Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Like all reform movements, theatrical reform did not always see spirit and form progress in tandem.
In the realm of art particularly, what was called its spirit often amounted to mere conceptual play or remained confined to sensory nuances; likewise, even when speaking sweepingly of form, if it fixated on technical minutiae or reduced itself to flaunting sartorial novelty, such efforts fundamentally did not merit the name of artistic reform.

Therefore, those who delve into modern theater history will come to know how the old perished and the new emerged, while simultaneously learning that the old did not perish simply for being old, nor did the new abruptly supplant the old. Moreover, in any era, pioneers often leave behind only achievements befitting their role as trailblazers—so to speak, without creating anything immortal or even works of relatively enduring vitality—before being swept away by the tides of time.

In contrast, those writers who truly define an era—those who naturally commanded their generation’s attention through novelty and vigor—fulfilled theater reform’s grand role: not merely indicating direction like those pioneers who could not complete their task, but paving the arduous path itself—a duty entrusted solely to talent worthy of the endeavor.

Theater reform, like all reform, could not be called true reform unless it reached this point; moreover, in such reform, one would invariably observe the parallel evolution of spirit and form, with the inseparable relationship between the two kept clearly intact.

It seemed to me that no one had yet attempted a narrative of our nation’s theater history grounded in the perspective I had outlined above.
I of course had no intention of attempting that in this brief essay, but as I compiled this anthology, I thought it might not be entirely futile to first present the theoretical ideas on theater history that had occupied my mind.

II

As anyone could sense, it remained difficult to definitively identify what constituted the mainstream in our nation’s theater at that time.

Generally speaking, starting from how theatrical genres were categorized, one could not simply imitate Western conventions; yet conversely, this did not mean Japan possessed a clearly defined unique classification system—in that regard, matters stayed thoroughly ambiguous and nebulous.

There would likely have been no objection to citing Noh/Kyogen and Kabuki as equivalents to Western "classical drama." However, both forms contained elements of musical theater, thereby encroaching upon the domain Westerners would recognize as opera or dance drama.

Now, while certain Kabuki works functioned as nearly pure dialogue dramas occupying positions comparable to Western romantic drama, what was called "Shinpa (New School theater)"—descended from this lineage—had to maintain a clear distinction from so-called "Shingeki (modern theater)" in artistic essence, regardless of temporal shifts.

Now, concerning the so-called "Shingeki" (modern theater) issue: while this movement unquestionably proposed entirely new ideals and methods opposed to conventional "Kabuki and Shinpa," following precisely the path taken by Western modern theater movements, it remains essential—and indeed only natural—that any fair assessment of this movement must include elements that temporarily broke away from within Kabuki and Shinpa themselves.

Thus, the problem became somewhat more complex.

Fundamentally, when we ask to what extent “Shingeki” refers to something that opposes—or even severs ties with—“Kabuki and Shinpa” themselves, this question ultimately becomes: beyond the unavoidable condition of being plays created by Japanese people, to what degree does “Shingeki” denote works that have shed the spiritual and formal qualities inherent to “Kabuki and Shinpa” as theatrical art?

Moreover, on one hand, there were movements where what was called "New Kabuki" attempted to respond to the demands of the times separately from "Shingeki" itself at certain junctures.
Of course, Shinpa had on multiple occasions demonstrated its resolve to uphold its name as a glorious legacy and strived to ensure that name remained undiminished.

There were several significant social forces acting upon this trend.
One of these was the state of our nation's theaters.
Every last theater—throughout urban centers and regional towns alike, with only one or two exceptions—had been monopolized for purely profit-driven purposes; all theater owners and producers, when it came to drama, focused their attention solely on works of the "Kabuki and Shinpa" lineage, leading to the perception that these genres had naturally established themselves as the mainstream of our theatrical world.

This differed somewhat in nature from what was commonly seen in Western theater—the so-called “popular drama” (or “Boulevard theatre”) and its ties to commercial capital—for our country’s entertainment industry clung obsessively to titles and marquees while showing no enthusiasm for pursuing novelty or originality, a stance that would have proven utterly incomprehensible by the standards of producers in those nations.

The consequence of this was that unless a work could achieve success within the artistic domain of Kabuki and Shinpa, opportunities to appeal to the general public’s appreciation became confined to an extremely narrow scope.
In other words, even if a Shingeki-style work were to emerge here, unless it was fortunate enough to be performed at least once—by actors already renowned in Kabuki or Shinpa, on stages those actors had long grown accustomed to—such a work would never gain popularity, and its author would find it nearly impossible to establish themselves as a playwright of repute.

Admittedly, however, our country maintains a custom wherein major magazines publish new plays as literary works alongside novels; new writers' painstaking works do not undergo such treatment as seen in Europe and America, where they are scarcely published until staged.
Even so, not only is the number of plays these major magazines willingly publish extremely limited proportionally speaking, but one might also say there remains no established pathway for discovering new writers comparable to what exists in novels.

Such general tendencies clearly bifurcated the trajectory of play production at their two extremes.

Namely, scripts that fit within the artistic domain of “Kabuki or Shinpa,” and plays—or literary works in dramatic form—written either anticipating entirely “new actors” or without any consideration for actors’ performances from the outset.

III

In the theatrical history of our nation, when considering the inception of so-called "Shingeki (modern theater)," I believed the dating varied depending on one’s perspective.

Furthermore, how many hands raised the beacon of theater reform was a matter that demanded even more rigorous investigation and research.

However, when looking back at history up to that time, what was called "Shingeki" had not, as a whole, followed a single path through many vicissitudes while collectively battling obstacles.
In my observation, this "Shingeki" was not even "a unified entity."
Even where superficial commonalities existed, how could such a motley assortment of elements—whose points of opposition in reality far outweighed their shared traits—ever coalesce into a singular force?
If anything, bestowing them with a single name would render that name utterly meaningless.

The origin of this nebulous usage of the term “modern theater” shared a common thread with the perception that Kabuki or Shinpa represented the theatrical mainstream.

In other words, the atmosphere formed by our nation’s entertainment industry and its theater regulars clung closely to the theatrical landscape of “Kabuki or Shinpa,” mutually reinforcing their existential foundations. This influence on the external world transformed into the theater’s allure—an allure that pandered to the inescapable feudalism ingrained in the general populace, readily championed national essence while turning its back on all international progress, and even when vying for urban refinement, remained perpetually nostalgic. Human beauty standards became rigidly patterned after *iki* stylish elegance and *hari* sharp poise.
Even if beauty was beauty, what a limited world of “perilous beauty” it must have been.
And what a multitude of cloying variations on the same theme—each one disregarding human nature—we found here!

