Pathway to Japanese Literature

Ancient Studies: Preface

At this very moment when the proofs for the first volume of this work were about to be completed, my elder brother in Osaka had suddenly passed away.
And tonight was the wake.
I had withdrawn from the blazingly bright yet solemn sitting room to quietly compose this afterword.
It was to avoid rendering futile the organizers' considerate efforts—their intention to let me rest from the fatigue of the night train—that I had come up to this second floor.

When I thought about it now that he had died, my elder brother’s life seemed so terribly unfulfilled.
From a certain perspective, even half of it had been wasted for us five siblings.

From long ago, he had never understood my work.
Had it not been for my second brother’s counsel, weak-willed as I was, I would surely have been steered toward our family’s medical profession.
Perhaps by now I might have lived as an unassuming town physician, passing days untroubled by deeper thoughts.
There was a time when reading the history of Kaitokudo made me heave an involuntary sigh.
I became compelled to contemplate the paths taken by those second and third sons among Osaka townsmen of a century past—those endowed with literary or scholarly gifts.
Akinari declared this: he reviled those who acquired education mismatched to their station as being like sacrificial offerings.
Yet did not even those who hurled such contempt themselves end lives no less adrift than stray dogs?
Still, had they discovered such a path, it might have proved preferable.
Most likely, I would have passed a tedious existence—somehow perpetually dissatisfied with that manner of living.
Shuttled out as an adopted heir only to be reclaimed; given a bride only to chafe in a household where nothing aligned.
Growing aged and infirm through such repetitions, I would have become my brother’s dependent to while away the days.
A gray-haired perpetual lodger, derided by my own kin as that useless old fool.

This was not a fantasy. Here before me lay a precedent. My grandfather had been welcomed from a family of priests at Yamato Asuka's "Original Ise." Before that, there had been a son attached to the household. Having seen writings by one Okamoto Hikojirou—composed in a considerably skilled hand that departed from our house style—I found myself compelled to ponder this matter on multiple occasions. The Four Books, the Tang Poetry Anthology, Mengqiu, and similar texts—though few in number—remained as this man's practice books. Disliking the family business, he would hole up completely in the attic room—an Osaka-style second floor—when at home; then whenever the mood struck him, he would leave the house for two or three days, returning without fail having run up tabs wherever he went. Avoiding his stepmother's sharp gaze, he would not come down from the second floor for days on end. Out of the boredom during those idle hours, the scrawled copybook letters and model calligraphy he produced still remained in the storehouse of the Kizu family. In the end, having become someone long estranged, he apparently drifted down through some fate to the depths of Kumano—a place that had become unthinkably remote and backwater to the people of Osaka at that time. There, as an instructor at a temple school, he spent lonely days and eventually died—this too I had heard said. The dream-like impression of family tales heard by young ears had come to resonate with ever stronger meaning as the years passed.

There were many people who lived such unremarkable lives until a generation ago.
I feel more keenly than most the world that has come to guarantee the lives of those who make their livelihood through literature and scholarship.
I am well aware that I am even more useless than Mr. Hikojirou.
Therefore, I feel not a shred of pride in being a scholar and a private school teacher.
Yet even as I feel this way, perversely, the old townsman’s blood still dances within me.
My grandfather, my great-grandfather, and all the ancestors before them lived in suffering.
When I consider how they lived more modestly than they might have, I cannot bring myself to casually maintain scholarly pretenses like my seniors and friends.
This is neither ridiculing others nor esteeming myself.
The sighs of Mr. Hikojirou and others that dwell within my heart make it so.

Having maintained her single status and raised us to this point， Aunt Eiko Toji had also reached an advanced age.
I wished I could let her experience at least once the rapturous joy befitting an elder， yet I found myself unable to muster the will to write even something like a doctoral thesis that might sustain her hope.
What my deceased elder brother， until several years ago， repeated each time he visited home was that very matter.
Yet in recent years， even my aunt and elder brother—who could not touch the root of my melancholy—completely ceased making such encouragements or demands of me.

In merchant households—those that need not cling to tradition, as if to say "If only we could let our family's customs prevail"—resignation came swiftly.
Precisely because of this, taking advantage of my elders having ceased their stubborn insistence, my present state of existence—being unable to muster the will to satisfy those childish hopes—felt profoundly lonely.

I rejected my family’s wishes and entered Kokugakuin; for twenty years since leaving there, I continued to receive prolonged support from home.
My elder brother too seemed to have gradually resigned himself and come to await with some amusement the growth of my half-hearted endeavors.
“Since that one is of no use to society, I will look after him for his entire life.”
It seems he had sometimes spoken of such matters to close neighbors while watching over my trivial endeavors with a silent, gentle gaze.
From society’s perspective, it was truly nothing more than clinging, ignorant favoritism.
The heart of my elder brother—who had intended to oversee my entire life—now instead became something fleeting.

But it was not my elder brother alone who was lonely.
When I think of my clan and myself, I cannot help but feel a piercing cold wind passing through this hollow emptiness of heart.
My scholarship has advanced to depths where anticipating any sympathizers seems utterly impossible.
Among the hundreds of students I have earnestly instructed, has even one true follower emerged?
My hypotheses will likely remain hypotheses forever.
When will an apprentice appear to correct my flawed logic and nurture it toward better ends?
These ten years of lecturing now seem destined to conclude as mere self-conviction.
Merely novel-seeming themes, an attitude disdaining tradition-preservation—through such qualities alone have my lectures occasionally managed to secure some fleeting favor among the young.
Even my elder brother’s unreasonable partiality has ultimately come to feel like something deserving gratitude.

