Pathway to Japanese Literature

A considerable number of years passed since Professor Yanagita Kunio discussed "sō ya sakai ni."
The very fact that no counterarguments emerged against this theory—precisely because it was so groundbreaking—signified that the scholarly community deeply accepted Professor Yanagita’s dialect theory.

At this late hour, I felt there was no need to continue writing about the “sō ya sakai ni” theory—once regarded as representative of the Kamigata dialect during a certain period. However, given that they had now reached a definitive conclusion regarding this term, I believed it would be prudent to append such a postscript when compiling these theoretical writings. Thus, from Professor Yanagita Kunio’s perspective, these were sections he would naturally have rewritten given the time—and so I, being more idle than the professor, had resolved to humbly undertake this modest task of appending them. So to speak, it was the most wretched of continuations—a dog’s tail appended to sable fur.

I, who came of age in the very epicenter of this term's most concentrated usage, wished for those outside our circle—people like Professor Kindaichi Kyōsuke—to behold this gratitude nurtured through receiving such profound benefit from Professor Yanagita Kunio's research. This sentiment, I believed, would naturally meet with Professor Yanagita Kunio's gracious approval.

*sakai ni*; *sakai de*

The term *soya sakai*—or *sō ya sakai*—that served as the primary clue for words in this lineage was, needless to say, derived from the worn-down pronunciation of *sō ja*, which itself had originated from its most complete form *sō de aru*.
Therefore, setting that aside as beyond our current discussion, it sufficed to examine the forms *sakai ni*, *sakai de*, and *sakai*.

Among the three forms of *sakai*, the one most predominantly used was *sakai*.
The other two forms—even *sakai ni*—were no longer employed as they once had been.

Among these, *sakai de* was the first to fall out of popular use; however, in modern Jōruri and novel literature, it had been employed so frequently that it could nearly be regarded as standard language.
Of the remaining two forms, *sakai ni* came to be imbued with a classical sensibility even among those who used it today, no longer conveying the same immediacy as *sakai*.
Unless some extraordinary circumstance were to arise in the future, its lineage would either vanish with *sakai* as its boundary or else undergo a great phonological leap—or so it seemed to me.
—Such a perspective had become established.
One reason for this was that forms such as *yotte*, *ni yotte*, and *yotte ni* had already been gaining considerable momentum for quite some time prior.

The 'sa' of *sakai*

Regarding the 'sa' in *sakai*, from a simple etymological approach, one could isolate and analyze it as deriving from the structure "...ja kara".
The 'kai' that resembles a sentence-ending particle was unquestionably rooted in 'kara'.
This much remained beyond dispute.

Though differing in meaning, many forms within the yori/kara lineage—while retaining their original structure—were frequently employed as kai.
Here, the functional similarity between kai and sa/sa ni (where sa ni originated from sama with the particle no appended) proved instructive.
Even beyond *Ukiyoburo*, it fascinated how Edo’s kara and Kamigata’s sakai—which would instantly occur to anyone contrasting the Kamigata and Edo dialects—shared striking proximity in their etymological foundations.

Professor Yanagita Kunio, upon reaching this point, had presented a rather noteworthy opinion. While everyone initially considers *sakai*’s *kai* to belong to the lineage descending from *saha de aru* above it—those of the *ja* type—one might also consider from the perspective of intonation whether what we call this “*sa*” had been inserted as an interjection.—he has demonstrated something arising from such a fresh sensibility. If I am not mistaken in my hasty understanding, might it not be that Professor Yanagita was considering how these emotive interjections—which have repeatedly emerged with vigor in the Japanese language family since ancient times and deserve to be classified among such terms—frequently manifest themselves within or between words in this manner? This is what I venture to imagine.

This way of thinking suggested an entirely new and beautiful structure; at the time, we truly felt as though a great deliverance had been revealed in the interpretation of the Japanese language. In other words, it is the fact that within the legal/ritual texts enumerating ancient languages, they appear—without regard to meaning—as if they were interjectory phrases.

Grammatically, they held no significance, but emotionally, such a necessity seemed to have existed. If I may be permitted to take an example akin to my personal view—"Sasanami ya Shiga..." terminological examples such as “Hashikiyoshi waga omou kora...” and “Sasanami yo.” “sono Shiga” “How dear! That younger sister” In the manner of “sono imōto” (“that younger sister”), it appeared that linguistic relations were understood differently between ancient times and the medieval period—we interpreted this as belonging to the category described above.