There was something here that no one could truly accept.
There was nothing expansive, truly solemn, or capable of inspiring thoughts of happiness.
Just when one thought there might be rare instances of truth through fiction, even natural things proved exceedingly scarce.

Why, for so long, had audiences in our theaters not sought those elements on stage?
This was just like asking why a sound parliamentary system had not developed in our country.

“The masses can only understand what they already know” was the lament of a certain French playwright.
I do not call the general audiences of our nation’s theaters “the masses,” yet I cannot help but highlight this unfortunate reality as a strikingly conspicuous phenomenon in our people’s intellectual faculties: that they only wish to see what they are accustomed to, and can only judge the value of such things.
This forms a strange contrast to a certain kind of curious wandering through a world of simple sensations; yet in a society where all is governed by convention—where even a single democratic reform must rely on coercion and temptation—one can well imagine what form the development of the human spirit might take.

Our theater reform movement did not have its goal placed solely on establishing new artistic trends.
Its points of contact ranged across multiple fronts such as rationalization of troupe management, organization of new audiences, adoption of scientific methods for actor training, comprehensive research into stage mechanisms, establishment of modern small theaters as public facilities, public enlightenment regarding theater, and suggestions for national theater policies—and some among them even declared direct participation in political movements based on leftist theories.
Moreover, these practices also extended to film—which was regarded as modern theater’s most cutting-edge and vibrant activity.
But in short, the old shell of our theater thoroughly transmitted the very character of feudal society to the present day. By chance, while retaining its innate plebeian appearance and thus existing in form within modernity, it proved perfectly suited to becoming the compliant companion of our general populace—whose very soul had not fully undergone the baptism of modernity.

While our nation’s current theater world had shown somewhat notable general shifts from the prewar to postwar periods, these were primarily due to forces acting externally—so to speak—through political and economic conditions, and I believed they could not yet be regarded as the result of a newly ignited internal drive within theater itself. Consequently, even in play production, no notable works suggesting a transition in the theatrical era had yet emerged.

Our theater, like modern Japan's various social elements, appeared above all else to have encountered a fundamental obstacle precisely at its point of "modernization." Moreover, they did not even recognize this obstacle as such; relying on habit-like impulsive preferences, they unwittingly invited both mental distortion and stagnation of vitality.

In evaluating the roles played by successive playwrights emerging over several decades of theater history, I could not help but place utmost importance on how thoroughly—and through what means—these artists had acquired what might be termed "modern" qualities.

However, accurately discerning "modern elements" within theatrical works proves far less straightforward than identifying them within social institutions, political structures, or lifestyles. For when making such judgments regarding literary creation, what might be called the essence lies hidden more in unconscious realms than in conscious ones.

IV

The goals of the modern theater movement in Western theatrical history were:

1. To dismantle conventional theatrical laws and pursue its essential nature.
2. To re-examine theater’s relationship with other arts—particularly literature.
3. To confront profit-driven practices stemming from theatrical commercialization and establish it as a purely artistic or cultural movement.
4. Regarding theatrical content: to emphasize substantive ideas while seeking elements that engage both senses and intellect.

Recalling that these could be summarized into four points, as I examined the footsteps Japan’s emerging theater had left over several decades up to then, I found myself overcome with profound emotion.
Now, the task of compiling a fair anthology of dramatic literature from this era had indeed to be undertaken by someone.

However, the freedom granted to me in compiling this single volume of selected works was by no means unlimited.
With the addition of Kubota and Mr. Mafune, we three were permitted to select authors and works from our respective standpoints; yet as these three volumes naturally formed a connected series, we had broadly communicated our respective intentions in advance.
In my own case, I strove to avoid overlap with the other two volumes while also taking up the two periods of dramatic literature’s flourishing through representative groups of authors based on a deliberate perspective.

That is to say: I selected five individuals—Sakanaka, Kawaguchi, Koyama, Tanaka, and Morimoto—who had produced works of established reputation from among a cohort comprising Kubota, Yamamoto, Kikuchi, and Kume, who demonstrated distinctive playwright talents as early as the Early Taishō period; and a newer school of writers who formed a faction through *Gekisaku* magazine across a span of time around Shōwa 10.

I intended to provide as detailed an explanation as possible regarding these two eras separated by a quarter-century and the two groups of writers they produced; however, when it came to each individual writer and work, the editorial intent of this volume naturally led to value criticism according to my own criteria, and thus the individual accounts should not be regarded as independent author critiques or work critiques.

V

If we were to tentatively assign a title to this collection, it could be “From *Short Night* to *The Splendid Family*,” “From *The Father Returns* to *Horse*,” or even “From *Infanticide* to *Mother*.”
In this manner—from Kubota Mantarō to Morimoto Kaoru or Koyama Yūshi; from Kikuchi Kan to Sakanaka Masao or Kawaguchi Ichirō; from Yamamoto Yūzō to Tanaka Chikao or Mafune Yutaka—I intend here to present an intriguing contrast, for better or worse, regarding the temporal transitions in dramatic literature and the essential metamorphosis of our modern theater.

In the realm of literary arts, whether there exists such a thing as “temporal evolution”—if we take the term “evolution” in its common-sense meaning of development or progress—I do not necessarily believe in it as a matter of principle.

Admittedly, within this same field, the term “reform” has indeed been frequently invoked up to the present day. However, it has ultimately been a cry directed at circumstances where existing conventions and established institutions—in their final stages—have decayed and hollowed out, at times emitting a foul stench while obstructing the main thoroughfare.

Therefore, even if the term “evolution” were to be used, it would always represent a one-sided grasp of the issue—for by taking groups of writers who in a sense represent the two eras compiled in this volume, where one group belongs to the earlier period and the other to the later; where one inevitably starts from what is past while the other not only begins to disregard that relationship but also brings into sharper relief elements that were generally inconspicuous in the former; for these reasons, I have sought to express this through terms such as “transition” or “metamorphosis.”

However, if we confine the issue strictly to theater modernization, I see no objection to allowing the term “evolution” to hold meaning here.

VI

Now, let us attempt to examine the year Taishō 3 (1914) and document what kind of situation existed in the theatrical literary world at that time.
As I lacked detailed documents at hand, there may have been some oversights or errors in my research; however, I believed the general outline could be discerned.

This year marked exactly the fifth anniversary of the Free Theater’s founding, and its central figure, Osanai Kaoru—having returned from abroad—was welcomed back into his homeland’s theatrical world, where he embarked on vigorous new work as a recent returnee: translating, directing, and introducing plays, all while advancing his influential position even within commercial theaters.