But still—still—there remains at least one unconditional sympathizer surpassing my elder brother who persists in this world. It is the Aunt I mentioned earlier. My very motive for deciding to publish this book arose from wanting to witness this person's joy. Therefore I intend to dedicate this first volume to Aunt. Aunt will surely demur. She will undoubtedly voice shame at the garishness of seeing her own name printed in such a book. Even before my elder brother could have conceived of such an outcome, it was something I had already contemplated. This dedication to Aunt will simultaneously serve as a memorial offering for my elder brother as well.

To repay my intellectual debts, I cannot help but think dedicating this work to Professor Yanagita Kunio would be the proper course. Yet for that purpose, I feel I must strive harder and first write a proper book. So deeply have I received the benefits of Professor Yanagita's scholarship. Through imitating his methods of expression, I endeavored to wholly absorb his learning. I swallowed his approach whole and sought to vitalize his perceptive faculties within myself. Should my scholarship possess even a ten-thousandth part of freshness and vigor, it remains but an echo of Professor Yanagita's own words. Moreover, whatever original realms or discoveries may appear in my work are merely materialized hints received through prolonged research surrounding his *Ishigami Mondō*.

So vast was the scope of Professor Yanagita’s scholarship, and so profoundly alluring did it prove irresistible.
I reflected on how fortunate Japanese Folklore Studies had been in its beginnings to count such a man among its pioneers.
And thus, though unworthy as I was, I sometimes even found it strange—this honor of being numbered among these emerging scholars as his direct disciple.
Now Professor Yanagita’s unflagging diligence continued advancing into realms beyond our reach, while new disciples joining his school multiplied ever further.
There were those who daily incorporated fresh research methods from psychological and sociological perspectives.
I myself, who had known this field from its inception, might still be clinging to primary and secondary matters.
The doctrine transmitted by the most foolish among the apostles might well constitute my approach to folklore studies.
Yet even now I had not forgotten that joy—first encountering Professor Yanagita’s scholarship with doubt, gradually coming to grasp it, then finally sensing I had found my destined path.
This gratitude remained mine alone.
Others would surely praise Professor Yanagita as founder of Japanese Folklore Studies.
In that sense, this book—though I say it with shame—was but a single forgotten myoga plant sprouting from Bandé’s grave.
Through my elder brother’s support I had lived a bleak existence devoid of glory; yet within my heart—resigned to ending like Mr. Hikojirou, a wanderer leaving no mark even in our family death register—I came to feel a shaft of light piercing through.

That was to establish new National Studies.
That was to perceive the original form of ancient faith stripped of rationalization and modernization.
The weight of academic tradition had settled upon me like an irremovable haze.
The sole method to organize this—neither philosophy nor religion—came clearly to mind for the first time.
The radiant light of Professor Yanagita’s scholarship had indeed been illuminating the path I was to take.
Not being a critic like Akinari or Moribe, I had merely harbored dissatisfaction beneath oppressive traditional knowledge.
This was why it gained, however faintly, rebounding force.
It meant reforming the system itself rather than correcting individual knowledge fragments.
My nature inclined me toward contemplating Shigetane’s dull, pervasive weight rather than those cynics’ flashing sharpness.
I realized new National Studies had to recommence from studying social human affairs rooted in ancient faith.
Though our nation possessed scholarship studying folk traditions, it remained confined to late Edo dilettantes’ half-hearted compilations.
Thus folklore studies failed to aid National Studies examining ancient life.
Rather, they sharpened distinctions between ancient and later eras.
As Professor Yanagita’s follower, I single-mindedly strove to rebuild National Studies anew.
Fifteen years hence, something resembling organized structure gradually emerged.
This three-volume *Ancient Studies* bears traces of groping toward new National Studies’ framework.

To seek out my current way of thinking from within this book would be impossible. In truth, even now, I remain troubled—for day after day, I continue accumulating these unprincipled vacillations.

The initial "Genesis of National Literature" in the National Literature Section now bears a fifth draft written atop its predecessors. Those who read the four essays must surely have been astonished. Even within the Folklore Studies Section, between "Village Festivals" and "The True Meaning of the Daijōsai," there exist shifts in thinking so pronounced I would rather not submit them for scrutiny. This paper was completed in less than half a year. Yet here we stand.

To present such truly significant hypotheses to academia might indeed be called unwise—yet perhaps also wise. For they may serve as confessional rites where one bears sin alone, meant for those scholars who affect solemn airs while disregarding conclusions. The academic traditionalists who prize cautious approaches would likely deem this work unworthy to stand beside their own scholarship. Particularly Professor Frazer—that global authority in folklore studies whom we should revere as our tutelary deity—clearly disapproves of such publication methods given his scholarly stance.

I strive to chart as steadfast a course as possible. My method involves marshaling materials to such an extent that conclusions emerge naturally, even without authorial explanation. My Professor Yanagita too employs this approach, demonstrating orderly logical pathways while frequently publishing research surpassing world-renowned senior professors in both form and conclusion. Toward such efforts I have always harbored devout envy.

