Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Written Words and Spoken Words

We Japanese, having been excessively forced from childhood to make the effort of reading characters with our eyes, had grown remarkably insensitive to the effects of words conveyed "from mouth to ear." Of course there were other contributing factors, but this could likely be seen as evidence that even those who offered fastidious criticism of written words—that is, written texts—were surprisingly indifferent when it came to “spoken words,” meaning conversation.

Given that ours is a country that has never properly cultivated the art of oratory, this too may be inevitable; however, what I seek to address here is not necessarily such narrowly defined technical matters.
How rich in charm are the words of a child who has just begun to speak; how often the words of a young mother breastfeeding such a child make us smile.
How soldiers weary from the march sometimes discover such delightful rhythms in the conversations they exchange by the roadside.
It is indeed true that our ears are surrounded by—nay, saturated with—commonplace expressions of commonplace thoughts.
However, on rare occasions, our ears encounter a certain “charm” and retain an unforgettable impression.
This pleasure is the pleasure that only beautiful nature and outstanding art can give us.

I wish to specifically name this pleasure "the beauty of spoken words." And it is precisely on this occasion that I wish to emphatically assert the necessity of discovering numerous instances of “the beauty of spoken words” through our national language and cultivating them anew.

The national languages of Western countries did distinguish between “written words” and “spoken words,” but the difference was not as pronounced as Japan’s. Much less were they placed in such an unreasonable state as Japan, where even what was called colloquial style appeared to have lost its vitality as “spoken words.” As proof that Western colloquial style was indeed “spoken words,” one needed only to read a Westerner’s speech in print. There existed an even more noteworthy fact. It was how frequently they wrote lengthy letters. And it was how full of vitality those letters were. For it was precisely they who wrote letters “as if speaking.” Rather, they wrote them “while speaking.” “They spoke while writing.”

While the beauty of "spoken words" should naturally be sought in the speaker, we Japanese—as previously noted—are not only markedly immature as speakers ourselves but also prove insensitive to this charm as listeners; moreover, when it comes to cultivating the ability to swiftly discern such allure from words spoken unrelated to us while acting as third parties, we must be said to be most deficient.
This very fact constitutes the primary cause behind the stagnation of our nation’s modern theater—stemming from playwrights, actors, and indeed audiences alike.

Let us now attempt to present the examples mentioned earlier.
Here was a young mother.
While breastfeeding her child, she said: —

“Come on, drink your milk quickly and go to sleep, please.
“Otherwise, Mama will… do you know what she’ll do…?”

Now, if we were to actually sense something resembling charm from such trivial, monologue-esque words, what were we to make of this?
If there were those who said it was because that mother was a beautiful woman, I would respond that it was not solely that.
If there were those who said it was because the kindness inherent to being a young mother was expressed in the tone of her words, I would respond that it was not solely that.
Then—were they saying it was because her manner of speaking was utterly natural and free of affectation?
No—it was not solely that.
Was it because her voice was cheerful, like a song?
No—no—that alone was not it.
Then what was it?
I could only answer thus:
—“After encompassing all such elements—beyond that—it was because that woman possessed her own language and freely wielded it.”
“In other words—it was because she presented—most clearly and at the most opportune moment—something that only she could express—in words perfectly suited to her.”

The beauty of spoken words thus becomes something fully deserving of literary critique; however, it possesses effects more delicate and complex than those of written words.
For this is all the more closely connected to human life itself.

When I think of this, I find the Japanese people to be a peculiar nation.
To be sure, an expressionless countenance can indeed be a kind of charm at times; yet they seem to feel remarkably little anguish over perpetually distorting their own thoughts and emotions when expressing them.
They may appear to comprehend such profoundly mystical tastes as telepathic understanding and speaking through silence, but in reality, they spend their lives burdened by misunderstandings, resigned acceptance, and social awkwardness.
And the most troublesome thing is that they have mastered the knack of boring their interlocutors, dampening the mood of gatherings, and being off-key in public.

That modern Japanese had reached an extreme state of disorder was something experts unanimously acknowledged; yet these very experts themselves did not seem to devote sufficient preparation or effort to how they might remedy this disorder and restore—even bit by bit—the dignity and charm of the national language.
However, this issue was not one that should be left solely to so-called experts.
That morning too, upon casually opening the Yomiuri Shimbun, I found that Mr. Seiko Nakamura in Paris had written the following in his correspondence.

“There is no nation that treats its national language with as much care as the French people.”
“Especially among French women—and even more so among purebred Parisian women—it seems there are none who take such pride in the beauty of their French pronunciation.”
“It is said that the actresses of the Comédie-Française devote themselves to practicing French pronunciation whenever they have free time—whether before heading to the theater or after returning from it. While one might dismiss this as merely occupational necessity for those whose livelihood depends on a beautiful voice, even French women outside such specialized professions—particularly Parisian women—seem to have historically striven and continue to strive, both generally and as a matter of tradition, to speak well and let others hear their fine pronunciation.”
“The ancient Latin culture”—this is what French intellectuals and women take the greatest pride in, and I think it could be said that this pride stems from such daily cultivation.”