Needless to say, the “Free Theater” borrowed its name from the pioneering theater reform movement that sprouted from late-nineteenth-century French naturalist literary currents—and this was none other than two adventurous undertakings in which Ichikawa Sadanji II, a young Kabuki actor burning with ambition for his future, joined forces with Osanai Kaoru, an emerging theater literatus, to boldly and unreservedly choose the path of self-reform in Meiji 42 (1909). Their first performance was *John Gabriel Borkman* by Ibsen in Mori Ōgai’s translation, whose reverberations truly deserved to be called the dawn bell of a new era; concluding with their eighth performance in Taishō 3 [1914], they brought their splendid movement to a close amid the ardent supporters’ affectionate regrets.

In the previous year, Taishō 2 [1913], the Bungei Kyōkai (Literary Arts Association), led by Tsubouchi Shōyō, also dissolved due to internal divisions following their sixth and final performance.

The *Geijutsu-za* (Art Theater), centered around Shimamura Hōgetsu and Matsui Sumako, rose up bearing Tolstoy’s *Resurrection*, and mid-career writers of the Waseda faction supported this.

Next, the *Mumeikai* (Anonymous Society) was organized by actors directly descended from Shōyō—such as Tōgi Tetteki and Doi Shunsho—thereby clarifying its position as the successor to the former Literary Arts Association.

Furthermore, the young faction—dissatisfied with the former two—separately founded the "Stage Association," gathering its most radical elements.

At that time, separate from these movements, new theater groups such as the New Era Theater Association (Inoue Masao), Saturday Theater (Kawamura Hanabishi), Modern Theater Association (Iba Takashi), and New Society Troupe (Nakamura Yoshizō) emerged and established themselves in a fragmented landscape.

While Tsubouchi Shōyō, Osanai Kaoru, and Shimamura Hōgetsu—all three being scholars—simultaneously stepped into practical theatrical activities and played equally significant leadership roles in troupe management, it was Mori Ōgai who, during this period, exerted decisive influence and stimulation upon our nascent theatrical literary world solely through the window of his study.
Not only did he systematically translate and introduce modern plays from Northern Europe and Germany, but with insight and taste unparalleled in his generation, he also attempted to dramatize fresh yet elegant historical narratives, presenting stage visions that combined the fragrance of our classics with the tactile sensibilities of modernity.

If we tentatively consider Ōgai’s influence as “poetic,” then from the late Meiji era to the early Taishō era, the literary world underwent an “ideological” baptism through another notable new trend.

This was the emergence of Mushanokōji Saneatsu, Arishima Takeo, Nagayo Yoshirō, Satomi Ton, Shiga Naoya, and others—what became known as the Shirakaba school.

With the exception of Shiga Naoya, all members of this group alternated between writing novels and plays.

In Taishō 3 [1914], Mushanokōji Saneatsu published Twenty-Eight-Year-Old Jesus.
Though he had indeed turned twenty-eight that year, he had already published works such as A Day in Ikkyū’s Life and I Don’t Know Either in the previous year, demonstrating complete freedom from constraints in his approach to playwriting form.

Looking back in this manner, Taishō 3—that is, 1914, the year the First World War erupted—can indeed be said to mark the very eve when our playwriting world stood on the verge of blossoming magnificently through various influences, stimuli, and the maturation of internal conditions.

That same year saw Kubota Mantarō graduate from Keio University, while Yamamoto Yūzō, Kume Masao, and Kikuchi Kan were enrolled in Tokyo University’s literature department. Yet Kubota Mantarō had already emerged during his studies as a rising writer of the *Mita Bungaku* school, publishing plays such as *Game*, *Prologue*, *Shadows*, *Twilight*, and *Snow*. In Taishō 3 (1914), he authored the play *Violence* (later retitled *Night Sky*) for the major magazine *Chūō Kōron*, thus establishing himself as a singular literary presence.

Yamamoto Yūzō published his debut one-act play *The Hole* in *Kabuki* magazine while attending high school in Meiji 43 (1910), with records showing a Nagoya amateur troupe staged it. In Taishō 3 [1914], he not only participated in literary activities through the *Third New Thought* group alongside Akutagawa, Kume, Kikuchi, and Toyoshima but also acquainted himself with the unconventional actor Inoue Masao, immersing himself in backstage atmospheres to grasp theater mechanics. The one-act play *The Female Parent* was composed during this period in Taishō 3 (1914).

Kikuchi Kan, in the aforementioned *Shinshichō*,
published several plays under the pseudonym Kusata Dōtarō in its pages, including such works from Taishō 3 (1914) as *Tamamura Kichiya’s Record*, *A Cowardly Husband*, and *A Terrible Father, A Terrible Daughter*.

In contrast to Yamamoto and Kikuchi, who primarily wrote plays, Kume Masao—who had entered Natsume Sōseki’s tutelage alongside Akutagawa—published his debut play *The Milkman’s Brothers* in *Shinshichō* during Taishō 3 (1914).

The reason I specifically juxtapose these four writers—Kubota, Yamamoto, Kikuchi, and Kume—here for comparison lies in how their selection naturally aligned with the scope of authorship assigned to me while compiling this anthology. Furthermore, as previously noted, against the backdrop of an era when these writers emerged in rapid succession, I seek to examine how the singular task connecting today to tomorrow—“theater modernization”—was expressed within their works through four established names still deeply tied to actual theaters, all within the limited field of dramatic literature rather than the broader realm of general arts.

VII

First, just as the modern theater movement in the West had done, our post-Meiji theater reform movement came to clearly proclaim its "modern character" through none other than the founding of the *Free Theater*; it cannot be denied that this rode the tidal wave of literary realism—or more strictly speaking, naturalism—which is to say, it was ultimately the "pursuit of truth" that drew a definitive line separating it from the preceding theatrical era, which had treated exaggeration and embellishment as its norms.
Émile Zola’s naturalist theater theory may not have been introduced in its own right at the time.
However, assertions such as "a play is a fragment of life" or "the audience must discern the reality of human existence on stage through the fourth wall" had undoubtedly already become common knowledge among young theater researchers.

While on one hand the symbolist poetry movement had been introduced and our literary world's new momentum began absorbing so-called fin-de-siècle decadence, we cannot overlook how it only attained the flesh and blood of "modernity" after filtering through realism's great crucible—those immovable tributaries of Western literature.

In this sense, just as the literary world scrutinized Tayama Katai's *Futon*, the theatrical world proclaimed that "what needed to emerge had emerged" regarding Nakamura Yoshizō's *Razor* (performed by the Art Theater in Taishō 3 [1914]). Yet within this work lingered the precarious footsteps of an Eastern author feeling their way through Nordic mists.