Yet by temperament—as one who perceives complexity in all things, not merely favorable aspects—even when reading a single line, I sense implications anticipating manifold effects so strongly that I must underline multiple clauses. There was a time when completing an entire book demanded Herculean effort—this being when I revised my reading method upon Professor Yanagita's counsel.

And then, transferring the underlined portions onto cards was no easy task either.
At that time, my memory had not yet declined.
I, who was already a slow reader, ended up delving too deeply into the books' contents through this adopted method.
Even while continuing to read, I grew resigned to this approach that limited my volume, fretted over how the excerpt notes in my drawer failed to cover the necessary breadth, and ultimately abandoned card records altogether.
Since then, I had come to rely solely on memory's spontaneous workings and the accumulated impressions of countless knowledge fragments beneath it.
But now, as my reading impressions gradually faded, I began sensing the onset of an old age that once again demanded cards.

But stubborn as I am, I still believe.
The plausibility we establish is not our mere whims.
It is merely a presentation that does not exhaust all means of proof. The world's methods of argumentation too often amount to nothing more than a kind of artifice.
When encountering a phenomenon—suddenly recalling memories of similar phenomena, intuitively grasping a consistent logic, then lining up just enough materials to prove its certainty to organize it into academic form—is there any scholar who does not follow such a method?
In essence, it is merely the act of rendering plausibility into necessity.
Moreover, even in research that appears to have been rendered as necessity, incomplete understanding plagues the process, often leading to erroneous conclusions.
Research that has reworked philosophical speculations permitted by plausibility into empirical verification cannot always be said to reach correct conclusions.
After all, the logic contains leaps.
Fantasies that promote the fusion of knowledge and experience—yet lack real feeling—are frequently intermingled.
To us, this even appears to be nothing more than mere sophistry.

Even through the attempts of a lowly scholar like myself—emitting faint croaking breaths in the remote hinterlands of Tōkai—I perceived a vulnerability: that one could simply repurpose the evidence Professor Frazer provided and overturn the academic doctrines established by this great pioneer.
Therefore, I believed that if a hypothesis established by a scholar worthy of trust—one grounded in both the conviction requiring verification and the foundational knowledge prepared for it—maintained interpretations and logic free from error, it should be permitted to hold value within Folklore Studies.
This further necessitation could just as well have been performed either by the scholar themselves or left to later scholars.
After considering this sort of self-defense, I became able to write with relative freedom.
Yet even as I lamented growing distant from Professor Yanagita’s modes of expression—
I had maintained faith in my own aptitudes and experiences through devout significance.
Therefore, I had come to no longer regard the logic and conjectures emerging in my plan as something desolate—apart from their mere deficiency in material presentation.
Believing it was not a product of falsehood or fantasy, I strove to trace the logic born from the interplay of materials, realizations, and inferences.

Over the past thirty years, I undertook countless journeys, both long and short.
Among them all—particularly over these past fifteen years—my preparations for travel changed.
Beyond collecting folk traditions, I endeavored to intuitively grasp local life.
My memory retained elements that could not be fully captured in field records.
It remains a fact that I meticulously imprinted the ancient sensibilities transmitted by mountain village and coastal town inhabitants.
When I read books, these impressions evoked tangible realizations.
When traveling and encountering local folklore's stimuli there, knowledge associations formed in my study became imbued with tangible reality.

I believe there exists a fundamental error in the scholarly approach that attributes absolute value to unreliable impressionistic records or statistics seeking the lowest common denominator within disciplines such as anthropology, linguistics, and sociology.
Records other than one's own experiential accounts often deviate from truth, becoming akin to secondhand citations.
Those based on numerical data prove too simplistic and approximate when applied, despite being easily governed through categorization.
Comparative study is not merely about positioning phenomena and objects within a single framework for comparison.
One must possess the intellectual capacity to correctly perceive relationships among these diverse phenomena.
The degree of this comparative ability determines people's scholarly value.
Therefore, one must first create a foundation—beyond mere innate talent—that acutely and painfully evokes true realizations.
Moreover, it remains crucial to train this ability whenever opportunity arises.

Within comparative ability existed both assimilative and differentiating capabilities.
These were: the tendency to intuitively perceive similarities and the capacity to immediately sense differences.
The ideal was for these two capabilities to fuse perfectly，but such was not how matters unfolded.

It seems I am deficient in this differentiating capability.
I quickly recognize similarities，but differences do not strike me clearly.
I have a tendency to readily equate phenomena.
I often worry whether this has introduced fallacies into my reasoning.

"The Art of Rogues"
The observations I developed beyond these—concerning Buddhist prayer dance performances—held for me the certainty of established theory, yet remained difficult to convince others.
I believe this explains why I received protests mingling smiles and grimaces from my closest old friend—a young compiler of official histories who maintained rigorous scholarly standards.
This stems from my lack of skill in explaining points of difference.
When examining literature and surviving forms of Tōka court dances, Shushi rituals, Dengaku field music performances, and Chinkasai festival dances, one finds abundant elements that became components of Buddhist prayer dances.
Particularly through comparing firsthand observational experiences, the commonalities between field music performances and Buddhist prayer dances grew conspicuous, causing traditionally assumed distinctions to fade within my mind.
It became apparent that the origins and interactions of Buddhist prayer dances and related sects lay in rituals like the Flower Calming Festival, Gion Spirit Festival, and field music performances.
Yet the state of their branching and society's basis for discriminatory perceptions remained nebulous.