Even among Japanese women, those in the demimonde appeared to have considerable training in voice and refinement, but their motives and purposes were entirely different.
In ordinary society—were there people who strove to speak Japanese beautifully, clearly, and accurately?
Were there not relatively few Japanese women who loved words; who used them sparingly; who strove to impart a favorable—almost artistic—impression upon their interlocutors; who endeavored to ensure thorough comprehension—all while paying constant attention to their words’ pronunciation, tone, and structure?
Even if they knew how to plaster their faces with rouge and white powder—they must not forget to refine words emerging from the depths of their being.
The reason Japanese language always flowed disorderedly and was losing its standard lay not in Japan’s lack of an institution like France’s Academy—which devoted meticulous attention to linguistic organization—but rather in this fact: that ordinary citizens—particularly Japanese women bound by social duty—scattered words haphazardly and unconsciously.
This was precisely where I wished young educated Japanese women to reflect.
Good science; good philosophy; good literature; good art—in short—a good life must be narrated through good words.
In our country too—it seemed such things had existed.
Looking back through Manyoshu’s era; descending through Genroku’s age—could one not assert that our nation’s good literature and art were collections formed from our people’s good words?

This was something noticed not only by Mr. Nakamura but by anyone who had spent even a little time in France—and moreover, something that anyone would feel compelled to communicate back to Japan. However, when Mr. Nakamura specifically mentioned French women, this was likely because they stood out most conspicuously; in truth, I believed stating that all French people—both men and women—would convey the fact more accurately.

The charm of French people’s “spoken words” certainly owed much to the nature of their language, but even more so, the greatest cause lay in their love for “words” and consequently their making those words their own.
This had nothing to do with differences in knowledge or presence of education; if one were compelled to seek other causes, it would likely relate to aspects of their national character—their valuing clarity, preference for indirectness, delight in quick wit, and sociability.
In short, they were skilled at expressing themselves.
They had mastered the technique of expressing their own emotions—with even some exaggeration mixed in—‘accurately’ (?), so to speak.
To put it in a somewhat epigrammatic way, I would say that they were a people who, even when most struggling with word choice, could at least express that very struggle in the most skillful terms.

Such a nation inevitably falls into the pitfall of playing with words for words' sake and indulging in conversation for conversation's sake—though here in the East, one might draw comparisons to the Chinese—but I do not believe we must always invoke the French when discussing training in spoken words. Even Germans who appear most awkward in speech, English who pride themselves on taciturnity, or Russians who seem to chatter self-indulgently—each displays through their nationally characteristic manner of speaking a "freedom" that we Japanese could never imitate. When matters reach this point, it must be said they are nearly without exception unconscious artists of spoken words compared to us. That such nations have produced numerous distinguished stage artists should rather be called natural.

II: The Art Beyond Technique

There exists what is called the art of speaking.
If oratory were ceremonial and formal, then the art of speaking might be described as kimono-clad and stroll-like.
In any case, wherever one must demonstrate why a "technique" deserves to be called technique, they incorporate both conscious effort and calculated effect.

Before I address how much what is called the art of speaking enriches the beauty of spoken words, there is something I must first clarify.
That is to say, this kind of “technique” plays only an extremely minor role in our lives when considered merely as a technique.
Especially among those who make this technique their profession, there are far too many individuals who, through means other than that very technique, cause us to frown.

Of course, among literary works past and present, there are those that owe half their artistic value to this art of speaking; moreover, the marvel of eloquence backed by cultivated people’s refined tastes undoubtedly often leads us into states of ecstasy. Yet all these remain the quietly permitted privilege of talents who have mastered this “technique” without misapplying it—whereas those well-meaning men and women of society who preen over their “skillful speech” and smugly spout empty rhetoric are precisely the pitiable victims of this very “technique.”

The art of speaking, as the term literally suggests, is “the technique of speaking”—a skill that moves listeners, arouses their interest, and makes them lend an ear to one’s own words; however, since spoken words contain more complex elements than written ones do, the rhetorical composition of written narratives does not necessarily aid that of spoken narratives, nor do narrative-style techniques of eloquence align with dialogue-style techniques.

Particularly, what might be called the “key” to the art of speaking—the psychological observation of listeners—further amplified this technique’s complexity. Whether listeners were numerous or few, especially when alone; the type of listeners; their state; the relationship between listener and speaker; the atmosphere surrounding them—all these constituted fundamental conditions for the art of speaking.

However, as I had stated before, one had to recognize that when this “technique” became detached as mere technique and stood out on its own, it lost the greater part of its effectiveness.

The art of speaking that succeeded in Case Kō might not necessarily succeed in Case Otsu.
This already revealed how such techniques become detached as mere artifice; these should be left to professional elocutionists.

What enriches our daily lives is not this kind of art of speaking. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I believe the charm of spoken words is most fully expressed through the “flavor” of humanity itself and its natural expression. From this arises “the art beyond the art of speaking.”

“The act of ‘making trivial matters interesting to recount’ ultimately stems from how an individual’s spiritual traits, through the organic interplay of words, impart a kind of psychological pleasure; it refers precisely to those instances when something is conveyed most accurately and vividly to the listener’s ear through psychological notes such as wit, fervor, or delicate emotion.”

Therefore, the secret to the "art of speaking" lies first and foremost in "knowing oneself," and one’s own art of speaking ultimately cannot emerge except from this foundation.

Just as speeches advertised for their eloquence lack true charm, so too does the fact that even the most skillfully delivered perfunctory and formulaic addresses amount to nothing more than boredom serve as proof.

III: Words and People

The selection and arrangement of “spoken words” corresponded to “written words”—that is to say, the style of written composition.
In many cases, this became the element that determined the “tone of speech.”
And it was precisely this “tone of speech” that constituted a person’s “voiced presence.”
“If the maxim ‘The style is the man’ contained half the truth,” he observed, “then the common notion that ‘you can tell what kind of person someone is by how they speak’ spoke precisely nine-tenths of it.”

