Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Since last summer, when Mr. Honma Hisao published “The Significance and Value of People’s Art” in *Waseda Bungaku*, this issue of People’s Art has been discussed in various places by more than ten individuals whose works have come to my attention alone. Each time, I—first, from my own position of always making “the people” the lifeblood and subject of debate, and second, from regret over the apparent absence of anyone who has truly grasped the essence of this issue of People’s Art—have earnestly wished to join those discussions, yet ultimately failed to realize that intention.

It had already been a full year.
By the usual pattern of the literary establishment, this issue too was now about time to fade away.
Even without that consideration—this literary establishment teeming with upstarts who were either utterly indifferent to the people or, as Romain Rolland said, made their very claim of not despising the people at all into a seed of contempt; that is to say, those who felt ashamed of their parents' rustic ways despite being nourished by their parents' sweat—was precisely such a place.
Even if five or ten of these well-meaning yet naive scholars—some novelty-seeking, others putting on airs of erudition and pretentiousness—had made some commotion in a corner, they would almost certainly have vanished without leaving any trace.

However, I want to ensure that this issue avoids being treated as just another passing trend by the literary establishment.
People’s Art, as Romain Rolland said, is not a passing trend nor a plaything for dilettantes.
Moreover, it isn’t merely serving as both an irrepressible expression of a new society—its emotions and its thoughts—and an organ of struggle against the aged, decaying old society.
As stated in the manifesto for a people’s theater drafted by Romain Rolland, this issue truly remains a matter of life or death—both for the people and for art itself.

Call this an exaggeration, but do not scoff.
Especially to those who had until now presumptuously lectured on People’s Art with such self-importance, merely calling it an “organ of struggle” must already have sounded like an outrageous notion requiring a grimace—but if one went further to declare it a matter of life or death, it would undoubtedly have struck them as nothing short of outlandish exaggeration.
However, unless this ceased to sound like an exaggeration, one could not grasp the true significance and value of People’s Art.

II

Romain Rolland, regarding the great movement of People’s Art that expanded with tremendous momentum from the end of the previous century into the current one, stated that he wished to record two facts: first, that the people had abruptly gained influence within art, and second, that under the umbrella term “People’s Art” there existed an extraordinary diversity of conflicting theories.

“Among those hailed as representatives of People’s Theater, there exist two utterly opposed factions: one seeks to indiscriminately foist upon the people whatever plays exist today—no matter their nature.”
“The other faction seeks to have the people—this new force—create a new style of art: namely, New Theater.”
“One believes in theater; the other places hope in the people.”

This “diversity of theories” had yet to descend into full-blown “disarray” in Japan for certain reasons; however, should debates about People’s Art grow more vigorous or their practical implementation emerge, one could not predict just how tumultuous the “disarray” might become.
Even then, its buds were already fully present.
There were various types: those who believed in art, those who placed hope in the people, and those who wavered in between.

The term “People” (i.e., the populace) was initially interpreted by Mr. Honma Hisao as “commoners and workers.” Ellen Key—upon whose theories Mr. Honma Hisao primarily relied—stated at the outset of *recreative culture*: “A group that rightfully demands eight hours of rest alongside eight hours of labor and eight hours of sleep as its banner,” thereby clearly making commoners and workers the subjects of this recreative culture. That Romain Rolland’s “People”—that is, the populace—were commoners and workers would become clear later. However, this *People* was not the populace; it was not commoners and workers. There were even those who argued that the “People’s” in so-called People’s Theater (*People’s Theatre*) carried meanings like “general” or “universal,” and that in places like America, *People* was often used in such a way. Such were Mr. Yamada Kakichi, a linguist who returned from America, and his wife, Ms. Yamada Wakako. However, in such cases, the very notion of being an America expert or a language scholar was itself the source of error. Mr. Ishizaka Yōhei, like others, discussed “Nakamura Seiko as a People’s Artist” in much the same vein.