It was indeed a fact that in modern field music performances, processionals resembling Buddhist prayer dances and group dance styles were principally employed. Within Buddhist prayer dances too, one found elements seemingly transferred from field music Noh performances—imitation Kyōgen farces—as well as village processions and house-praising eulogies being performed. Shushi-lineage field music performances aimed to achieve standardized attire—carrying wooden clappers, wearing dengaku drums at the waist, and uniformly donning rush hats—whereas in miko field music performances, these already differed. The forms of village field music performances and monk field music performances appeared to differ even when examining old paintings. They rubbed bamboo sasara scrapers, hung large drums overhead, and wore what appeared to be regular festive attire—some donning conical hats, others tying headbands. When it came to monk field music performances, they replaced the large drum with a gong hung high due to its weight, and it followed naturally that they danced by blending the demon-exorcising Buddhist prayer dances of the Flower Calming Festival—a rice field ritual—with the rice-field-blessing field music performances.

In Shushi-lineage field music performances, arts such as magic and acrobatics that had become essential components were no longer performed even in regions preserving the formal field music style.
Performance arts that forgot acrobatics had already shed their elements as field music.
In the field music of Enshū's former Okuyama village—where performers wore Koowaka-style costumes without using clappers or scrapers—they still maintained acrobatic forms while performing Dengaku Noh plays (incorporating many Noh elements) forgotten elsewhere.
Near Hakushu Daisenji Temple in Hōki Province—the regional stronghold of Shushi Dengaku—the shrines of southwestern Izumo performed group dances resembling Dengaku variants through umbrella-and-banner processions, yet called these Buddhist prayer dances.

In such village field music performances, those Buddhist prayer dances from ancient times that were performed as specialized arts by the nenbutsu holy group came to incorporate folk ballad dances and Kyōgen farces in accordance with contemporary tastes; when these transformed into forms featuring miko shrine maidens as protagonists, they became the new Buddhist prayer dances represented by Okuni.
Because it was a Buddhist prayer dance, performers qualified as miko shrine maidens first had to dress in the manner of holy men’s dances as a prerequisite for commencement; thereafter, they performed numerous folk ballad dances derived from miko dances.
Moreover, in Kyōgen farces—reflecting the expansive stylishness of contemporary trends—they came to create Kabuki arts.

The relationship I inferred from the similarities between field music performances and Buddhist prayer dances was this complex; yet when attempting to demarcate boundaries—even concerning existing examples alone—I found myself unable to make definitive assertions.
All the more when spanning the medieval and early modern periods did I struggle to bring into clear focus any tangible ability to discern essential differences.
Even when discerning complex commonalities between literature and performing arts, my capacity to reduce these to their simple, original separate forms remained deficient.

I traveled to Okinawa twice. And thus, moved by the tangible reality of the island's traditions, I wrote several papers chronicling the joy of discovering ancient Japan's form. The majority of them are included in this book. Even among my good traveling companions, there were those who had already grown weary of my approach to Southern Islands research, alternately offering admonishments and mockery. When it came to differences, during that time I had only just identified a single essential distinction between the Okinawan language and Japanese. In the similarities of grammar and vocabulary as well, there was no consensus matching the established linguistic theories of scholars both domestic and foreign—this was the fact. The two languages had diverged too early. The differences between the unique organizational systems that subsequently developed and the increasingly complex central Japanese language were too great. That the languages shared a common lineage was an undeniable fact, but I alone had come to demonstrate the unexpectedly vast distance between them. The method by which roots were converted into parts of speech differed first and foremost. What particularly suggested an intimate connection—the similarity in verbal forms—had in fact been revealed to demonstrate that these developed after their separation. The reason why the two modern languages shared numerous similar elements lay in the fact that those aspects of Japanese utilized for records, literature, and aristocratic lexicon became incorporated into a grammatical system of equal structure, where they were permitted to undergo unrestricted transformation. In this manner, I considered the era of Japanese-Ryukyuan divergence to be of extreme antiquity. I had come to regard as precarious the assertion of common ancestry based solely on linguistic grounds.

However, regarding other folk traditions—particularly faith practices—the differentiating capability required to doubt the preservation of our ancient lifestyle patterns has yet to awaken. Research that fails to distinguish between essential homologies and accidental correspondences is fundamentally flawed in its foundations. While the folklore of India and Arctic Asia may prove useful for comparative studies and developmental arguments, when considering our ancestors' ancient way of life, they serve merely as supplementary materials prompting reflection. For folklore studies, this method must inevitably be trodden. However, in ethnic folklore studies as a subdiscipline of Folklore Studies, primary materials must be positioned ahead of comparative materials. My Okinawan research, from this standpoint, has not yet lost its power to evoke a tangible sense for ancient studies.