That “spoken words” uttered by a person reflected not only immediate facts and psychology but also their age, gender, personality, education, occupation, environment, circumstances, nation, and era—something anyone would notice, hardly requiring explanation at this point. Yet through my observation, I believed the charm of “spoken words” was most powerfully exhibited precisely when these various conditions were expressed most vividly, sharply, rhythmically, and suggestively within that person’s “speech.”

We always take pleasure in being able to sense each individual’s human charm through the “spoken words” of those around us, while at the same time, through some means, we first come to know that person and only then critique the aesthetic effect of their “spoken words.” Even if word choice gives rise to the tone of words, and that tone becomes a person’s “voiced presence,” the full breadth of that person cannot be revealed through the manifestation of limited words. The charm of “spoken words” lies in being a “rhythm of meaningful resonance” that accentuates a person’s most distinctive aspect—an impromptu played out when the human soul brushes against something.

A person’s attributes impart various characteristics to “spoken words.”

Men have men’s words, women have women’s words; the elderly have those of the elderly, youths those of youths, and children those of children.
The manly words of men, together with the womanly words of women, possess a certain charm, while the age-appropriate words of the elderly, youths, and children each contain a distinct “flavor.”

Personality and temperament are also significant conditions that determine words.
I do not have time to classify each and every personality and temperament here, but for example: the strong-willed, the timid, the neurotic, the sanguine, the cantankerous, the people-pleaser—all have their characteristic expressions, and each can become an object of interest.

The degree of cultivation most closely relates to the selection of words and thereby governs one’s manner of speaking.
In the words of cultured men and women, one could readily discern a charm akin to distinctive character.
Moreover, depending on the type and sphere of cultivation, their hues prove varied and manifold.
Though I cannot enumerate examples here, generally those lacking cultivation want rational elements in their “spoken words” and seldom convey spiritual depth.
Yet knowledge itself does not necessarily bestow charm upon “spoken words,” nor does ignorance invariably render them unsightly.
“Pedantic displays” and “verbosity,”
“stiffness,”
“absence of passion”—these mark pitfalls easily succumbed to by knowledge-merchants, while “simplicity” and “artlessness” may often grant an inexplicable vividness to the words of the ignorant.

I particularly wished to touch upon the issue of artistic or aesthetic cultivation here, but upon consideration found this an exceedingly vast issue.
I would merely state that this issue almost definitively elucidates the beauty of spoken words.

The fact that "blunt speech" sometimes garners favor while "solicitousness" often invites antipathy—such instances fully illustrate the relationship between spoken words and a person’s character, education, and so forth; here too lies the issue of profession.
There exists a manner of speech that reflects each profession.
There are soldierly manners of speech and merchant-like manners of speech; those characteristic of teachers, those of artisans, and even those of geishas.
No matter which one you take, by itself it ought to have no value; yet in certain cases, that very thing becomes an element constituting the charm of spoken words.

Environment and circumstances—that is, a person’s upbringing and background—leave indisputable characteristics on their language.
Not only class-based divisions such as upper, middle, and lower strata but also various complex influences can be observed there.

There were marked differences depending on family composition as well.
For example, whether there were elderly members present or not, as well as the number of siblings and gender, could not be said to be unrelated.

Court nobles, household servants, corporate executives, freelance laborers, non-commissioned officers, live-in dependents, fathers-in-law, youngest children, aunts, close friends, teachers’ wives… Simply lining up such examples made one feel each seemed to possess its own characteristic manner of speech.
Wasn’t this fascinating to even imagine?

Nation and era—this too became a somewhat significant issue.
However, here, I would still limit myself to giving one example.

To put it simply, a country refers to the nation where a person was born and raised.
In a broad sense, it connects to the nation and its people; in a narrow sense, it refers to regions within a single country.

For example, French people have a “French manner of speech,” and Germans have a “German manner of speech.”
The distinction between national languages is of course a fundamental issue, but through the unique characteristics of each language, differences arise in the very expressions of so-called “spoken words.”
This is because cultural traditions and traits of national character act upon the nature of a national language.

Even within Japan, the Tohoku, Kanto, Kansai, Chugoku, and Kyushu regions all have their own distinct dialects.
And these are words rooted in the culture, natural environment, and temperament that characterize each respective region.

Regarding eras, it was regrettable that our “ears” could not extend their function beyond the “modern era,” but even that modern era could already be said to have been divided into several “periods.”
There were eras such as that of the father, the son, and the grandson; the father possessed not only differences in “language” arising from the age gap with his son but also the “datedness” of language stemming from differences in era.
The language used by the father was not merely that of an old man but indeed that of a bygone age.
In other words, it could be said that this type of individual, through their “spoken words,” reflected a distinctive “era.”
Moreover, depending on the circumstances, this could even unexpectedly prove sufficiently intriguing to capture our interest.

Furthermore, the words of healthy people stand in stark contrast to those of the sickly in some way; drunkards speak only in drunken utterances, while revolutionaries speak as revolutionaries do.

And finally, it is the immediate “facts” and the individual’s “psychology” in response to them that fundamentally determine both the content and expression of “spoken words.”

IV. Various Voices

The "spoken word," by the very condition of being spoken, cannot exclude "voice."
The question of how words are spoken includes the crucial point of what kind of voice is used.

In voices, beyond the so-called distinction between "good voices" and "bad voices," there exist various nuances of vocal expression.

