appear to simply describe natural scenery yet possess a vividly sensual immediacy—a fact well known to those who study them.
This would seem to indicate that his feelings toward all phenomena were akin to romantic love.
However, he shaved his head to recognize the true nature of love and savor its elegance, and parted ways with a courtesan of a certain house.
In comparison to this, for example, Buson lacks eroticism toward nature.
In the eyes of he who was a painter, all phenomena appeared more as subjects for painting than as objects of love—or perhaps as material for his poetry.
It can be imagined that to Issa, all phenomena appeared as his unfortunate and ill-fated sympathizers and comforters.

As Mr. Komiya has noted, there are love verses—particularly vulgar ones—that carry an element of humor.
This is likely a peculiar phenomenon observed throughout the haikai tradition, spanning Bashō’s era and beyond.
This too naturally occurs when love is calmly observed and objectified, being comical while simultaneously embodying pathos.
In the love verses of linked haikai, there are instances where the distinction from senryū becomes nearly paper-thin and difficult to discern; yet it remains undeniable that even in superior senryū, one finds pathos and elegance.
However, when it comes to inferior senryū, even if there appears to be recognition and depiction of subtle objective truths on the surface, the author’s subjectivity—extracting, exaggerating, and flaunting those truths from behind the verse—thickly rises to the surface in a manner that defies remedy; this stems from an insufficient pursuit of *fūga*’s sincerity, halting midway.
If pressed one step further, all humor must become pathos—it must become *sabi* and *shiori*.

We now recall the ancient scholars' debates concerning the origins of the term "haikai." Even if haikai is said to mean humor and jest, grasping the true nature of that humor proves remarkably elusive. Why are the haikai poems in the *Kokinshū* considered haikai? How does haikai-linked verse differ from ordinary linked verse? Is it haikai that freely moves without adhering to formalities? Is it humor born of displaying wit and improvisation? Or is it the unattentiveness within the dichotomy of attentiveness and spontaneity? The essence seems remarkably difficult to capture. However, if we permit bold imagination, even those who engaged in ancient renga and haikai could hear haikai's voice but could not grasp its true form. For this reason, haikai strayed from *Kuri no Hon* and wandered lost through the forests of Danrin, never learning the path of return. Bashō too grew dissatisfied with licking at Teitoku's dribblings and once ventured deep into this forest, walking in search of this enigma's true form. And so, having sought the fundamental nature of things within nature's embrace—from withered branches to ancient ponds—Bashō appeared to realize this: that timeless truths reside in latency, and the sole means to express them lies in an art of suggestion through transient symbols. The essence of the human world thus obtained was at once pathos and comedy. This pathos and humor were no longer subjective emotions of the self toward phenomena, but rather the form and visage of the recognized true nature of things. In other words, it was the image of latent national thought projected onto things. I believe that even the tears and laughter of Chekhov and Chaplin would likely prove similar in this regard. In this manner, both the elegant profundity of *waka* and the humorous jest of *haikai* converged within a single truth—and it is here that haikai's true meaning was first brought to light, one might surmise.

How did Bashō arrive there?
There can be no doubt he possessed innate talent, but it is equally certain this was tempered through a life of extraordinary trials.
Had Bashō remained at court stroking paulownia braziers behind screens facing the secular world, the haiku master would never have achieved greatness.
The profound significance lies in Sōgi—who stood at the watershed between renga and haikai—also being a pilgrim.
Bashō’s precepts of pilgrimage perfectly mirror life’s journey itself.
Monk Shinkei declared, “The true connoisseur requires but three qualities: extraordinary experiences, earnest pursuit of Truth, and a spirit unburdened by worldly cares.” In Bashō’s life of ultimate trials, his demanding sincerity in seeking truth, and his free embrace of phenomena without attachment, we find these three qualities perfectly realized—Shinkei’s ideal made flesh.
One might master worldly affairs yet fail to penetrate reality’s essence; such a person playing with seventeen syllables could never approach Bashō’s realm.
Even if one managed a hokku, linked verse would remain forever beyond reach.

Whether Bashō truly said “Haikai is the spirit of the Man’yōshū” matters little—in terms of expressing the sincerity of an unfeigned heart, and as poetry naturally born from extraordinary experiences, this statement holds precisely true.
However, as Mr. Ota Mizuho also noted, during the Man’yōshū era, objects and the self had not yet differentiated or entered into opposition.
The inevitable consequence following this differentiation became the pernicious custom of viewing things through others’ eyes.
One manifestation of this phenomenon was the trifling with classics and linguistic play.
Bashō returned once more to the spirit of the Man’yōshū, confronted nature in its nakedness, and ventured into love.
And then, after merging with nature and immersing himself within it, he possessed the mental freedom to once again detach from nature and calmly observe and recognize it.