Next is the problem of which preposition should come between the characters for "people" and "art." Mr. Honma Hisao interpreted it as "no tame no"—that is, "for." Mr. Nakamura Seiko interpreted it as "from"—that is, he interpreted it as the French *de part*. Furthermore, Mr. Tomita Saika interprets it as "the possessive 'of'," that is, he seems to interpret it as "of." However, just as true democratic politics had once been defined as a government created *by* the people, *for* the people, and *of* the people—that is, "Government by the people, for the people and of the people"—so too must we combine the interpretations of these three scholars to define art as something created *by* the people, *for* the people, and *of* the people: "Art by the people, for the people and of the people." Only then can we achieve precision. And among these, "by the people" or "emerging from the people" is, needless to say, the most crucial. Mr. Tanaka Jun correctly states.

“Art created by the people themselves is inherently art for the people and can become art owned by the people.”
“That which can truly be called art for the people in every sense must be art produced by the people themselves.”

Fortunately, Japan still lacked any theory of People’s Art that advocated “indiscriminately foisting upon commoners whatever plays exist today.”
However, in practical terms, the traditional entertainment events purportedly held especially for commoners and workers had all been of this very kind.
Furthermore, if Mr. Shimamura Hōgetsu—whose Geijutsuza theater already smacked of such tendencies—dared to claim its plays constituted People’s Art, then they too almost entirely belonged to this very kind.

III

I had previously stated that in Japan, discussions of People's Art had yet to descend into clear disarray for a certain reason.
This reason lay in the fact that these so-called proponents of People's Art theory still lacked any genuine popular spirit—and consequently lacked the people's burning resentment toward contemporary art.
Thus their arguments remained utterly ambiguous.
They were lukewarm.
Such vague, tepid arguments from the people's camp could never provoke the direct and impassioned counterarguments from their opponents.

I once expounded on his "conquest fact"—a phenomenon that runs consistently through history and today manifests in the form of the capitalist class and the working class—

"You who boast of sensitivity and intellect while proclaiming the supremacy of individual authority—O you literary figures! As long as your sensitivity and intellect remain untouched by this conquest fact and the resistance against it, your art is but a plaything—a diversion. It is resignation—a potent component of systematic deception—that seeks to make us forget the weight of this fact pressing in even upon our daily lives."

“The static beauty that renders us futilely ecstatic no longer concerns us.”
“We crave dynamic beauty that simultaneously births ecstasy and enthusiasm.”
“The literature we demand constitutes a creative literature embodying the beauty of hatred and rebellion against this conquest fact.”

I declared.
Then I further elaborated on “life’s expansion” through this hatred and rebellion:

“I—who perceive life’s supreme beauty in its expansion—now find life’s supreme beauty exclusively within this hatred and rebellion.”
“In this era where the conquest fact has climaxed, harmony ceases to be beauty.”
“Beauty resides solely in discord.”
“Harmony constitutes falsehood.”
“Truth dwells solely in discord.”

“Contemporary Japanese literature, which claims to stand upon facts—why does it not confront this conquest fact, a fundamental social reality that has today reached its zenith? Why does it not confront the root of modern life’s anguish?”

I declared.
My art theory was none other than a clear theory of People’s Art.
The art I demanded was what Romain Rolland called “new art for a new world.”
Yet the first to oppose this art theory was none other than Mr. Honma Hisao himself—the very originator of the current People’s Art discourse.
Mr. Honma Hisao declared there was no beauty in hatred; he declared there was no beauty in rebellion.

Romain Rolland, the advocate of People’s Art in France, truly understood.
Rolland said:

“Violence—the act of coercion—is never an appendage of art.
It is an appendage of injustice and iniquity that human conscience must collide with and break through.
Art does not aim to eradicate struggle.
The purpose of art is to enrich life, strengthen it, expand it further, and make it better.
Therefore, if love and union are its purpose, then hatred is likely its weapon until a certain time comes.”
A laborer from the suburbs of Saint-Antoine said to a lecturer who had been earnestly preaching that all hatred is evil:
“Hatred is good.
Hatred is justice.
What compels the oppressed to rise up against oppressors is this hatred.
If I see a man oppressing others, I resent it.
I hate that man.
And I believe that my resentment and hatred are justified. Those who do not hate evil cannot truly love good either.
Those who see injustice and iniquity yet do not rouse themselves to fight against it are neither artists nor even human beings.”

Whether hatred and rebellion possess beauty or not was irrelevant.
However，those who did not partake in this hatred and rebellion were “neither artists nor even human beings at all.”
I did not know how much progress Mr.Honma’s ideas had made in those two years since.
However，in any case，this Mr.Honma was indeed Japan’s first proponent of People’s Art theory.