This nuance is akin to the timbre of a musical instrument, imparting a marked difference to the “flavor” of spoken words. And these differences are not confined merely to their sensory effects but also not infrequently influence spiritual impressions.

“Good voice”

As for the study of “beautiful voices,” I shall leave that to the experts; here, I intend to broadly examine this issue of vocal nuance.

Let us first divide human voices into male voices and female voices.
Male voices possess the beauty inherent to male voices, and female voices should possess the beauty inherent to female voices; therefore, it is not particularly desirable for men to produce woman-like voices.
Admittedly, in Japanese theater there exists the *onnagata*—a kind of aberration—and when we speak of “beautiful voices” for *onnagata*, we must be referring to these stylized female voices performed on stage. However, I have yet to hear what could be called a “beautiful” voice emerge from an *onnagata*’s throat.
This may be because I lack the qualifications to appreciate the art of *onnagata*, but no matter what others may say, I cannot find value in *onnagata*’s “lines” based solely on their vocal qualities.
At the very least, when I hear that male voice squeezed out from a woman’s throat—or rather, a female voice squeezed out from a man’s throat—I cannot help but think it a futile effort.

In the West, actresses sometimes play male roles, but these are always those of young males.
The male voice from before male and female voices became so distinctly differentiated is one that middle-aged actresses can produce without excessive strain.

Next, voices could be distinguished by age.
The voices of elders and those of youth—this distinction did not appear to be as rigorous as that between male and female voices.
An elder retaining only a youthful voice was not particularly odd, nor was it especially jarring to hear a young person produce a comparatively aged voice.
While extremes in either direction would prove problematic, it would make for a rather farcical scenario should a silver-haired matron’s voice become indistinguishable from that of a maiden in her prime—though conversely, a high school student possessing a university professor’s timbre might indeed inspire considerable confidence.

I caution the young actors I instruct against “creating” voices for elderly roles.
It’s not that I absolutely forbid it, but I do emphasize that what matters more than that is how the essence of aging resides in the tone of speech.
This is what I jokingly call “wrinkles of speech,” but as human speech ages alongside us, these wrinkles do not merely refer to so-called “hoarse voices.”
They are even more fundamental—wrinkles of emotion woven into words.
They are wrinkles of life.
In the speech of young people, there are not only no wrinkles in their voices but also no wrinkles of emotion or life experience.
To put it nicely, it is smooth; to put it harshly, it is flat and superficial.
Vocal wrinkles require physiological changes.
That is, since this stems from the hardening of vocal cords, it is impossible for young people to mimic it with their throats.
However, I believe that wrinkles of emotion and life can be acquired to some extent through research based on observational skills.
Is it not likely that the failures in elderly roles often stem from this misplaced focus?

By its very nature, a “forced voice” inherently signifies unnaturalness; thus, it can never be advantageous for expressing oneself.
There may indeed be cases where a “forced voice” is required for special purposes, but that is merely a form of mimicry—a low-grade “art”—and through it, faithful self-expression must be considered absolutely impossible.
Moreover, whatever the purpose may be, to seek pure charm in the forced voice itself is an exercise in futility.

However, unconsciously—particularly as emotions intensify—one’s voice may differ somewhat from its natural state.
I will discuss this later.

There is no doubt that voice is innately endowed with its characteristics for the most part; however, just as all physiological changes are to some extent acquired, voice too comes to bear acquired traits due to various causes.

As notable examples, there are trained voices and raw voices.
There are various methods of training.
There are those trained in Western-style vocal music, those trained in gidayū and nagauta, those trained in yōkyoku, and even some cultivated through biwa, naniwabushi, shigin—or through oratory and military commands.

Those who had undergone proper vocal training were likely the most rational and modern, suited to expressing delicate and complex emotions.
Therefore, this should be called a beautiful voice in the purest sense.

The voices of Gidayū, Nagauta, Kiyomoto and similar traditions each possessed their own distinctive characteristics—all representing beautiful voices well-suited to reflecting traditional Japanese life, particularly the chiaroscuro of emotional existence.
Though somewhat one-sided, they were refined and could provide ample pleasure to ears opened within many borders.

The voices of Noh chanting—these appeared to employ remarkably rational training methods—and though they too reflected the feudal traditional life of the Japanese people, they stood in stark contrast to the markedly plebeian voices accompanying the shamisen in Gidayū, Nagauta, and similar traditions; if anything, these belonged to the privileged class.
The submissive endurance of the oppressed class seen in the former had here been overpainted by the superiority complex of the privileged class.
Consequently, this too might have become a representative beautiful voice in a certain era, but today it was, at the very least, a voice that ran counter to the spirit of democracy.
What peculiar voices there were!

The voices of biwa songs do not clearly come to mind today, but they apparently differ considerably depending on the school. However, in any case, it seems these voices could not exist apart from the past lives of the Japanese people.

However, there exists a peculiar vocal art called naniwabushi. This voice was likely the most fitting match for its vulgar and insipid lyrics, and not only did the phrase “to groan naniwabushi” hit the mark, but the reason this art gathered such mass popularity stemmed less from the pitiable charm of its lyrics and melodies than from a kind of cheap stimulation emitted by this “groaning voice.” This stimulation was yet another of the meager stimuli barely obtainable by the masses, who oscillated between resignation and rebellion under the shackles of feudal morality. Officials, shop managers, and young men with headbands were precisely those who represented these masses.