In other words, “there is… that which arises from it” and “to do… that which underlies it”—it was this interpretive method, one that accounts for such nuances in linguistic feeling, that I had been able to learn from Professor Yanagita Kunio. However, as time passed, I came to realize that certain views on honorifics I had long privately harbored had organically matured within me—and that upon this foundation of Professor Yanagita’s interpretive examples regarding *sakai* and *sakai ni*, a different sort of intellectual beckoning had arisen.

In other words, it was a mode of understanding that had seemingly emerged from Professor Yanagita’s line of thinking—a function akin to an inserted particle for emphasis, which posited that an emotive quality had come to transform the honorifics embedded within verb stems.

Why did it come to take such a form? This too stemmed from how—as Professor Yanagita himself had once remarked—his line of thinking must forever remain merely a hypothesis, an approach that over time had come to provoke my own unease.

The Aspiration for Dialect Refinement

Our conclusions differ considerably, but this approach concerns dialects that others beyond Professor Yanagita Kunio have also examined.
People would say things like “Aizu’s *mosa*” or “Kishū’s *noshi*,” and those who used such dialects were often ridiculed.
*Mosa* is an interjection or sentence-ending particle derived from *mawosu*; it cannot be called a simple rustic archaic term.
It is a "servile term" imbued with a refined consciousness and linguistic playfulness—a contracted form of *mōsu* ("to say humbly") that carries decisiveness and frequently appears at sentence endings as *mosa*.
This [*mōsu*] grows even more rustic through flexible yet polite mood conveyance in its endings, while forms demonstrating broader phonological shifts across regions emerge as *namoshi* and *noshi*.
This lineage appears particularly conscious of distancing itself from the domain of *masu* and *mosu*, its phonology specializing into forms like *nashi*, *nanshi*, *nonshi*, and *namo*.
If I have not mistakenly misapplied Professor Yanagita Kunio’s methodology here, I would consider myself fortunate.

Be that as it may, while constituting a differentiation of *mawosu*, it did not follow the expected continuative form but instead had a tendency to attach to the terminal (attributive) form.

This, needless to say, was conversational honorifics (or polite language),

*ikimōsu* → *iku mosa*

*shimōsu* → *shimosa*

Furthermore,

*ikimōsu* → *iku noshi* (< *iku namoshi*)

*shimōsu* → *suru noshi* (< *suru namoshi*)

This tendency of not attaching to the continuative form but instead following the terminal/attributive form represented what we might call a leap method in dialect grammar.

Modern honorific language had been encroached upon by conversational honorifics, significantly narrowing its own domain.
And thus we had even come to perceive what might be termed intermediate expressions between honorific language and conversational honorifics.

The prime example of these is *masu*, though it was never originally honorific language.
Of course, what was employed in ancient and medieval times clearly does not belong to the lineage of *wasu* from which *imasu* derives.
Yet there remain numerous instances—particularly those emerging from *Kyōgen*'s frequent usage (as notably seen in *Kyōgen* itself)—where antiquated honorifics appear preserved through misconceptions regarding *masu* (< *mawosu*).

Among the fixed forms of *mawosu* rendered as *masu*, what strikes one as particularly anomalous in structure belongs to the Iwate Prefecture region—

*itta-masu*

a notable feature in its connection to "...ta" forms such as
When examined through historical grammar, "*ikimashita*"
corresponds to *shimashita* ("did"), with such inverted expressions likely being perceived as aligning with standard language norms.
From the perspective of expressive morphology, it assumes a form encompassing the polite versions of "shita" ("did") and "itta" ("went").
Contemporary rural speakers—indeed, even we occasionally use—"itta desu"
“shita desu”
doubtless both recognize this pattern and employ it themselves.

Particularly for rural residents of the Edo period—especially local leaders—one of the objectives in adopting the standard language lay in their belief that by introducing honorific language and conversational honorifics, they could render their regional dialects more refined.
The efforts accumulated toward this objective far exceeded what we today might surmise.
Among many honorifics and polite expressions, there were numerous cases where they merely conveyed an emotional significance, their original meaning having been forgotten.
Consequently, it became commonplace for polite language to be mistaken for honorific language or for honorific language to be misapplied as polite language.

Honorific Language and Polite Language

The fact that *mosa* and *noshi*—originally sentence endings of polite language and conversational honorifics—strayed from their role of tempering moods to instead be deployed as emotive expressions clearly attests to this historical trajectory.
In other words, for regional people who had previously required only minimal engagement with honorific expressions, distinguishing between such varied distinctions as "self-effacing phrases," "honorific language," "meticulous conversational speech," and "emotive expressions that loosened feelings" must have been no easy task.