However, unlike Nakamura Yoshizō—who did not study in America—Kubota Mantarō, a poet of seasons and human emotions who instead made the world of Asakusa’s streets his sole domain, succeeded through astonishing sensitivity in extracting, more delicately than anyone else, the charm of Western drama’s dialogue from the lives of our common people, bestowing upon the dramatic style that determines the stage’s rhythmic effects a somewhat simple yet psychologically shadow-rich, subtle and precise tone.
This stands as a prime example where an excellent eye for observation was directed not toward naturalism’s blatant dissection but toward the faithful capturing of shadows.

Should there be those who, on account of the world depicted in his works and due to the author’s attitude—clinging to that world, cherishing it, and pursuing it without a shred of doubt—simply dismiss Kubota Mantarō’s thought as nostalgic or categorically label it as sentimental lingering, I would ask in return how such assessments relate to the very lifeblood of these works.

If Kubota Mantarō’s style is deemed clichéd precisely because it depicts yesterday’s Japan as today’s reality, then why do the many writers who convincingly portray worlds of ever-novel concepts—realms they themselves do not inhabit bodily—appear all the more trite?

The lineage of Kubota Mantarō’s works may seem monotonous to those seeking change, but for those who can revive the charm of the world he sings forth—as a spiritual order on the verge of being lost—within some desolate corner of reality, it is no longer a nostalgic lament for the past; rather, it becomes an unerring extraction of “what is,” a rare voice of truth worthy of being heeded alongside the author.

I believe it is no mistake to say that the secret of Kubota Mantarō’s art lay in his discovery of “the language of plays”—which none of his contemporaries had paid much attention to—and his free mastery of it.

That our nation’s new-era literature—whether prose or poetry—had devoted immense effort and time in transitioning to what was called the “modern vernacular” became evident even today from the many unresolved issues that remained; yet astonishingly, within the very “dialogue” that defined drama as drama, the nature of “spoken modern language” had scarcely been debated head-on even among professional playwrights. Consequently, “modern life on stage” was generally conveyed through lifeless, “standardized language”-like conversations.
While playwrights exercised authorial choice in determining *what* their characters would say, the question of *how* they would speak—the nuances of their speech—was typically addressed only minimally through stage directions.

Kubota Mantarō, perhaps because he was born with the rhythm of quick-witted repartee characteristic of urbanites, must have keenly perceived—likely through original texts—the exquisite essence of dialogue that forms the core of Western drama.

Indeed, he likely learned much from the somewhat perfected conversational styles seen in Kabuki Sewa Kyōgen and even Rakugo Kōshaku.
While this too is demonstrated by Kubota Mantarō’s career, I wish to envision him—particularly in his capacity as that precocious young writer who, even if not consciously striving for it, believed he could reproduce his theatrical vision—one that did not betray modern literary cultivation—through the realistic vitality of a vigorous style in Western dramas he encountered, more so than through their themes or structures.

Whether this speculation proves accurate or not, it is Kubota Mantarō’s works that undeniably added an essential element to our emerging theater—an element that, among all other new or old elements, possesses the most enduring vitality.

VIII

If Kubota Mantarō imparted a new direction to dramatic style, Kikuchi Kan demonstrated unique talent in selecting dramatic themes through his rigorous realist philosophy.

Though he acknowledged Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw's influence during university years, he ultimately mastered British rationalism to become an incisive critic of convention-bound society.

While his early one-act plays bore traces of British drama—particularly Irish theater—with rustic regional charm, their true distinction lay in addressing modern personal concerns through individual perspectives.

In stark contrast to Kikuchi Kan’s themes, which through and through constituted a “processing of reality,” Yamamoto Yūzō’s preferred themes were those of a “challenge to reality.” It constituted not a “resolution” of problems but their posing.

Yamamoto Yūzō, from his very outset as a playwright, already possessed an aspect of a spiritual seeker. The spirit of modern realism became not only a lens for life’s contemplation in him but also—rather than an intellectual operation to capture themes as in Kikuchi Kan’s case—a respect for human emotion and an insistent emotional demand for social enlightenment, thereby painting his works with an idealistic hue.

Although Yamamoto Yūzō’s academic background in German and Austrian literature had clearly manifested a period in his works tinged with the somber mood of Nordic ideological problem plays, this tendency gradually faded until a world of hope and integration—what might be termed a sunward orientation—came to broadly form the spiritual foundation of his creations.

Even if one cannot simply label Yamamoto Yūzō a realist as a writer, in his playwriting technique one must point to the meticulousness and robustness of composition as principal causes behind the critical nature of psychological circumstances—effects that ought to be recognized as distinctive characteristics of his works.

The issue of "composition" in plays is indeed boundless once one begins to discuss it in earnest. However, in Yamamoto Yūzō's case, regarding this as one splendid theatrical achievement born of modern realism, I resolutely distinguish it from the theatrical bombast of previous eras.

From the dramaturgy of Kubota Mantarō, Kikuchi Kan, and Yamamoto Yūzō, I extracted their respective characteristics and discussed their "modernity."

Admittedly, this categorization may seem somewhat forced, but I have deliberately highlighted here—precisely because their approaches coincidentally form such strikingly distinct contrasts—the aspect in which each technically pioneered new ground as professional playwrights: Kubota in style, Kikuchi in thematic focus, and Yamamoto in structural composition. Yet from this perspective, one would notice that many playwrights emerging contemporaneously, while leaving outstanding achievements as novelists, poets, theater troupe leaders, or even critics, nevertheless appeared transient in their output as pure dramatists—their playwriting seeming almost a sideline, with works barely surpassing dialogue-driven prose masquerading as plays (*Lesedrama*).

That being said, I by no means unfairly undervalue the dramatic works of these writers.
The approximately ten-year period following the start of the Taishō era presented what might fittingly be called a new play era—a spectacular blossoming of diverse works. Yet although these pioneering writers all breathed in the new age, pursued novel trends, and explored uncharted territories in some capacity, I must say that, by my reckoning, the majority cannot be said to have made any "new discovery" regarding the essence of drama from a professional standpoint.

Some incorporated Western elements as exoticism; others resorted to mood-driven plays merely infused with mysticism; while still others adhered to the facile form of problem plays that debated for debate’s sake.

However, there were some exceptions.

It was Kume Masao who demonstrated a vivid artistry—skillfully digesting the stage imagery of modern European plays to revitalize it within Japan’s unique landscapes, or extracting the comedic essence of Western ancient farce and regional folk theater traditions from the forms of our primitive life.

The significance of such attempts became utterly dismal should they end in failure, but if they succeeded to some extent, that alone could create a literary momentum.