In contrast to this, shigin is likewise a product of the late feudal period; while its lyrics and melodies are somewhat pure, its sentimental voice—though not as stimulating as naniwabushi—undoubtedly troubles the nerves of modern people quite severely.
This voice was once employed by self-proclaimed revolutionaries in their impassioned lamentations and resonated as a “voice of patriotic grief for the world,” but now that this voice has somewhat faded from our ears, it seems a new voice to replace it is becoming necessary.

They are voices rarely heard outside of politicians and military personnel—speeches and commands—yet neither should be summarily dismissed as mere voices of demagogy or militarism.
Masculine, strong-willed, and as long as it remains in key, I believe a voice that carries well inherently possesses strength.

There exists another type—the intellectually cultivated voice.
This is a voice emotionally mastered through cultivated self-criticism and a kind of modest pride; possessing depth and resonance, it might best be described as a voice of broad range.

Furthermore, there was another type—the voice tempered by life.
This resembled a voice that came with advancing age yet differed from it in reality; it was what might be called a voice forged through life’s vicissitudes and attuned to the subtleties of human emotion.
Somber yet possessing underlying strength, even if somewhat rough, there was no muddiness.
Voices crushed by life lacked underlying strength and were stagnant.

Human voices also expressed the individual temperaments and innate qualities of each person.
Bronze-gong voices were dull and crude; cat-stroking voices were sly yet passionate; shrill voices were whimsical and calculating; falsetto voices were unreasonable and showy... This categorization might have been somewhat arbitrary, but one could not deny there was a grain of truth to it.

Nasal voices do not necessarily reflect a person’s temperament—many resemble ingratiating tones and prove rather unpleasant. Yet when highlighted within decadent scenes at times，they could lend a certain sensory charm，if such were their intended effect—though this was by no means exclusive to nasal tones… Thus，even when caused by something as mundane as a cold-stuffed nose，there remained no inherent issue.

It remains intriguing how we link voices with hues，as seen in expressions like “shrill voice.”

Things like projecting voices from the abdomen or from the very top of the head—each exuded its own distinct quality of expression, which was fascinating.

High and low voices were logical classifications, but thick, thin, round, and sharp voices were sensory.

In music they used terms like bass, baritone, tenor, alto, and soprano; recently in Japan it had become fashionable to classify ordinary voices using these distinctions.

The word “voice” carries abstract meanings in both Japan and the West, sometimes expressing “will” or “opinion.”
“Voice of God” and “voice of the people” are examples of this.

Can we interpret the voice as possessing “spirit” or “life” in and of itself?
At the very least, among “spoken words,” it is certain that they do not play a merely mechanical role.

The same words—when spoken in a clear voice, when spoken in a resilient voice, when spoken in a rusty voice, a sultry voice, an innocent voice; or further still, when spoken in a muddied voice, a voice like a cracked bell, a hoarse voice, a shrill voice—the impression they leave is never identical.

Terms like *gentle voice*, *solemn voice*, *dispassionate voice*, *cloying voice*, or *stingy voice*—these themselves are descriptors containing somewhat relative meanings, and in such cases, it might be more accurate to refer to them as *tones of voice*.
The reflection of peculiar psychological movements or flashes of emotion largely depends on—indeed lies precisely in—the manner of vocal production: specifically the degrees of modulation, strength, and shading.
Furthermore, there are what are referred to as abnormal tones of voice accompanying emotional outbursts—angry voices, laughing voices, cheers, faltering voices, panicked voices, and so on—but among these, some have already stepped beyond the realm of voice into the broader domain of words themselves.

Needless to say, so-called “beautiful voices” serve to enhance the charm of “spoken words,” but as previously discussed, these so-called beautiful voices always come with certain conditions.
It is exactly like clothing.
A certain type of “beautiful voice” may exhibit its true worth to the utmost degree when employed by Person A, yet when used by Person B, it may even be dismissed as an ill-suited voice.

In contrast to this, even a so-called “bad voice,” when it escapes someone’s lips, not only makes one forget that it is “bad,” but at times, precisely because it is such a voice, the words themselves gain greater charm as words.

However, such cases are exceedingly rare, and a “beautiful voice” befitting that person’s character enlivens the “spoken words” delivered by them all the more.

Let us note that while so-called “beautiful voices” tend to focus on sensory charm, there exists a type of voice that derives its vitality solely from spiritual charm.
That is the voice tempered by the aforementioned “spirit” or “life.”
This type of voice should not necessarily be called a “beautiful voice,” but we must not forget that it is what enhances the charm of “spoken words” in the highest sense.

The physiological weaknesses of the Japanese people may ultimately prevent them from competing with Westerners in terms of the sensory charm of so-called “beautiful voices.” However, there still remains one domain left to me.

Regarding stage actors, a “beautiful voice” is, like physical beauty, their most precious “tool,” but at the same time their most dangerous weapon. For without needing to await Professor Bremon’s theory, they fall into the pitfall of relying on their “beautiful voices” and entrusting everything to them. In other words, they commit the error of seeking in “voice” what should be sought in “art.”

In the theater as well, a “beautiful voice” is not necessarily a “splendid voice.”

5. Accent and Dialect

Japanese pronunciation was not particularly difficult.
Being supremely rational in structure, it had been simplified to such extremes that foreigners could likely master its pure phonetic aspects—divorced from written characters—within a single day.
Yet among foreign languages, there existed quite troublesome pronunciations—ones that defied mastery even after ten years of practice.
Take French sounds like *in*, *un*, *eu*, and *r*—few foreigners ever achieved perfect articulation of these.