IV

Mr. Honma Hisao was an earnest but naive scholar in all matters.
And so you, upon reading Ellen Key’s *recreative culture*, had stirred up a most noble-minded zeal—only to end up expounding a botched theory of People’s Art, much like how Mr. Yasunari Sadao roundly rebuked you for it.

Ellen Key’s argument was directed at the Swedish Young Social Democrats in essence:

“You must fight to increase leisure time while also acquiring recreative culture to ensure that said leisure time is not misused.”

“Among the youth who bear the responsibility to create a new society better than the old in all things—and by those very youth—class war (class war) must be waged alongside an unceasing culture war (culture war).”

It was Ms. Ellen Key who advised.
There are both good and bad forms of entertainment.
Entertainment that does not bring physical and spiritual renewal is harmful.
Recreative culture (recreative culture) means, first, the ability to distinguish various pleasures, and second, the will to choose productive pleasures that bring forth new strength while rejecting unproductive ones.
And Ellen Key went on to say.

“In every class, the majority of people indulge in empty pleasures.”
“However, such indulgence poses no greater danger in any other class than in the working class.”
“For while it goes without saying that suffering mental harm through inferior pleasures is equally detrimental to any individual of any class, it is far more harmful to the entire community and its future when fourth-class citizens—who hold in their hands the imminent future problems of the community—suffer this harm to a severe degree.”

“The working class must employ all means—even those of pleasure—to strengthen their capacity for labor.”

“Therefore, whether the meager leisure that workers currently possess—or the additional leisure they desire to acquire—is being squandered on worthless entertainment or being used for true rest, that is to say, for renewing physical and mental strength: this constitutes the most critical issue.”

Even the most obstinate Social Democrats, when faced with Ellen Key’s recommendation, could only listen in silence—unless they demanded that Ms. Key advocate class struggle alongside her so-called culture war.
Moreover, had Mr. Honma limited himself to merely this introduction, he might have spared himself that spitefully odd question from Mr. Yasunari.

Ellen Key did not say, as Mr. Honma did, “In short, those workers possess nothing but misery and ugliness.”
Nor does she go so far as to claim that she feels this “misery and ugliness” more deeply than anyone and pities it more deeply than anyone “with motherly tenderness.”
“It seems she is also saying, ‘There, I have no desire to prescribe as medicine sentiments like humans embracing each other or the enjoyment of life as human beings.’”
How could something like “the immediate future of all humanity” be held by such unsightly “barbarians”?
And how could we allow it to remain in their grasp?

Moreover, Ellen Key had not juxtaposed so-called high art—which cannot be understood without specialized prior knowledge—with other forms in the manner Mr. Honma described. Nor did she say, "Since 'for the people' means for the people of the working class, their art must be popular, universal, and unspecialized enough to be fully appreciated and understood even by them, the workers." She had not uttered such easily—or more justifiably—misunderstood superfluities.

In short, Ellen Key simply presented an outline of Romain Rolland’s theory of People’s Art and “agreed with it without omitting a single word.”
Furthermore, she merely stressed one facet of this recreative culture while critiquing the people’s current entertainments.
And it was precisely this emphasis on recreative culture that embodied Ellen Key’s character—spiritual, personal, and what might be called temperate in all matters.
Thus, when someone like Mr. Honma Hisao tried to explain People’s Art solely from this angle—and did so with utter incompetence—the outcome inevitably became something rather bizarre.

V

Then, what exactly were the main points of Romain Rolland’s theory of People’s Art—the one with which Ellen Key “agreed without omitting a single word”?
Romain Rolland’s theory of People’s Art was primarily a theory of people’s theater.
From here on, I would present its main points as much as possible using Romain Rolland’s own words.

Now, the old society had passed the zenith of its prosperity and was descending the slope of decay.
Or perhaps it could already be considered to be in a moribund state.
And upon its ruins, the people’s new society was about to rise.