During my time at Kokugakuin University, I spent four years wishing to learn Korean. After receiving initial guidance from Professor Honda Son, I was granted the special consideration of Professor Kanazawa Shōzaburō. Regarding Korean, I had considerable confidence. As graduation approached—though only for a brief period—I also attended night classes at the Mongolian Department of the Foreign Language School. It was due to Professor Kanazawa’s stimulation that I developed a passion for national language research based on the comparison of Oriental languages. From Professor Kindaichi Kyōsuke, who was still young at the time, I received guidance in Ainu grammar; however, this endeavor somehow never came to fruition. This was likely because it had been treated merely as a short-term exercise. While postponing my Ainu language practice, I gradually came to realize that my obstinate bias against foreign languages was even impeding my retention of these Oriental tongues. As a result, even the Ainu language ended up being out of reach. But the lectures on Ainu grammar revived through this professor’s fresh sensibility, along with our discussions, were filled with so many implications that it was nearly impossible to resist their compelling pull. Common folkloric elements that sporadically occur among tribes and societies of the primitive era—in the case of the Ainu, as indigenous people of eastern Japan where the extent of ethnic interaction remains questionable—cannot avoid requiring particularly meticulous attention.

At that time, I had developed a profound interest in the literary history of ritsu literature. Regarding the buqū of imperial reciters, beyond the Koshiden chronicles, there had yet to be any definitive descriptions or studies. On one occasion—at a lecture commemorating Dr. Shigeno Yasutsugu's publication of Comprehensive Studies in National History, an event imbued with particular significance—when I first heard about the imperial reciters from that venerable elder celebrated as an Iconoclast, I became convinced that an indisputable theory concerning these buqū's duties had been established. Simultaneously discovering that poetry had existed as a guiding force in our ancient society, I could scarcely contain my exhilaration. It was I, animated by such fascinations, who first learned from the Professor about the Ainu yukar epic songs and their reciters known as yukar-kur—thereby obtaining the sole material for inferring the lives of imperial reciters. Later, I would come to know that similar traditions had existed in ancient European nations. Gradually, I had created nothing more than a hypothetical outline of Japan's imperial reciters. Over the subsequent twenty years, something resembling substantive content finally took shape. Documentary evidence nearly completely overturned previous hypotheses about the reciters' duties and social standing—hypotheses founded on naive comparative methods. Yet my studies of antiquity remain largely rooted in efforts to give concrete form to those very hypotheses.

Therefore, I do not believe myself to be entirely devoid of tangible understanding regarding the folklore of the Korean people and various ethnic groups of the continent. However, for establishing the foundation of ancient studies toward a new National Learning, even the customs transmitted among the Han Chinese people of Korea and Southern China—undoubtedly part of what shaped ancient Japan—prove precarious to me. Above all, while the separation of frequently intermixed later elements remains incomplete, I cannot muster the courage to attribute the ancient customs documented in texts concerning the Izumo and Tajima peoples to modern Koreans or Southern Han Chinese. Moreover, in fact, such changes had occurred.

However, if one were to reside in those lands and deepen such tangible understanding, what should be separated would be separated, and one would likely acquire the primary materials for ethnic folklore studies as desired.
For my own scholarship, at present, I must remain limited to seeking out significant comparative materials from those countries.
As one who has never set foot in those lands, I naturally have no choice but to adopt this approach.
For now, I will do what can be interpreted through Okinawan folklore, while awaiting the day when I may fully utilize the folk traditions of Korea and Southern China.
The scope within which I can effectively utilize literature is limited.
However, I am resolved not to employ comparative materials that exceed my comprehension in a haphazard manner.

The index Mr. Hataku Ikutarō created for my book will likely prove no more effective than this very volume's own index. For I have merely animated commonplace materials—unworthy of citation by new researchers—through my personal insights. Though it feels impertinent to draw comparisons, my scholarship shares this trait with the Kojikiden of my great predecessor Motoori Norinaga. That work's index was so thoroughly employed by the Elder of Suzunoya using readily available materials that it remains inapplicable beyond serving Kojikiden itself. Consequently, quotations from that text have grown less useful than even Norinaga's own writings. Ban Nobutomo maintained exemplary scholarly rigor, yet his remarkably extensive materials still await full utilization. Even those who never question conclusions drawn from Norinaga must caution against adopting such an uncritical approach. Nobutomo's methodology stands established as a standard for all scholars to follow. Yet in our present age, where Norinaga's hypotheses have been gradually materialized by later researchers, none dare challenge their plausibility. More troubling still, even the Elder's numerous hypotheses born of flawed reasoning now pass as established theories. Simultaneously, many of Nobutomo's objectivity-rich conclusions have themselves come to require revision.

Each person has their proper place.
As long as one does not view research methods as the final stage of inquiry nor consider methodology to be the ultimate destination， one cannot exclusively prioritize formal argumentation—even when it incorporates precision with enlightening significance.
Between philosophy and science， there should exist a distinct new empirical school grounded in the fusion of lived experience and phenomena.
One is static knowledge；the other is lived experience.
At times，both possessed vitality.
What binds these two together is lived experience.
Naturally，one had to employ methods distinct from those used in researching extinct phenomena that could not utilize such empirical approaches or in attempting to substantiate elusive temporal phenomena through quantification.
In my research，cases where fantasies were dressed in objective clothing proved relatively few.
The tangible insights gained while observing folklore or reading books often evoked impressions from memory，thereby providing me with logical starting points.
While pursuing that logic，I synthesized the knowledge that had naturally coalesced.
Only，I remained ever cautious to ensure this method did not go astray.