The fact that Kume Masao—as previously noted—was multi-talented and demonstrated notably early achievements in playwriting stemmed from the unique charm latent in his style, distinct from other writers of his era. This charm, I contend, arose not merely from personal qualities or ideological leanings akin to those of Mushanokōji Saneatsu, but rather—to state it plainly—from an eminently apt resonance with “theater’s genres and their modernity” for that time.

IX

Therefore, for the reasons outlined above, I found myself compelled to select one representative work from each of these four writers. If one insists that a "representative work" must always be a masterpiece, there may well be others more deserving of that title elsewhere. However, what I here term a "representative work"—though this approach may seem somewhat unfair to each writer—is at times deliberately chosen from works closer to their debuts, for these comparatively clearer manifestations of the distinctive qualities I previously described in each author. From Yamamoto Yūzō’s works, I had wished to select *One Hundred Bags of Rice*, which represents his most mature artistic achievement; however, due to unavoidable circumstances, not only was this hope unfulfilled, but I ultimately could not obtain permission to include an alternative work in its place. As the editor, I find this truly regrettable; I earnestly hope readers will consult a separate volume for this work alone.

Kubota Mantarō’s *Daiji Gakkō* was serialized in the magazine *Fujin* in Shōwa 2 (1927) and made a spectacular debut at Tsukiji Shōgekijō in the following year; it stood not only as Kubota Mantarō’s masterpiece but also as a work that rightfully deserved a place among the classics of Japanese modern theater—nay, of modern literature as a whole.

From his debut work *Game* to *The Great Temple School*—a span of seventeen years—Kubota Mantarō published numerous novels and plays. Unlike any other such writer, he maintained surprisingly few ties to commercial theater stages, yet asserted his presence as a “modern theater” playwright more prominently and distinctly than any of his contemporaries.
The fact that his purity was incompatible with the commercialism of theaters was something no one had doubted to be Kubota Mantarō’s pride in his art.
Yet on the other hand, Kubota Mantarō’s world made somewhat limited demands on actors.
For instance, if they could not naturally wield the so-called modern Edokko dialect of Tokyo’s downtown areas, the stage atmosphere would have been all but destroyed.
When contemplating a theater company structure capable of enduring this delicate production, one could not help but doubt whether the flawless staging of *Daiji Gakkō* could ever be recreated in the future.

When examining Kubota Mantarō’s notable plays up to *Daiji Gakkō*—works such as *Rainy Sky*, *Heart*, *Misfortune*, *Moonlit Night*, *Winter*, and *Night Crow*, each a masterpiece worthy of being called representative—the full force of his capabilities as a playwright was exerted in this three-act work.

If *Daiji Gakkō* stands as Kubota Mantarō’s magnum opus, then *The Madman on the Roof*—though not Kikuchi Kan’s debut—must be considered one of his apprentice-period works, published in Taishō 5 [1916] in the coterie magazine *Shinshichō*.

However, his breakthrough work and acclaimed masterpiece *The Father Returns* was written in Taishō 6 [1917], a mere year later—there should have been no significant difference in his level of mastery as a writer during this interval. While *The Madman on the Roof*’s somewhat abstract theme stands in diametric opposition to *The Father Returns*’ richly realistic content—making it appear ill-suited as a representative work of Kikuchi Kan the realist—the reason I nevertheless chose this less popular piece by our most popular writer lies, as previously stated, in how its quasi-debut rawness of technique allows us to discern this writer’s innate qualities and inclinations; I believed it particularly expedient for understanding the philosophical foundations from which Kikuchi Kan’s dramatic themes emerge.

Kikuchi Kan’s realism manifested within this conceptual narrative through a distinctly writerly presence.
The work’s theme took as its foundation a somewhat cynical affirmation of reality—that “a madman might indeed be happier remaining a madman”—arriving at a rationalist conclusion that mocked the folly of physical passions blindly clinging to superstition.

While containing an earnest assertion characteristic of an intellectual youth—and though one might lament how its supporting satire had yet to fully shed a shell of conventional sarcasm—it nevertheless possessed elements that could resonate deeply with the skeptical spirit of modern individuals.

Although *The Madman on the Roof*’s thematic intrigue somewhat clashed with its strained comedic stage elements, here the author’s foreign literary erudition manifested—not only evoking an unexpectedly fresh theatrical style but also imbuing the work with clarity through concise plot development, while its logical progression skillfully stimulated intellectuals’ minds. It was this distinctive quality that made the piece stand out in its time.

As a playwright, Kikuchi Kan’s works cannot necessarily be said to be numerous.
Moreover, it can be said that until he established his footing as a short story writer, his early dramatic works had failed to attract much attention from discerning critics.
However, from around Taishō 7 [1918], as his reputation abruptly rose, his earlier plays were successively performed by Ennosuke, Kanya, and Sawada Shōjirō, while his numerous short stories—owing to their dramatic themes—were readily adapted for the stage.

Compared to Kikuchi Kan, who abandoned playwriting early, Yamamoto Yūzō—who similarly began devoting his efforts to novels in recent years—on the other hand continued to seize opportunities to create plays.

*One Hundred Bags of Rice* was staged by Inoue Masao and others immediately upon its publication in Shōwa 18 (1943), a magnificent masterpiece that should be called—coming from this author—a powerfully meaningful social problem play embodying a “warning to the world” during wartime.

That being said, the production chronology of playwright Yamamoto Yūzō—from *Infanticide* to *One Hundred Bags of Rice*—could well be seen to encompass his performance chronology almost simultaneously.
Moreover, the premiere records of his major works predominantly featured renowned actors at grand theaters. Beginning with *The Crown of Life* staged at Meiji-za in Taishō 9 (1920), through *Professor Tsumura*, *Infanticide*, *Mother*, *Umihiko Yamahiko*, *Comrades*, *Sakazaki Dewa-no-kami*, *Kumagai Renshōbō*, *Kamono and Shichirōemon*, *Saigō and Ōkubo*, *Lament of Women*, and culminating in *One Hundred Bags of Rice*, these inaugural productions raised their curtains amid immense anticipation from theatrical circles and enthusiasts alike—bolstered by the allure of their casting—while, unusually for Japan’s commercial theater conventions, the author’s name became substantively spotlighted, gradually acquiring an air of gravitas.
This fact constituted a phenomenon that must not be overlooked in Japan’s theater history—particularly its cultural theater history.
In a certain sense, it could be said that no writer fought against the commercialism of established impresarios and protested head-on against acts of artistic desecration as much as this author.