This newly rising class must possess its own art.
It must possess a new art: as the irrepressible expression of its thoughts and emotions; as the manifestation of its youthful, vibrant vitality; and as a combative organ against the aged, declining old society.
They must possess an art created by the people and for the people.
They must possess a new art for a new world.
If they cannot create this art, there exists no living art.
There remains only a museum—a sort of cemetery where mummies of the past lie sleeping.

There were those who spoke of People’s Art as something utterly non-partisan, infinite, eternal, and universal. This was a noble dream. Future generations, if they could achieve it, would realize it after several centuries. However, for now, we had to endeavor to place eternity within the present moment and live in step with today’s age. Art could not be separated from the thirst of its era. People’s Art had to share in the people’s suffering, their hopes, and their struggles.

No beauty, no greatness can serve as a substitute for youth or life.
Your art is the art of old men.
It is both good and natural that we, having fulfilled our mission in our twilight years and discharged our obligations of collective action, should desire impartial art, Goethe’s clarity, and pure beauty.
That is both the supreme ideal and the ultimate culmination of life’s journey.
However, those people and nations who arrive there too quickly without having achieved anything worthy of the journey are truly pitiable.
For those people and those nations, their clarity is nothing more than insensibility—that is, a precursor to death.
Life is constant renewal.
It is struggle.
A struggle fraught with all hardships is better than your beautiful death.

Tranquil eras and art were indeed a desirable blessing.
But when an era fell into turmoil—when its people rose to fight—art’s purpose became clear: to stand alongside them in battle, to rouse their spirits, to shatter the ignorance blocking their path, and to root out prejudice.

Friedrich Schiller had declared this as early as 1798 during the premiere of *Wallenstein’s Camp*:

“This new era now lifting its curtain compels even poets to abandon old roads—to wrench you from gentry-class life’s narrow confines toward nobler drama worthy of this sublime age we strive within.
For only grand themes stir humanity’s deepest core.
Now reality itself turns poetic.
Now people fight for sovereignty and freedom—humanity’s greatest cause.
In this solemn hour, art too may dare a bolder leap upon that stage where gods and demons awaken.
Art can not merely attempt this leap—
it must attempt it, lest it shrivel in shame before life’s own fierce drama.”

If art could not adapt to this era, then art—at least living art—had to perish.
Moreover, the people who could not create this new art had to abandon their destiny as a newly rising class.
Thus, the problem of People’s Art was truly a matter of life and death—both for the people and for art itself.

There are two kinds of people among the masses.
One has escaped poverty, become immediately enamored with the gentry class, and been absorbed into it.
The other has been abandoned by these fortunate brethren and writhes in the abyss of destitution.
The gentry class’s policy seeks to exterminate the latter and assimilate the former.
And our own policy—that is to say, our artistic and social ideal—lies in merging these two groups and instilling class consciousness within the people themselves.

If the people were to become a second gentry class—if their pleasures grew just as coarse, their morals just as hypocritical, and they themselves just as obtuse and insensible as the gentry—then we would no longer concern ourselves with the people’s affairs.
Art that’s loud-voiced yet hollow, or prolonging the survival of a corpse-like humanity—these were matters of no concern to us.

However, we believed in the people’s youthful vitality.
Furthermore, we believed in humanity’s moral and social revolution.

Our faith in People’s Art—that is to say, our fervent faith striving to construct a robustly masculine art that declares collective life and prepares and propels the regeneration of the race, against the indolent refinement of Parisian idlers—was one of the purest and most wholesome forces of our youth.
We will never abandon this faith.

VI

This concluded the main points of Romain Rolland’s theory of People’s Art.
However, this was ultimately an ideal.
It was faith.
Before these ideals and faith could be realized, art “for the people”—rather than art “by the people”—had inevitably to be born.

Now, art was tormented by egoism and chaos. A small number of people had made art their exclusive privilege. The people were kept away from art. The most numerous and most vital part of the nation did not possess any form of expression within art. Thus, thought had grown exceedingly impoverished, and for art, a grave danger approached.

To monopolize art as the exclusive pleasure of a single class was what led the people of the deprived class to eventually come to hate art and destroy it.

To save art, we must open the gates of life to it.
We must admit all people into it.
We must grant the common people the right to speak as well.

However, life cannot be bound to death.
Past art is already more than three-quarters dead.
Past art is of no use to life.
Rather, there is even a fear that it may harm life.
The essential condition for a sound life is that art can constantly renew itself in step with life’s renewal.