After Bashō’s departure, haikai scattered due to the repelling force of narrow individuality.
Styles like witty banter and floating-world-inspired verses even emerged.
Even the embers that once flared up during Buson’s Tenmei era ultimately could not compare to the Genroku period’s blazing flames.
Only one facet of Bashō’s perfected form shone briefly before vanishing.
The so-called conventional master-style haikai from Tenpō through Meiji-era Shiki became even more formulaic than the lowest-grade *senryū*—devoid of elegance and authenticity—as the latent fragrances and resonances constituting haikai’s lifeblood faded into obscurity.
It had been reduced to nothing but the most overtly vulgar morals and riddles.
To break through this stagnation, a return to nature through the Meiji-era Shiki school’s *shasei* principle became necessary.
Natsume Sōseki sought to pioneer new rhetorical frontiers in haiku through his grounding in Western literature and Chinese poetry.
Shiki became engrossed in the means before attaining the purpose and passed away prematurely.
Thus, with the emphasis on *shasei* as a means coming to be perceived as the end itself, no one even attempted to study Bashō’s fundamental principles.
Alone, Sōseki passed through Buson’s grassy path and, as he approached his later years, entered Bashō’s grand thoroughfare.
The few verses composed at Shuzenji—I believe—may be seen as blending contemporary trends into Bashō’s timeless spirit.

I do not know much about the current haiku world, but in any case, it seems difficult for the so-called haiku community to exist without swimming amidst the torrential waves of journalism that engulf the world.
The leader of a school must simultaneously be the operator of one magazine.
That those who lack the leisure to pursue *fūga*’s sincerity find themselves in such a state is truly unavoidable.
They cannot help but be torn between seeking comfort in their established domains or resorting to sensationalist novelty.

Meanwhile, the tendency to dismiss haikai as useless trivialities grows ever stronger.
It is said there were teachers who taught their students that haikai was the most degenerate form of Japanese literature.
Could there be a more mistaken belief than this?
The path of haikai’s elegance is one manifestation of the ethnic subconscious that permeates Japanese culture.
This spirit is believed to have functioned not merely within the leisurely diversions of idlers, but also as a significant guiding principle amidst the practical and proactive activities of all social strata and every profession.
Interestingly, in the preface to his work *Haïkaï* where Frenchman René Maublanc compiled so-called haikai by his compatriots, he explains his reasons for undertaking this project by stating that spreading this short poetic form among the general populace would foster refined tastes and create an atmosphere stimulating distinguished poets’ emergence.
For the French, this likely holds no greater significance, but for the Japanese, whether haikai thrives or declines carries far more profound implications.
On the day haikai perishes, only then will the Japanese people become complete inhabitants of a Yankee kingdom.
Paul-Louis Couchoud—an understanding admirer of haikai—points out American and Japanese cultures’ antithetical nature and suggests that we French should perhaps choose the latter.
I also think Soviet Marxism contains not a drop of haikai.
As long as haikai does not perish, Japan becoming fully communized will likely never occur.

What will become of tomorrow’s haikai?
It may be a natural course for them to attempt returning to Genroku after reaching an impasse in *shasei*, but unless they go back to Bashō’s fundamental spirit, no new developments can be expected.
Bashō digested and synthesized all unique cultures from the Manyō to Genroku eras; within the images projecting the essence of national thought—distilled through this process—onto all phenomena, he recognized “the true nature of things.”
We must fully absorb and digest all gains from Genroku through Taisho and Showa, then start anew from the very beginning.
The achievements of Bashō—grounded in the philosophies of Shinto, Confucianism, Buddhism, Laozi, and Zhuangzi—being imitated unchanged by modern Japanese who have additionally received the strong influence of Western culture is meaningless.
The path of *fūga* must also evolve.
Those who grow weary of their former selves must advance along the single path of improvement they ought to take.
I believe it must be the mission of future haiku poets to pioneer new paths of *fūga* and discover austere sublimity (*sabi*) and lingering resonance (*shiori*) with new meaning even in sports and dance.

In today’s so-called haiku community，there effectively existed nothing but hokku，with renku being almost entirely absent.
By Shiki’s decisive rejection，this unique art form vanished into obscurity.
However，even historically speaking，hokku existed only through linked verse.
From the perspective of artistic training as well，there would be an incomparable difference in rhetorical breadth between those who first roamed the free expanse of linked verse before crystallizing those gains into hokku，and those who from the very beginning writhed in confinement within seventeen-syllable boundaries.
Even from the perspective of appreciation，the complexity of linked verse’s subtle charm differed in sequence from that of hokku.
If a hokku was merely a single photograph，then renku became a reel of film.
Indeed，it must be said that the phenomenon of film art—the newest and most comprehensive of arts—gradually showing a tendency to approach Japan’s unique linked verse art，which was scarcely even considered in modern Japan，stood as one of profound interest.