Kubota Mantarō and Yamamoto Yūzō continued to create plays even today, and while Kikuchi Kan had hardly published any new works since entering the Shōwa era, his name could not be excluded from the theatrical world.
However, Kume Masao published only a few plays early in his career—including *The Milkman’s Brothers*—and today, even those who recognized him as a playwright were likely few in number.

*Jizōkyō Yurai* represented one facet of his fantasy, and if *Miura Seishi Kōjōnushi*—generally regarded as his representative work—exemplified realist "modern theater," then *Jizōkyō Yurai* intertwined the flavor of simple ancient farce with witty modern satire, belonging to exceptions within the tendencies of its time.

X

Just as the group of new writers who emerged successively in the early Taishō period brought a form of innovation to the playwriting world of that time, from around Shōwa 6 and 7 (1931–1932), an unassuming yet steadfast fervor for dramatic research arose within a corner of the so-called “modern theater” sphere.
And from this momentum emerged numerous promising writers who shared common aims.

In broad terms, their goal resided in creating new dramatic literature; more narrowly defined, I believe it lay in apprehending theatrical truth by first undertaking a fundamental inquiry into dramatic beauty.
And nearly all these writers—though unintentionally aligned—sought to achieve the consummate expression of modern realism, pursuing it within the subtle shadows of daily life.

In Shōwa 7 (1932), the founding of the magazine *Gekisaku* marked the definitive start of this movement.

However, at that very time, while the pioneering trends in our theater world were taking shape on one front, they had simultaneously formed a formidable camp that stood in complete antithesis to these developments.

That is, the so-called left-wing theater movement—guided by Marxism—continued its superficial activities while riding the wave of the zeitgeist, resonated with outstanding intellectuals’ social concerns; and since its troupe activities flourished most vigorously, this inevitably spurred the production of plays imbued with contemporary hues.

Here, for reference, let us roughly survey the transitions in the modern theater world from the late Taishō period to this time.

The Great Kantō Earthquake (Taishō 12) brought all activities centered on Tokyo to a halt—needless to say—and theater was naturally no exception.
Consequently, this earthquake served as a catalyst, giving rise to a new phenomenon across various spheres.

Modern theater too appeared to have spontaneously joined the revival chorus from unspecified quarters. In the year following the earthquake—Taishō 13 (1924)—the new magazine *Engeki Shinchō* was promptly launched by Shinchōsha under Yamamoto Yūzō’s editorial leadership, encompassing established playwrights including Kubota Mantarō, Kikuchi Kan, Osanai Kaoru, Kume Masao, Satomi Ton, Nagata Hideo, Yoshii Isamu, Nagayo Yoshirō, and Nakamura Kichizō as contributors.

That same year witnessed the founding of Tsukiji Shōgekijō, centered on Osanai Kaoru and Hijikata Yoshi.

Furthermore, when the Shōwa era began, there came the era of the so-called complete works boom.
Then, from two publishers came announcements soliciting subscriptions for the *Modern Theater Complete Works* and *World Drama Complete Works*—both colossal projects spanning dozens of volumes—yet each showed a flourishing scene with subscriber numbers not falling below tens of thousands.

In the realm of emerging theater, there was yet another social circumstance of the time that, while not direct, should be considered an indirect yet significant issue.
It was the successive importation of foreign films—particularly excellent French talkies—and the frequent introduction of renowned European and American stage actors through the screen.

*Engeki Shinchō* eventually left Shinchōsha’s management and transferred into the hands of Bungeishunjūsha; though acting in Kikuchi Kan’s personal capacity, Bungeishunjūsha supported Hatakenaka Ryōha—an amateur actor returned from America—to continue the productions of his Modern Theater Association.

Thus, the Shōwa years advanced.

Following Osanai Kaoru’s death, the Tsukiji Shōgekijō became embroiled in internal conflicts and ultimately split and collapsed.
(Shōwa 5 [1930])

The aforementioned Modern Theater Association subsequently met an anticlimactic end when sponsorship ceased and Hatakenaka joined a professional troupe, but Tsukiji-za—a splinter faction of the Tsukiji Shōgekijō—found its primary raison d'être in filling precisely that void.

XI

By Shōwa 7 (1932), when the magazine *Gekisaku* was launched, Sakanaka Masao—a founding member and one of its chief advocates—had already published his debut work *Tori Kago o Kowasu* (*Destroying the Birdcage*) in the magazine *Tragedy and Comedy* in Shōwa 3 (1928), and in Shōwa 6 (1931), his masterpiece *Uma* (*The Horse*) had been selected as a prize-winning work in *Kaizō*.

This man of Kishū—endowed by nature with a pastoral poetic sensibility and a simple courage to confront his subjects head-on, blessed with a playwright’s genius to capture, however rough-hewn, the transient phases of fluid realities—had long intrigued me; yet in his works following *The Horse*, a kind of possessed ambition began to surface. The moment the author’s persistent eyes—peering into the depths of human psychology—began to gleam coincided precisely with his resolve to cast off the lyricism that clung to him like a second skin.

However, upon reaching *Chōnin* and *Akuma*, the author’s observation of humanity suddenly gained a Balzac-like breadth. However, his plays ventured into the realm of prose at this point.

*The Horse* belongs to this author’s earlier period and is a so-called “dialect play.” Even when observing how it pioneered trends, one recognizes that this work’s “local dialect” constitutes an unrestrained use of “living language” that defies imitation by others. While its dramatic structure retains an indefinable laxity, as a contemporary work infused with the fresh essence of modern farce, it deserves to be called poet Sakanaka Masao’s representative piece. Were this writer ever to pen *The Horse* anew in the future, I am convinced that *Horse* would bear mighty hooves.

Kawaguchi Ichirō was a writer affiliated with *Gekisaku* alongside Sakanaka Masao; however, his defining characteristic as a playwright lay in his unwavering commitment to psychological realism—a quality likely stemming from theatrical training acquired during his American studies. What distinguished him was his unparalleled mastery, among Japanese dramatists, of Western theater’s verisimilitude as realized through stagecraft.
That approach might at times risk lapsing into trivialism; however, as long as stage realism remained true realism, our eyes encountered satisfaction and astonishment at its “precision” before perceiving it as trivial.
To such an extent had Japanese theatrical literature established a distinct concept of “reality.”

“Twenty-Sixth Building” set aside the newly introduced backdrop of a Japanese colony in New York and the author’s teasingly captured spectrum of nostalgia; the theme itself remained confined to somewhat flat psychological conflicts. As for its structure, despite its intricate solidity, the work as a whole retained an unassuming quality, lacking significant dramatic peaks—one might even have called it monotonous. Yet not only were the impressions of each moment strikingly vivid, but their cumulative effect coalesced into a flow of atmosphere rich in gradation, permitting no slackening of mental tension. Through the author’s precise eye, we were able to make numerous discoveries and verifications that proved surprisingly delightful, all while aligning with a certain rhythm. This constituted the charm of this work and the reason for its “groundbreaking” status.