I, who avoided materials that could not be felt alive, had increasingly come to fear with each passing year those methods that attempted to substantiate folk documents and past existences through comparative studies based on scant knowledge. In cases where I explained worldwide archetypes of legends, I could feel at ease. But when dealing with elements that existed as part of real life, I had to take into account convergences between India and Europe. I could not adopt a method that inferred the place of origin or original meaning from external similarities in folklore. So much so that it embarrassed me—my thoughts were always wandering throughout this country.

Even if there existed documents showing that itinerant puppeteers had spread across East Asia and reached as far as the Korean Peninsula, I did not believe this directly constituted the origin of our country's kugutsu—a people who favored the written characters for "puppet"—as their source. However influential shamanism might have been in the East, I lacked the courage to consider Japan and Okinawa's ancient shrine maidens as its branch. The time when that could be believed was precisely when I myself became able to substantiate it—a time when one could freely utilize abundant materials. Beyond cases with fully established lineages—such as pagodas deriving from stupas or bread being learned from Westerners—even the established theory that the word "temple" was a foreign loanword, along with etymologies like that of "Buddha," had to initially be met with skepticism. Unless someone provided abundant materials as Professor Frazer had done, I thought that merely listing excerpts from a few documents would render even basic comparative studies precarious. Herein lay the reason why my field of vision remained narrowly constrained.

If there is anything I can look back upon without shame, it is the method of etymological interpretation. In eras when only orally transmitted poetic texts endured, the understanding of linguistic usage remained perpetually fluid. Associations operated without constraint. The fixation of a word's meaning occurred only after its language had achieved significant development. What later generations consider etymologies possess a relatively systematic logic. Etymological theories taking such period usages as their starting point contain fundamental errors at their foundation. The transformations in form and content from that earlier unconstrained age were never properly examined within established transitional frameworks. When contemplating the emergence of grammatical categories and syntax, we persistently imagine some perfected state.

In this volume, I discussed how terms such as minuma, mizuha, mirume, minume, mitsuma, hinuma, and hirume underwent changes in form along with shifts in content.
Moreover, only the term mitsu—referring to sacred water and the places where it is used—broke free from the folk etymological view that interprets it as containing an honorific prefix, ultimately giving rise to the distinct word tsu (津).
Such a process cannot be conceived from the perspective that takes tsu—津—as the original word.
Even mitsu—prior to becoming sacred water—is considered to have undergone several semantic shifts.

Even regarding the word *hana*, we assumed it had originally represented blooming flowers and rationally theorized its etymology. However, prior to that usage, people had already employed it to signify omens. As phenomena indicating agricultural abundance, they named things blooming in fields and mountains *hana*. Observing how omens proved transient, later generations repurposed terms like *hana-mono* and *hana-ni* to describe fragility born of unpredictability and unreliability. Moreover, from recognizing these as markers of sacred objects—thereby expressing principles of divine prohibition—they developed usages such as *hanazuma* to denote that which eludes physical contact. When examined thus, traditional theories explaining the *hana* word group's etymology through botanical origins demanded reconsideration. The true etymology of *hana* remains elusive still. Yet tracing further back, we find it once served as submission marks adorning sacred attendants' heads. What began as oath-swearing rituals to land spirits became abstinence markers for shrine priests and maidens. This progression suggests offerings and spirit dedication predated even omen usage.

My scholarship arose initially from a profound love for language, and thus cannot be said to lack a tendency to govern folk customs through natural language analysis. At one time, I stood at a perilous precipice. Yet I came to understand the proper relationship between etymological inquiry and folklore's emergence and development. Therefore, by using linguistic decomposition as preparation for comparative examination of folklore, I came to observe whether folklore too followed the sequence of linguistic development. However, since ancient life was preserved solely through linguistic transmission and permeated real life as a model for later generations, it finally became clear that etymological research considering ancient folk etymological views constitutes an indispensable method for studying folklore.

However, even among cognate languages—particularly those deemed deeply related—applying them readily to ancient language studies remained a perilous labyrinth. Though the term *ugona ari* had been actively used in Okinawa's early modern period and still survived in the Sakishima Islands, I could not believe it identical to the norito prayer term *tsudomatsururu*. In its manner of survival, I had to first sense its unnaturalness. It was not inconceivable that norito prayers had been adopted as models for reforming omoro methodology. Among these noble shrine maidens serving as court ladies, there were traces of the Manyoshu, Kokinshu, and Genji's language being employed interchangeably with modern Japanese. In the incantations chanted by such people, terms from norito prayers had likely been incorporated. In islands where incantations transformed early into folk songs, there appeared examples of such Japanese archaic terms being spoken within folk songs. Within the court language and omoro terminology collected in the Konkōkenshū collection, I had to consider that many had undergone such processes. If elements originating from regional folk songs had become conversational language, they still proved difficult to utilize as research materials. Rather, there were cases where I needed to identify structural equivalencies as cognate languages from elements lacking striking external similarities and put them to use. With my close friend Mr. Iha Fuyuu, I intended to continue accumulating collaborative research on this point.

My methodology for ancient language research stood as follows.
Though this may sound like a shameful manner of expression, in approach it remained rigorously academic; through a methodology attuned to ancient logic, I believe it forged a path to extract primordial forms from constructs rationalized long ago, thereby uncovering deeper etymological strata beneath apparent word origins.
I maintain that the accumulation of such individual studies would guide us toward proper comparative research of cognate languages.
I think it permissible to consider that those who doubt my research on our national language are precisely those who lack my singular methodology.
First and foremost, I would have those people read my essay titled "Ethnic Logic Manifest in Ancient Life."