However, even that easy Japanese pronunciation could not be fully mastered by a considerable number of Japanese people, and on top of that, the inevitable accents that clung to them often killed the charm of “spoken words.”
Admittedly, there were indeed cases where this accent instead enhanced its charm, but this was by no means a charm of words in an intellectual sense—it was rather something somewhat accidental and not worthy of being considered standard.

The Kansai accent of women is remarkably rich in linguistic nuance—one might say a refined accent—but such accents are somewhat exceptional.

Not everyone may care about their own country’s pronunciation or accent, and moreover, for compatriots, these may instead become an essential linguistic charm—but that becomes an entirely different discussion.
I too once traveled through the Tohoku region and learned that the so-called Zuzu-ben dialect was not particularly difficult to hear. This was because such words, such pronunciations, such accents felt most fitting within Tohoku’s climate and way of life. Yet when heard in a place like Tokyo—where the “spoken words” bore no connection to Tohoku’s “soil”—they struck one as utterly incongruous or abrupt.

Even if pronunciation itself must be criticized as correct or beautiful, it does not decisively govern the charm of “spoken words” in and of itself.

However, this argument contains a largely sympathetic perspective.
Now that we have adopted the standard language, our local dialects should henceforth hold sway only within their own regions.
For people of other countries, even if those words can convey their meaning, they must resign themselves to losing most of their charm as language.

In Kansai movie theaters, when the narrator used the Kansai dialect, the audience was said to laugh frequently.
And many of these spectators were people who used the same language as that narrator.
This seemed paradoxical yet was no paradox at all.
The Japanese were such people, and this was such an era.
And even more than that, movie theaters no longer belonged to any nation.

Unusual pronunciations and speech accents were first and foremost associated with a sense of “countryside.”
While this might have been a trivial “feeling” of those raised in Tokyo, the “countryside” was by no means inferior in any situation; outside the troublesome marketplace of “language,” it did not differ in value whatsoever from what was called the “city.”
Rather, many politicians, scholars, and generals were socially successful individuals who wielded that very “countryside” dialect.

However, for actors alone, absolutely incorrect pronunciation and excessive accents could not be permitted.
For they had to meticulously select the tools of their trade—and it was crucial that these tools could produce all words correctly, beautifully, clearly, and freely; while deliberately pronouncing shinbun as sunbun might pass without issue, being utterly incapable of pronouncing sunbun as shinbun became a fatal weakness.

Regarding the issue of accent in relation to dialect, I myself had recently begun to harbor various doubts.
In this context, let me share an amusing anecdote: while the Nagoya dialect’s accent was remarkably distinctive, I had a friend born in Nagoya—Chyakichyaki—who studied French, and his French possessed a slightly different cadence compared to ours.
Since theirs might have been superior—and thus he couldn’t rashly declare it incorrect—this man once read from a book before French people.
Then the Frenchman—having apparently noticed the peculiar cadence—stared at the man’s face for a while before finally smirking and declaring, “Your French sounds exactly like that of someone from Marseille.”

VI. Facial Expressions

What indirectly aids the effect of “spoken words” are facial expressions and gestures; however, facial expressions in particular share such an intimate relationship with the “spoken words” themselves that considering them separately proves difficult.

Generally, people prioritize the expressiveness of the eyes, but according to one theory, the expressiveness of the mouth constitutes an equally crucial element.
Next in importance comes the expressiveness of the nostrils.
Within my knowledge, Jacques Copeau of the Vieux-Colombier—though possessing an exceptionally large nose—truly surpassed all Parisian actors through his masterful control of nostril movement.
For instance, fully expanding the nostrils while slightly elongating the area beneath the nose alone clearly conveys the meaning: “What you just said must be untrue.”
At this stage, these physical expressions themselves become splendid “words.”

All the more so, gestures, hand movements, and all other such acts that serve as indirect means of "words"—along with facial expressions—in certain cases could accurately convey human thoughts and emotions through themselves alone. From this emerged pantomime; however, while the Japanese remained the least skilled people in pantomime, setting that aside, it proved crucial that all these elements serving as accompaniments to "spoken words" did not themselves "stand out" more than necessary. Henceforth, we would refer to all gestures and hand movements—everything included—as "facial expressions."

The criticism that Japanese people are expressionless is one made by foreigners; in truth, it is because Japanese people’s expressions are incomprehensible to them that such criticism is not worth heeding. But if I may say so, Japanese people’s expressions are not very skillful.
This lack of skill encompasses two meanings: that their feelings are not directly and accurately reflected in their expressions, and that the expressions themselves are generally not very beautiful.

The reason they do not directly reflect their feelings in their expressions might be said to stem from having been taught to do so since ancient times.
However, that is not all.
Because this uniquely Japanese “art of facial expression” is not the exclusive possession of the samurai class.
Rather than that, I think Japan’s harsh climate and environment are the primary cause of our “unnatural facial expressions.”

The ascetic lifestyle taught by Bushido certainly instilled a tendency to suppress joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure from showing on one’s face—or at least to avoid “showing them excessively”—thereby fostering the bizarre custom of making bitter faces when happy and even smiling when sad. Yet far surpassing this influence, this “beautiful homeland” of ours—which for hundreds and thousands of years has ceaselessly threatened our lives, our livelihoods, and our affections—is truly the sole purveyor of earthquakes, thunder, storms, storm surges, volcanic eruptions, floods, fires, bitter cold, scorching heat, long rainy seasons, and the famines wrought by these calamities.
Such natural threats, while fostering a mental resilience to resist them on one hand, also cause human emotions to atrophy and disrupt any feelings that might seek to be serene on the other.