Kawaguchi Ichirō published this powerful work in Shōwa 7 (1932) in *Gekisaku* magazine; the following year, Shōwa 8 (1933), it was performed at Tsukiji-za (using Hikōkan’s stage) and received high praise from certain theater enthusiasts.

In this year，Tsukiji‑za also premiered *Ofukuro*—the debut work of coterie member Tanaka Chikao—to nearly unanimous acclaim. However，the defining feature of this play was born from the author’s utterly unique discipline in “dialogue technique.” One cannot overlook the fact that Tanaka，while enrolled in Keio University’s French Literature Department，had already immersed himself in French drama；concurrently，he formally enrolled as a research student at the New Theater Association’s exclusive actor training institute to practice performance techniques while thoroughly studying and internalizing French-published literature on diction—particularly Bremond’s *L’art de dire* (The Art of Speech).

To dismiss the artistic value of *Ofukuro* as merely "skillful dialogue" was, of course, missing the mark, but the true "charm of dialogue" undeniably required powers of observation, wit, and—in many cases—a rich vocabulary capable of expressing psychological nuance.

In this sense, I recognized more than anyone else the modest ambition of this young author, who focused on this type of charm—most scarce in our nation’s theater and not considered particularly important—and effectively wove it into their debut work. Moreover, I believed we must not forget that behind this theatrical success lay director Kawaguchi Ichirō, who best understood this author’s art, and the securing of the most suitable casting for staging this work.

Immediately after *Ofukuro* was performed, *Gekisaku* published coterie member Koyama Yūshi’s *Children of the Seto Inland Sea*.

Koyama Yūshi had already demonstrated his talent and unique artistic domain in *December’s Street*, but what deserves special mention was his creation of a play style resembling a symphony of life imagery—a structure emerging from the conscious orchestration of psychological rhythm that paralleled theater’s inherent “music” as an art form.

This symphony, however, even in *Children of the Seto Inland Sea*, still retained traces of nineteenth-century melodies.
Koyama Yūshi’s lyricism appeared to wander near Lamartine’s realm, yet one could discern that his curiosity as a modern individual was progressively deepening his observations of humanity.

*Children of the Seto Inland Sea* thus captured—in a manner undeniably free from stereotype—the subtle atmosphere of an era and region, yet one could not say the author’s artistic interest was entirely free from fixating its gaze upon “swaying things” rather than depicting “flowing things” at their inherent velocity.

This play was staged at Tsukiji-za the following year; however, in that same year, *Gekisaku* published Morimoto Kaoru’s *A Splendid Woman* and subsequently—continuing into Shōwa 10—the three-act play *The Magnificent Clan*, attracting connoisseurs’ attention.
Through flexible manipulation of modern sensibilities and astonishing technical maturity, he was swiftly deemed “safe”—
though welcomed as a new writer—Morimoto Kaoru was not merely that kind of author.
As evidence stood *Boring Time* (Shōwa 16 [1941]), wherein an intellectual model of theater manifested.

Immediately after “A Splendid Woman” was published in “Gekisaku”, Iwata Toyo expressed his impressions of this work and its author in the subsequent issue—it would be ideal to quote the full text, but as it is somewhat lengthy, I will extract the key points.—

“A Splendid Woman”
“Through his three works—*A Splendid Woman*, *My Home*, and *Family Style*—the playwriting approach may not be uniform, yet the author’s outstanding discernment and craftsmanship consistently permeate them.”
The charm of discernment is not lacking in *A Splendid Woman*.
This work—had the mother and finale been well-depicted—I would not hesitate to deem it a recent treasure. However, given that the pivotal *Splendid Woman* and two youths are vividly rendered, more than half of the author’s aim is achieved, and that aim proves deeply intriguing.
This humor is entirely intellectual and modern.

"[Excerpt] To view and write *A Splendid Woman* in that manner is precisely what even a modern French writer might do. [...] Amidst this pervasive nationalistic climate, I wonder how such statements will be received, but regarding current plays being awkwardly Japanese rather than admirably continental—well, I for one endorse the latter."
Alongside the theater movement, I believe plays currently balance cultural and artistic purposes equally.

Now that you mention it, the author Mr. Morimoto strikes me as one who has studied foreign plays extensively.
I cannot say whether he cherished Coppée’s *Maison Natale* (Birth Home), which shares thematic parallels, but his firm grasp of the dramatic pulse found in *Maison Natale* demonstrates his thorough assimilation of Western drama.
Moreover, this approach to study was decidedly non-imitative.
Without addressing the author’s so-called innate talents—for merely listing such points may trouble him—I must ask: given his deficiencies as a playwright by nature, how could he have absorbed Western drama so completely?
Innate talents are rare today, but cultivated writers are rarer still.
Mr. Morimoto’s cultivation extends beyond technical mastery to considerable breadth in understanding humanity and society.
This becomes evident when reading *My Home* and *Family Style*.
“Having read *My Home* and heard the author was a gold-buttoned youth, I was somewhat taken aback.”
“(The rest is omitted.)”

The reason I have specifically invoked Toyo Iwata’s impressions here is because I believe they represent the contemporary critical consensus on Morimoto. Moreover, they have articulated crucial aspects of the commentary I ought to provide regarding *A Splendid Woman* and its author.

Needless to say, through this writer’s emergence, one genre of modern Japanese theater reached its logical culmination. To rephrase: if the manifold forms of our burgeoning drama had set out toward a singular direction called theatrical modernization, only certain among them—by fully severing themselves from established Kabuki and Shinpa traditions while maintaining both spiritual essence and formal integrity, yet without straying beyond theater’s pure domain—ultimately succeeded here in producing, however tenuously, exemplars of modern plays capable of appealing to international intellect and sensibilities.

Morimoto Kaoru demonstrated a marked development from *A Splendid Woman* to *The Magnificent Clan* and further to *Boring Time* in this manner. Consequently, while I may feel that *A Splendid Woman* is somewhat inadequate as a representative work, due to considerations of page count, I tentatively chose to include it here.

Shortly after I completed this manuscript, this genius of a generation—originally of frail health—abandoned his promising future and became one who would never return.
It remains an irreparable loss for our modern theater world.

12

After Shōwa 7 (1932), "modern theater" entered a distinctly significant turning point.