The standpoint of my research perpetually inclines toward genesis.
This standpoint was extended and began to unfold its development.
I consider this approach to be the most suitable method for inquiries into the history of national literature and performing arts.
From the advancement of form and content in literature and art, one can also elucidate the interactions between the masses and individuals, between ordinary people and geniuses.

My approach also incorporates a perspective that traces back through eras in reverse.
This is the method of folklore studies.
Simultaneously, when examining the history of literature and arts, one must frequently alternate between these two approaches—forward and reverse.

At times, my narrative appeared to neglect chronological order.
This too constituted the fundamental distinction between folklore studies and history.
In folk traditions, phenomena transcending both place and time were frequently observed.
Particularly on the whole, it remained far from rare for elements that had perished a hundred or thousand years prior to be preserved within isolated regions.
Such traditions served to elucidate ancient life.
Though the processes through which literature and performing arts emerged and developed might sometimes correspond to specific regions and eras, there proved particularly numerous cases where they persisted in unique individual forms, independent of such influences.
As this narrative synthesized these remnants, the impression of eras and years inevitably grew faint.
When discussing kusemai medieval dance-dramas, it sometimes proved advantageous to explain the form of shirabyoshi women's dances through reverse deduction from Kōwaka traditions.
To demonstrate the path by which Kōwaka had differentiated from the Senju Manzai kusemai tradition, one needed first to elucidate the duties and status of chanting masters.
Furthermore, one was compelled to clarify the intertwined state of chanting masters and Yin-Yang masters.
Unless one explicated the ceremonial praises of Tōka dances, no resolution could be reached regarding a fundamental cause underlying the Senju Manzai performing arts.
Even when uniformly termed kusemai medieval dance-dramas—though their content shifted across eras—there persisted regions where transformations remained minimal.
This chronological intermingling stemmed partly from deficiencies in my narrative method, yet also inherently from characteristics residing within the methodology itself.

The person who first organized this book into its present form was Professor Imaizumi Tadayoshi of Kokugakuin University, who continued attending my lectures from my earliest days as a "temporary substitute lecturer" at Kokugakuin.
Though it may seem odd to mention in this context, I must note that my passion for folklore studies was frequently kindled by the pure hearts of this person—along with Mr. Tanigawa Iwao and Mr. Takasaki Masahide—during their student days.
Next, I must express gratitude for the pains taken by Mr. Yokoyama Shige and Mr. Hata Ikutarou in their devoted compilation and organization of my embarrassing writings.
I particularly wish to reiterate my gratitude to Mr. Hata Ikutarou for compiling the index to this disorderly collection of writings.

Throughout the three volumes, transcribed oral accounts are intermingled in considerable numbers.
In this regard, I have relied considerably on the assistance of my friend Mr. Kitano Hiromi.
For that magazine—transcribing my lectures and discussions while adhering to yet departing from my troublesome thought processes, rendering them comprehensible to most people—this act of friendship I deeply appreciate.
Without such support, I, for one, would hesitate to publish.
There are also two or three instances where I troubled Mr. Miyanishi Koretaki during his time as a Kokugakuin Magazine reporter.

In older times, I have the presumptuous memory of imposing on Suzuki Kintarou of our household along with Mr. Ihara Usaburou the oil painter, Mr. Mizuki Naoya, Mr. Ushijima Gunpei, Mr. Mikami Eito, and Mr. Imaizumi Tadayoshi—making them handle transcriptions and rewritings.

In recent times，I borrowed lectures from Mr．Sodoyama Tomikichi，Mr．Koike Motoo，Mr．Kobayashi Kin’ichi，Mr．Mukoyama Takeo，Mr．Okamoto Sadanao，and others．There were some taken by stenographers as well，but particularly those that were inadequately comprehended，incompletely expressed，and had become overwrought in quality．It was because Ookayama encouraged me，saying it would be best to compile even such materials for the time being，that I ultimately resolved to do so．

Now that time has passed, I find myself recalling—with abrupt clarity—those immature arguments I should have left unpublished and those mortifying phrases I wish could vanish.
I humbly ask that you overlook [these] with general sympathy.
What is excessively shameful, I fear may paradoxically create the impulse to rewrite them someday.

Though this work spans three volumes, I must apologize for its numerous instances of carelessness. In particular, there are many cases where photographic plates meant to elucidate the text have been inserted without their essential accompanying passages, leaving readers to question why no explanations exist for these images. Such images were what stirred the author's mind during publication. Though materials bearing varying degrees of relevance to one of the two volumes had been prepared, passages corresponding to those images ultimately failed to materialize—or through some miscalculation—were inserted into entirely unintended locations.

The reason for including numerous photographs of taku trees lay in an attempt to demonstrate that: the sacred trees at Tokoyo-gami's landing sites and those believed to have been transplanted there, along with plants bearing the name sakaki, did not constitute a single species; and that ancient sakaki—as far as current understanding permitted—referred to tropical trees called taku or tabi transplanted from southern seas. In particular, I considered whether a variety referred to as cinnamon taku might have been the primordial form that first came to be extolled in song for sakaki's fragrance. In particular, I wanted to present the firsthand experiences I had gained during my two trips to Noto. The photographs on this side were all taken by Mr. Fujii Haruhiro.