Incidentally, there exists a theory that haiku will soon be exhausted since the combinations of forty-eight characters are finite—but this is a theory held by those who lack any conception of numerical magnitude's hierarchical order.
It seems likely that the Japanese language itself would transform before haiku could be exhausted, yet this matter cannot be so easily resolved through such crude finger-counting calculations.
This, I believe, constitutes precisely what is meant by “the anxiety of the man from Qi”—a needless fretting over imagined calamities.

(Postscript) This bold endeavor to address issues as weighty as those indicated in the title within such limited space would likely remain a privilege granted only to unlearned dilettantes like myself—outsiders driven by idle curiosity. However, I can only pray for the readers' forbearance toward this rambling tract of outspokenness that has so discourteously abused this privilege. Initially, I attempted to adopt a somewhat systematic expository form, but not only was this first of all difficult, there was also the risk that the result would become nothing more than a catalog-like compilation; thus, I decided instead to let my brush run freely as my thoughts dictated. Consequently, there are not a few issues that should have been addressed but could not be. Regarding these matters, I intend to present my views gradually in the pages of the magazine Shibugaki at a later date and seek criticism.

Regarding the comparison between film and linked verse (renku), I would ask that you refer to my views stated in the special section titled “Film Art” within the Iwanami edition of the *Japanese Literature Lectures*. For the author’s personal views on comparisons between the psychology of linked verse and that of dreams, analogies between linked verse and music, and the significance of fixed positions for moon and flower verses, I would ask readers to consult my humble essays serialized in the magazine *Shibugaki* from March 1931 onward.

I have frequently omitted enclosing in quotation marks each term borrowed from classical haikai texts, as doing so would have been excessively cumbersome.

Regarding Bashō the man and haikai, I learned and was enlightened on a great many points through casual conversations with Mr. Komiya Toyotaka.
There may be instances where I have unwittingly presented Mr. Komiya’s ideas verbatim.
Furthermore, regarding linked verse, I learned a great deal during my practice sessions of tsukiawase with Mr. Matsune Tōyōjō.
From Mr. Yamada Yoshio’s “Renga and the History of Renga” (Iwanami Japanese Literature Lectures), I was first granted the concept of renga, and from Mr. Ōta Mizuho’s “Fundamental Issues of Bashō’s Haikai,” I gained many insights.
The various commentaries on his seven-part collection by Mr. Kōda Rohan and the series of studies on Bashō’s haikai co-authored by Abe, Komiya, and other scholars were also beneficial.

As for foreign works, I referred to the following.

B. H. Chamberlain: “Bashō and the Japanese Epigram.” Trans. Asiatic Soc. Jap. Reprint Vol.1 (1925), 91.

Paul-Louis Couchoud: Sages etpoètesd'Asie. Calmann-Lévy.

René Maublanc : "Le Haïkaïfrançais." Le Pampre, No. 10/11 (1923).

Westerners ultimately cannot comprehend haikai.
While ponds and pounds may share nearly identical practical effects, their content as poetic symbols remains entirely distinct.
Even what we call “autumn wind” differs meteorologically from autumn winds in the West.
Moreover, particles like *te ni wa* prove fundamentally untranslatable.
Yet foreign perspectives on haiku undeniably offer valuable insights.
Through comparing translations with original verses, I feel one finally grasps haiku’s essential nature.
All traditional haikai theories have inherently viewed the form from within—immersed in its own conventions.
Recent studies largely follow this pattern.
Nevertheless, external analytical approaches remain indispensable.
In this regard, Mr. Noguchi Yonejirō’s interpretations of Bashō contain particularly fruitful suggestions.
Future scholarship should ideally situate haikai research within Japan’s broader artistic traditions—flower arrangement, tea ceremony, Noh theater, and beyond.
I found it fascinating to learn through Nishikawa Issōtei’s floral arts lecture that *nageire* flower arrangement too originated in the Genroku era.
I maintain that haikai studies require engagement not just with flower arrangement but also with diverse writings on tea ceremony, garden design, Noh performance, painting, and calligraphy.
Examining Zeami’s *Fūshikaden* and *Sarugaku Dangi*, for instance, reveals countless intriguing connections.
While Japanese scholars may find Goethe and Shakespeare worthy subjects, unless we study Bashō and other native philosophers with the rigor Germans apply to Goethe, we Japanese shall never merit equal standing with them.

(November 1932 [Showa 7], Haiku Lecture)