As political developments unfolded, suppression against leftist movements gradually intensified, until finally, the Avant-Garde Theater was ordered to disband; meanwhile, Hijikata Yoshi’s New Tsukiji Troupe—based at the Tsukiji Little Theater—was thrown into turmoil over the incident of Hijikata’s unauthorized solo entry into Soviet Russia. In response, Murayama Tomoyoshi and others, camouflaging their ideological stance, advocated for a grand unification of modern theater and declared the formation of the New Cooperative Troupe under the banner of this unified company.

Although the unified theater company never materialized, it was in Shōwa 10 (1935) that the "Shingeki Club"—a fraternal, liaison, and consultative body for six modern theater troupes—was established.
The six member troupes were: Tsukiji-za, Shinkyō Troupe, New Tsukiji Troupe, Théâtre Comédie, Art Petit Théâtre, and Sōsaku-za.

Sōsaku-za was a group of actors and directors who had split from Tsukiji-za; in Shōwa 9 (1934), they made their inaugural performance with Mafune Yutaka’s *Weasel* and achieved both critical and popular success.

Indeed, Mafune Yutaka—this new writer—suddenly appeared upon this unseasoned stage and rose to prominence in theatrical literary circles; however, as his representative works were to be included in another volume, I deliberately excluded them from this one.
Consequently, my commentary regrettably lacks sufficient scope to historically contextualize this new writer's emergence.

Yet above all else, the author of *Weasel*—that profoundly somber yet ironic work—for reasons unclear became deeply devoted to Kubota Mantarō following its production, while Kubota Mantarō in turn seemed never to let this junior colleague slip from his view; their relationship grew so intimate one might deem it inevitable.
Were we to trace artistic connections here, my argument would gain greater cogency; however, I choose to leave this matter merely suggested.
In essence—out of caution against judging entire trends by partial glimpses when surveying this era's modern theater movements, particularly among emerging playwrights—I limited myself to recording Mafune Yutaka's name here.
Nevertheless, were I to enumerate others deserving inclusion alongside him yet omitted from this collection, foremost among *Gekisaku* coterie members would be counted: IgaYama Shōzō of *Musasabi*, Uchimura Naoya of *Autumn Waters Ridge*, and Taguchi Takeo of *The Old Man’s House*.
As female writers accepted by *Gekisaku* and Tsukiji-za, we find Okada Teiko, Tanaka Sumie, Miyake Yukiko, Nagaoka Teruko, and others.

Tsukiji-za disbanded in Shōwa 11 (1936).
The following year, Shōwa 12 (1937), saw the birth of Bungaku-za.

Gekisaku reached its end with the December Shōwa 15 (1940) issue, compelled to cease publication under the Home Ministry’s administrative magazine control policies.

Yet by then, it seemed this magazine’s mission had already been provisionally fulfilled. While Sakanaka, Kawaguchi, Koyama, and Tanaka all showed no advancement from their prior works, Morimoto alone published another masterpiece—Boring Time—while simultaneously writing screenplays for film studios and drafting several new plays as part of Bungaku-za’s staff.

Now, when examining the group of new writers prior to the Gekisaku coterie, one finds them not only far from lacking in talent but also seemingly rife with various issues from a theater-historical perspective.

In Shōwa 15 (1940), within Kawade Shobō’s six-volume *Modern Plays*, if we gather those writers who appear representative of this era as emerging playwrights—excluding previously mentioned names—we encounter Tago Torao, Miyoshi Jūrō, Hisaita Eijirō, Agi Okisuke, Wada Katsukazu, Kubo Sakae, Ima Uhei, and Yagi Ryūichirō.
Many among them were authors of problem plays that enjoyed high critical acclaim.
Consequently, in a certain sense compared to the five Gekisaku-affiliated authors included in this collection, it could be said they had not only established their status within theatrical circles but seen their renown grow even more prominent.

13

The theater world of the early Taisho period burned with at least some fervor for reform across its entirety.
New works by emerging playwrights frequently coincided unexpectedly with what commercial theaters demanded.
If not, they were deemed either excessively highbrow or too immature to withstand staging.

However, in the mid-Showa period, the theater world itself had contracted and assumed a conservative stance.
In other words, production companies and the so-called non-profit “modern theater” troupes had each begun to clearly establish their own histories.
New writers—particularly those who took no interest in Kabuki and Shinpa’s traditional techniques and started solely from Western theatrical education—had almost no opportunity to stage their own works unless affiliated with one of the modern theater troupes; even then, it was not as if modern theater’s stages and actors necessarily satisfied them.
Disillusionment ceaselessly assailed them.
They came to realize that it was a mistake to perceive only Kabuki and Shinpa actors as distant.
In truth, they discovered that contemporary Japanese actors were fundamentally incapable of bringing to life the characters they themselves envisioned.
It is indeed unfortunate, but I must say that it remains unclear where the blame truly lies.

However, this group of writers was by no means arrogant.
For they felt through their own experience that, while they did consider it partly their own fault and acknowledged that the other party was not entirely blameless, above all else, the greatest guilt lay with this new era that had ensnared everyone.
In this era, all exchanges had ceased; points of connection had vanished; what should have been smooth became uneven; people no longer spoke in their own words; society feigned expressionlessness; and immature minds brazenly dabbled in philosophy.
Truth exists nowhere but within this reality.

I believe that theater, like literature—or perhaps even more so—will find new paths of development precisely by starting from an awareness of this reality.

To speak of loving theater—in that manner of love exist various degrees and qualities.

As for actors—putting them aside—in the case of playwrights, within their works I place importance not only on their attitude of confronting reality but also on an outpouring of love for theater itself.
A series of works that utilize theatrical form—that is, regard it as a means—for the sake of achieving any other purpose cannot be highly evaluated as plays.
For example, I believe that even something like an author’s reputational ambition can halve the value of their work.

It may be criticized that the five representative works by new writers included in this collection all draw from personal daily life and fail to capture any of the social movements reflecting the times—but I will not defend against that here. However, these five are all writers who purely loved theater for its own sake and, because of that love, could not help but believe they were perpetually lonely.

Even among those belonging to the so-called early period of this collection—Yamamoto Yūzō, Kikuchi Kan, Kume Masao, and Kubota Mantarō—one observes that these writers showed no haste: though opportunities had not been entirely absent since their debuts, they deliberately refrained from collaborating with professional troupes, as if clinging to the belief that “their own theater” would undoubtedly emerge someday—that otherwise, it would all be a lie—without ever entering a dual career pursuing both plays and novels.

In compiling this collection, I naturally never intended to pursue impartiality from the outset; yet if only for the reasons outlined above, I resolved to select certain examples from among this group of writers that might offer at least some suggestion of what destiny this younger generation's "newness" carries and how it will ultimately transform the future of Japanese theater.