The stone statue of the Eight Hundred Year Nun presented in the frontispiece of the Literature Volume was discovered four years ago during New Year in Izu Inatori's Reifu district and had been placed between what appeared to be the Householder Head's Sai no Kami and a female-form Sai no Kami holding open a ledger within the same volume. This deity statue now seems to be regarded by even local people as nothing more than "Sai no Kami." However, the handheld plant borne on the left side—which at first glance resembled a lotus—could only be identified as a camellia based on its leaf shape. As a sculptural monument to faith in the Eight Hundred Year Nun—of which I knew no other surviving example—I felt profound joy at this discovery. Later I found myself compelled to publish what I had requested Mr. Hozumi Tadashi of Ōni, Izu to photograph. Though the creator of these three photographs omitted their name, I wish it recorded as Mr. Hozumi Tadashi's work. This renewed my recollection of his student-day report on 'Izu no Sai no Kami' faith presented to the Local Studies Society. Modern versions have all become Householder Heads, their distinction from Jizō-sama apparently erased. I had wanted to trace how this female counterpart became linked with the Eight Hundred Year Nun. The camellia too had been a sacred tree since antiquity, serving as ritual foliage and staffs for deities presiding over market festivals—the tree sacred men and women brought from mountains to conduct village requiems. Though the mountain goddess wielding its branch became Yamanba while faith in the immortal Eight Hundred Year Nun developed, camellia remained as ritual foliage. The sasanqua blooming in winter's end was the original plant designated by the camellia character before being replaced by what we now call camellia. This faith's contrasting aspects—taku along coasts and camellia in mountains—found expression through photographs titled "Taku and Camellia Grove" in Folklore Volume I.

The primary reason for selecting the Eight Hundred Year Nun lay elsewhere.
The literature constituting the divine narratives of wandering priestesses traced an unbroken thread from the ancient Maritime Clans—or perhaps the Mountain Clans—through later *kugutsu* and *hokai* performers, extending all the way to the modern era.
From the categories of blind noblewomen and song diviners there emerged the lives of Buddhist prayer nuns and itinerant singers.

Centered on the Eight Hundred Year Nun, these karmic narratives formed a long chain.
In that book where I devoted effort to expounding the origins of Japanese literature, this approach seemed appropriate.
At that time, I had accumulated attempts in the history of national literature by establishing a methodology that set its focal point on oral texts, reaching a point where I began to feel some measure of confidence.
To express this attitude, I could not help but consider this approach the most fitting means.

Once again, this volume opens with images of taku trees.
The photograph I had identified as best visualizing the relationship between sea-borne deities and sacred trees towering over coastal cliffs arrived belatedly, making its inclusion unavoidable.
The image of Mikawa Kitashitara's mountain village—taken by Mr. Hayakawa Takataro—was meant to evoke both the lives of mountain ascetics performing Flower Festival ritual dances and their environment.
Those grim ancient masks from Buddhist prayer dances were included because I wished to contemplate primordial forms of nenbutsu performance through my visceral reaction upon seeing them at Mibu Temple.
For both my discussion of Buddhist practices in "The Evangelistic Origins of Literature" within the Literature Volume and my analysis of kyōgen—particularly kabuki kyōgen—emergence and differentiation as works containing latent implications, I borrowed materials from Chiheisha's Folk Art Photo Collection.
That photographs fail to convey chromatic unpleasantness remains an inevitable limitation.
The Okinawan section contains my haphazardly taken photographs intermingled with works by Mr. Mikami Eito from our second expedition.
The Iki Island images were likewise selected from my own photographs.
Only one picture postcard reproduction was included.
Mindful of regulations governing newly designated military zones, I withheld even personally cherished images.
Puppet theater photographs and engravings came from materials Mr. Kitano Hiromi compiled for his Puppet Theater Special Issue.
Among these appears a field sketch by Mr. Miyara Tōsō.
Though I had photographed those nenbutsu practitioner dolls myself the prior year, I obtained permission to reprint these superior examples.

Mr. Yokoyama Shige harbored—if I may call it such—a deep affection for my scholarship from the very depths of his heart. At times he would let me overhear through indirect channels what he claimed were whispers of praise about me. There were not just two or three occasions when I wished to vanish from existence. Moreover, I sensed there existed one or two sympathizers who watched my footsteps with tranquil gazes. Yet indulging in such pleasant solace would swiftly turn pitiless. Each time I encountered these matters, I found I still retained enough resolve to return to pious devotion. Therefore, I felt particularly remorseful about publishing such a work from Ōokayama. Nevertheless, yielding to those generous hearts that welcomed even this, I ultimately persisted and brought three volumes to press. Particularly this volume contains many fragments that would inevitably lack cohesion even if called an essay collection. Manuscripts I continued writing as if dreaming still remain abundant. However, if I were to speak of writings that had finally attained some measure of comprehensibility, this alone would qualify.

It was not with any eagerness for worldly recognition that I published this work. With a desolate heart, I wish to write something better. I want to produce a book carrying fewer regrets. This I firmly believe. Yet at present, I could only offer these meager achievements in requital for Ōokayama's kindness.