Nothing is good except in the place and era where it was born.
One may believe that goodness and beauty are absolute existences or eternal concepts.
However, their expression changes according to the modes of human sentiment.
What is beauty for the chosen people is ugliness for the masses; moreover, there are times when the desires of the masses—which hold the same legitimate rights as those of the chosen people—go unfulfilled.
It is impossible to force the art and ideologies of aristocratic societies from past centuries upon the people of the twentieth century.

The gentry-class critics often declared:
"The people will not rejoice unless it be with novels and scripts featuring protagonists from classes above their own."
"Depictions of affluent society make the people forget their weariness with poverty."
Admittedly, this might hold true while the people remain in semi-somnolence.
Yet once their emotional personhood awakens and they grow conscious of their civic dignity, the people must feel shame toward such servile art.
Moreover, it becomes the duty of those who respect the people to rescue them from this art.

The people possess things that must be far superior to gathering the remnants of gentry-class art. There is no need to strive to increase current art’s audience. We are not laboring for current art. We need only consider what benefits art and what benefits the people. To believe that disseminating current general artistic education could serve either this art or the people’s good is nothing but an arrogant optimism that must be rejected.

Our objective is not merely the good of the people.
It is also art's good.
Art expresses the greatness of the human soul.
Among all creations of the human soul—indeed, it is through this creation that life gains its worth—we worship art infinitely.

We seek to breathe vitality into bloodless art, to plump its emaciated chest and make it absorb the people's power and health.
We do not seek to wield the honor of the human soul for the people's sake.
We seek to make the people labor alongside us for this honor's sake.

In this sense, the primary condition of People’s Art was that it had to be entertainment.
People’s Art needed, first and foremost, to serve the people while also providing physical and mental respite for workers exhausted by a day’s labor.

We could not give the people the final fruits of decadent art—a poison that often harms even the indolent intellect. Let the chosen ones keep their own pain, anguish, and doubts to themselves. The people already bore more than their share of suffering and uncertainty; there was no need to add to it. Just because a pampered few relished “sucking melancholy like a weasel drains eggs,” we could not force this aristocratic intellectual asceticism upon them. Nor could we impose on commoners the diseased emotional complexities of elites—those seductive yet paralyzing fantasies festering like thick moss on rotten timber. Even if we took perverse pride in cultivating this sickness within ourselves, we dared not infect the people with our contagion. Our duty lay in forging a race stronger and worthier than our own.

The people love fervent drama. However, this fervor—whether in real life or on stage—must not be allowed to destroy Hiiroo, whom the people see as a reflection of themselves. The people, no matter how resigned or disheartened they may be themselves, are exceedingly optimistic when it comes to their idealized figure. A tragic conclusion must not be tolerated. The conviction rooted in everyone’s innermost heart—that good will triumph in the end—must be demonstrated within the drama. This is not because the people’s hearts are naive. Rather, it stems from their vitality. There is logic in the people’s conviction. This conviction is both an indispensable force for life and the very law of progress.

If that is so, are you saying that the people must have melodramas that mercilessly make them weep, only to end with a trite “happily ever after”?
Absolutely not.
Such coarse falsehoods, like alcohol, are a hypnotic that saps the people’s vitality.
They are an anesthetic.
The power of entertainment that we wish to imbue art with must not be something that sacrifices spiritual vitality.

Next, People’s Art must be a source of vitality.
The obligation to avoid weakening or dampening vitality is entirely passive in nature.
Therefore, this obligation necessarily contains its opposite—an active aspect of gaining and strengthening vitality.
People’s Art must allow the people to rest while simultaneously preparing them for the next day’s activity.

Thirdly，People’s Art had to serve as an illumination for the intellect.
We had to guide people straight toward their destination while teaching them keen observation of their surroundings along the way.
We had to spread light into humanity’s terrifying brain matter—crammed with dark shadows，folds，and phantoms.
Workers’ bodies moved ceaselessly，yet their thoughts largely lay dormant.
We needed above all else to set this thinking into motion.
When they gained even minimal capacity for such mental exertion，it became a source of pleasure for workers themselves.
Yet we dared not leave people merely trapped in states of forced thought and labor.
We refused to instruct them on prescribed modes of thinking or guidance.
Our task was making workers learn—to observe all things clearly，humankind and themselves included—and render lucid judgments.