After observing a people’s countenance and expressions, one should study what kind of natural forces govern the land they inhabit.
Broadly speaking, Northern Europe’s natural environment possesses Northern Europeans’ countenance and expressions, while Southern Europe’s natural environment possesses those of Southern Europeans.
And China’s natural environment possesses the Chinese people’s countenance and expressions, India’s that of the Indian people…

If there are those who call Japan’s natural environment beautiful, they would be referring solely to its scenery.
This scenery possesses only a “picturesque” beauty.
It is landscape meant to be viewed from afar—not a natural environment one longs to be embraced by.

Having set aside this discussion for now, the Japanese people’s facial expressions—as an element of “spoken words”—are indeed equipped with the most unsuitable conditions; yet even this does not warrant such deep pessimism. For just as with “voice,” the charm of facial expressions is not necessarily something to be critiqued in isolation from “words”; moreover, so-called “skillful expressions” are by no means the ultimate method of expressing “spiritual beauty.”

Thus, the charm of “spoken words” also becomes linked to a certain charm of “facial expressions” through the most complex of relationships, just as with “voice.”

Since actors’ facial expressions constitute an independent element of performance in their own right, I will not address them here at length; however, Japanese actors’ study of synchronizing dialogue with physical actions—or performing gestures while delivering lines—remains highly rudimentary.
Even those who have conducted substantial research generally find their outcomes confined to predictable patterns.

VII. The Art of Spoken Words

Our daily lives are truly bleak, and the majority of "spoken words" are commonplace, lacking vitality—merely serving practical needs.
Even if one happens to catch an interesting phrase, it does not last even a minute.
This is likely unavoidable in a country like modern Japan.
However, it is natural for people who enjoy life and love culture to wish to encounter this "most pleasant moment" as often as possible, even if only slightly.

In this regard, even Westerners—who might be considered somewhat privileged—are not satisfied with daily life alone.

If so, where should one look for it?
There exists but one world where the beauty of “spoken words” envelops us as their most radiant charm.

That is, needless to say, the theater.

The theater is fundamentally composed of other elements as well.
However, the fact that the beauty of “spoken words” can only be fully and completely savored in theater alone is something I lament for humanity, yet also take pride in for actors.

While it is true that yose rakugo storytelling and didactic lectures constitute an art form of “spoken words,” and those enthralled by them would claim there is nothing more “entertaining,” in my view, what we can derive from rakugo and lectures is nothing more than the art of speaking that caters to specific social classes.
This art of speaking has indeed been refined to create a distinct style; however, this style could almost be called “formulaic stage routines,” and the people listened absentmindedly without expecting any new discoveries, laughed absentmindedly, and passed the time absentmindedly.
The beauty of spoken words may at times have emerged from the lips of orators deemed masters, resonating with the most powerful truth; yet even in that truth, we could no longer feel a fresh vitality.
For the simple reason that the words spoken there were not our own.

In the end, modern yose theaters are likely fated to perish someday, along with the people who speak the old words.

Today’s people are thus seeking the charm of “words spoken by them”—most ironically—within those very movie theaters.

Movie narrators have in fact devised a style of modern yose art called “comic storytelling,” but how far this will develop remains questionable at present.

Recently, peculiar programs called “Movie Stories” were being broadcast on the radio. I happened to hear one and thought, “This could be something.”

I had given extensive consideration to radio drama’s form but concluded that mechanical sound effects like mimetic noises were not particularly problematic. What would determine its future was all effects inherent in “spoken words” and listeners’ imaginative power evoked through those effects.

This type of imagination was necessary even to some extent in appreciating stage plays, with many Noh and Kabuki dramas being particularly notable examples; however, radio drama had to adopt a form of expression that utilized this imagination to its utmost extreme.

It was raining.—On stage, they could create real rain and directly convey this to the audience through the sound of rain along with the characters’ movements and expressions; however, in radio, they still had to have the characters “speak” that it was raining.
In that case, the sound of rain became secondary.
The manner of having them speak became the foremost issue.

It was raining.—The rain streaks glistened.
The sound of rain hitting the eaves.
A person looked up at the sky.
A person closed the glass door.
Someone returning from outside shook the water off the umbrella.
Such scenes and actions were admittedly an important element in theater, but in radio drama, they had no effect whatsoever or were severely diminished.

It was raining.—Having characters say “It’s raining” might be one approach, but this robbed listeners of their imagination and proved unsatisfying.
“What’s wrong with this weather…”—having them voice something like that still somewhat satisfied listeners’ imaginations.
“What are you doing, leaving a wet umbrella here…”
Having them speak this way also remained effective.
Of course, there was no set model to follow, but one element of radio drama was undoubtedly none other than the effect of images transmitted “from ear to eye.”

Even within theater，what were called *Chiraado*—commonly seen in classical drama—seemed to fully utilize this effect．For example，in all his tragedies，Racine never staged bloody scenes and always had a single character vividly describe events that occurred between acts．Undoubtedly，this likely left a deeper artistic impression than showing actual stage combat．

I never considered the so-called “visual effects” of theater to be particularly significant apart from the characters’ facial expressions．Moreover，I often experienced that mechanical devices on stage frequently dulled the audience’s imagination，damaged the artistic effect，and gave an impression verging on disillusionment．The same applied to characters’ movements．The more intense their movements became，the less actors could control themselves or harmonize with the stage’s structure，imparting a kind of anxiety to the audience and sometimes even causing them to turn away．For instance，actions such as running across the stage or collapsing—no matter how skilled the actor—invariably provoked a pained smile from discerning audience members．

In this regard, radio drama was undoubtedly a great help.
However, alas, listeners' imagination had its limits.
The actors' captivating expressions and postures—which left no room for theatrical audiences' imagination—could not be sought in radio drama.
Even so, one had to refrain from unnecessarily exhausting listeners' imagination.
What could that sound be?
What cry could that be—whose cry?
The effort of sightless listeners engaging in such self-questioning would soon become a nervous strain, hindering appreciation of the entire work, and might ultimately lead them to remove the antenna.