Joy, vitality, and intellect—these were the primary conditions of People’s Art.
All other conditions would naturally fall into place.
And pious sermons and moralizing lectures—these ended up making even those who had come to love art grow to despise it; as methods, they were utterly clumsy and unartistic things.

Moreover, this type of People’s Art differed from modern so-called social dramas.
For example, Tolstoy—a modern man who had understood the common people most deeply and loved them most profoundly—despite having suppressed his arrogance so severely, could not help but be overpowered in works like *The Power of Darkness* by his fierce desire to impose upon others his mission as an apostle and his own faith, as well as the demands of his artistic realism—forces far stronger than even his immense compassion.
Such works, rather than being beneficial to the people, were in fact disheartening.
In short, such works as *The Power of Darkness* or *The Weavers* were either prolonged cries of poverty or tales of sorrow; their anxieties and despair, rather than invigorating or comforting the impoverished who were already too tormented by life’s hardships, were instead meant to awaken the conscience of the wealthy.
Or perhaps, at best, they were for a select minority among the impoverished.

VII

However, for this primarily “for-the-people” art to come to be enjoyed by [the] people and for his truly “people’s” art to emerge—first those very “people” themselves were necessary.

“Once,” said the Italian revolutionary Mazzini.
At the time, he was still young and intended to devote his life to literature.

“Once I thought thus.”
“For art to exist, there must first be a nation.”
“At that time, Italy had neither of these.”
“Without a fatherland or freedom, we could not possess art.”
“Therefore, we had to first devote ourselves to the question—‘Can we possess a fatherland?’—and strive to build this fatherland.”
“Thus, Italy’s art flourishes upon our graves.”

We too shall declare.
Do you desire People’s Art?
Then begin by first possessing the people themselves.
The people who possess a free spirit capable of enjoying that art.
The people who have leisure not crushed under relentless labor and poverty.
The people unswayed by superstitions or right-wing/left-wing fanaticism.
The people who are their own masters—the victors of this unfolding struggle.
Faust said.

“In the beginning was the deed,”

Thus, Romain Rolland asserted that, as the natural conclusion of his People’s Art, one must follow social movements alongside—or rather, even before—artistic movements.

Yet, turning to examine the proponents of People’s Art in our Japan, how much preparation and resolve did they truly possess regarding this point? Or at least, had they even truly considered this point?

Moreover, Romain Rolland not only concluded his theory of People’s Art with a theory of labor movements but also ended his theory of art with a theory of life.
He stated:

“I like theater. Theater places many people under the same sentiment and binds them together in fraternity—it becomes like a great banquet table where all may come to imbibe from the activity and passion dwelling within a poet’s imagination. Yet I do not superstitiously revere theater; it presupposes impoverished and anxious lives seeking refuge for their thoughts in dreams rather than reality. Were we happier and freer, theater would hold no necessity—life itself ought to become our glorious spectacle! But this ideal happiness retreats ever further as we advance toward it; thus we shall never attain it! Still let us boldly declare: human effort increasingly narrows art’s domain while expanding life’s sphere—or rather than confining art to imagination’s sealed world makes it life’s own adornment! For liberated and joyous peoples festivals replace theaters; life itself transforms into its magnificent display! We must prepare to usher forth this people’s festival for all!”

Wagner, the greatest artist of the modern era, also dared to say this with youthful frankness.

“If we truly had life, art would become unnecessary.”
“Art begins precisely where life ends.”
“When life gives us nothing anymore, we cry out through artworks: ‘This is how I wish things were!’”
“I cannot understand how truly happy people could possibly think to engage in art.”
“…Art is a confession of our powerlessness.”
“…Art is but a thirst.”
“…To regain my youth and health—to delight in nature—for the woman who endlessly loves me—for beautiful children—I would give all my art.”
“Come—I present my entire art here and now.”
“Give me what remains.”

“If we could give even a fraction of ‘the rest’ to unfortunate people, if we could bring even a little joy to life—then even if it meant sacrificing art, we would not regret it.”

[“*Waseda Bungaku*,” October 1917 issue]