“From ear to eye”
and “from ear to heart”—
one must carefully distinguish between what should be conveyed through these respective channels.
Vague noises and unidentified cries merely exhaust the nerves attuned to “ear-to-eye” transmission
while leaving nothing that speaks to “the heart.”
They must not inflict upon listeners “the frustration of trying to see what remains unseen.”
“The charm that naturally comes into view”—this, I believe, represents radio drama’s new frontier.

In this sense, given that “eyes are unnecessary” anyway, to consider events occurring in sealed spaces or pitch-dark places as suitable scenarios for radio drama strikes me as a simplistic way of thinking.
It is precisely events occurring in sealed spaces or pitch-dark places that humans want to see with their own eyes.
There is nothing as frustrating as this.
Moreover, for such scenes, if they simply lower the curtain on an actual stage or perform with the stage pitch-dark, that would suffice.
If that were truly necessary, such parts would be better written in novels.

Radio drama should rather choose scenes that cannot be depicted on an actual stage or seek scenarios where the scope of imagination would be constrained within a limited stage—this approach is both natural and advisable.

As one form of radio drama, I imagined something akin to the "Cinema Tales" I had previously mentioned.
That should be created as original works in that format.
If this could herald the birth of Japan’s new drama, might we not connect it to the genesis of tragedy in Europe?

I remembered once in Paris when the renowned actress Madame Lara recited a scene from Hamlet in Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare for a dozen or so friends who had gathered by chance at her salon.
Perhaps because I had been somewhat fatigued, I closed my eyes and listened intently.
This was peerless radio drama.
No—it was not merely radio drama.
It proved no less dramatically moving than any celebrated staging of a renowned play I had previously witnessed.
At that moment, I felt I could declare that theater’s essence lies in transforming beautiful words into beautiful vocal form.
Yet it remains true that afterward, when I opened my eyes halfway in rapture and gazed upon Madame Lara’s flushed countenance, I realized one could never be satisfied by voice alone.

Now, regarding that—how was radio drama to handle its fatal weakness of passing through machinery? Since human voices became half-human, half-electric entities, no matter how beautiful the voice or how charming the "way of speaking," once electrified, they lost most of their effect. If this was not resolved, one had to say that radio drama too would ultimately have no future to speak of.

The actor’s lines were, needless to say, the vocal embodiment of "words written to be spoken," and the actor, by portraying a character created by the playwright, spoke the words that character would speak. The playwright had to have the characters in their works speak the most dramatic words possible. These were words structured in consideration of when actors vocalized them, enabling the beauty of spoken words to be fully expressed. This preparation by the playwright was something actors naturally had to respect; however, if there were those who, because of this, belittled the actor’s vocation, that constituted a grave error.

Though it is a frequently used commonplace metaphor, in theater, the play script is the musical score, and the actor is the performer.
The playwright is, so to speak, merely a composer providing the musical score of “spoken words,” and it is the actor—a musician wielding the instrument of “voice”—who translates this into the actual world of “spoken words” on stage through the audience’s ears.

I shall refrain from discussing theories of acting here, but the issues addressed over several chapters above are, in essence, the foundational conditions for considering how an actor’s lines—that is, the “spoken words” by characters in a play—should be given vocal form by actors.
However, since an actor is an artist who materializes the author’s imagination by using all their spiritual and physical qualities as “material,” appealing this to the audience’s “eyes” and “ears” to most effectively produce rhythmic life on stage, portraying a character in a dramatic work requires not only preparing physical conditions befitting that character but also fulfilling their mental conditions through some method.
Of course, while a work’s structure, together with its content, defines the characters’ “actions,” and through these “actions,” their mental conditions are revealed to some extent, what accompanies or drives these “actions” is nothing other than the “spoken words” delivered by those characters.
Therefore, the “spoken words” delivered by the actor portraying that character must, in every sense, be subjected to rigorous criticism.

First, whether the lines were truly delivered in a manner befitting that character became the question.

Second, whether the beauty of “spoken words” as lines had been fully demonstrated.

Third, whether they sufficiently contributed to the rhythmic development of theatrical vitality throughout the entire play.

Though these three issues could never be entirely separated, playwrights did not necessarily have characters themselves speak so-called charming words.
Even in such cases, it was through how actors delivered characters’ words true to their nature that a new “flavor” emerged within the lines.
This constituted the beauty of “spoken words.”

There are cases where the playwright consciously has the characters themselves speak charming words.
In such cases, the actors’ efforts must proceed along two paths.
That is, while preserving the “flavor” of lines as previously discussed, it becomes essential to fully manifest the beauty of words spoken by the characters themselves.

The third problem—encompassing these two cases—was this final issue that had to be made to serve in arranging effects with the greatest unity; ultimately, accumulating the aesthetic effects of partially expressed "words" and elevating the stage's impression into a unified impact was precisely the secret of acting.

The beauty of “spoken words” has at last been granted its rightful place as an element of theater.