Rather than saying what was once orderly had become disordered, it would be more accurate to state that attempts at systematization had stalled midway, only to lapse back into disarray—persisting even when employed to their limits without ever clarifying distinctions. As we might expect, the applications of honorific language and similar terms rarely aligned neatly with the realities of regional people in antiquity.
Time passed with errors remaining uncorrected—they persisted as accepted forms, only to have new errors compounded upon them through continued usage.
Among these, particularly notable were those concerning honorific language and conversational honorifics (polite language).

The cause behind the alternation between the classical honorific *masu* and its modern conversational counterpart that began in modern times also stemmed from such confusion.

They appeared to have emerged around the same time as *masu*, yet developed separately to form a category that remains in use even today.

desu (deisu, densu, dosu, dasu)

*asu* (*yasu*, *yansu*, *osu*)

Following these, slightly later, *gesu* (*gasu*/*gosu*) also emerged.

The question of whether the 'su' common to these terms stems from a single origin or whether similar elements naturally converged, thereby increasing their similarities over time, is not easily resolved.

Among these, *desu* could be regarded as a "servile term" without issue, and moreover, it might reasonably be viewed as having emerged quite early.

*Asu*, likely appearing around the same period [as *desu*], first gained currency among women—particularly those skilled in employing court women’s language—before gradually spreading much like *desu* did among men. As a feminine term, its ostentatious kabuki-like quality (rendered with the characters for “floating” and “kabuki”) aligned with contemporary tastes; showy yet dignified, it appeared to have expanded into use as an expression possessing a certain refinement.
And in modern times especially, this refined consciousness present at its inception seemed to have gradually deepened.

*su*

Even if one were to claim it emerged from a society of men and women who reveled in carefree, indulgent lifestyles during the early modern period, there could be no mistake that it was this group bearing 'su' at its endings.
The particularly conspicuous one among these was the aforementioned *asu*.
In essence, when *aru* (or *ari*) combined with *su*, it formed a structure like *asu*. This *asu* then compounded with *de* to become *de asu*, which through vowel duplication (*de asu* > *de yasu*) underwent phonetic shifts to yield *deesu*.
*desu*
It appeared that through *densu* as an intermediate stage, rather deliberate phonetic differentiation had occurred, yielding forms such as *desu*, *dosu*, and *dasu*.

The pathway of this *desu* differentiation closely resembled *gosu* (*gonsu*), *gasu* (*gansu*), and *gesu*. Even among major cities that prided themselves on standard language—or within any single metropolis—there existed those engaging in linguistic affectation and the overly free lexical selections of early kabuki troupes. Was it not precisely for this reason that excessive phonetic ornamentation came to be practiced? The gosu-type terms—though some among them were quite ancient—might be said to appear as a novel linguistic development due to their differentiation occurring so recently and branching so rapidly within an extremely limited scope, compounded by the many forms that diverged late.

The observation that elements of the *desu* line may have already emerged by the end of the medieval period—though of course this medieval period is viewed as concluding with the Muromachi period—is not entirely incorrect.

Though they may sound markedly dialectal, they nonetheless remain preserved in colloquial-style records, while simultaneously constituting Kyoto language based on late medieval dialogues known as "Kyōgen theater language."
But regarding individual words, we can only say that many lack definitive period attribution.
However, Kyōgen—for a time—had been regarded by mainstream scholars as works written in what might be called the standard language of the Muromachi period.

In other words, these were scripts created from spoken dialogues of the Muromachi period that had reached Kyōgen's formative stage.
Taking these as a foundation, oral texts refined to some degree were further recorded, becoming Kyōgen scripts that underwent repeated performances.
One might presume only a very few among those numerous Kyōgen plays preserve what could be called the unadorned original form of Muromachi-period records.
However, in most cases where scripts underwent repeated revisions, even if Muromachi prototypes remained intact, neither structure nor terminology could possibly stay unchanged.
Among these, we must account for those frequently revised works containing unexpectedly numerous alterations made deep into the Edo period.
To put it another way, while they might qualify as pseudo-classical compositions crafted with meticulous care, the individual terms used in Kyōgen do not constitute—contrary to scholarly fancy—pristine Muromachi-era archaisms preserved unchanged.
Among them, expressions that could be termed standard Kyōgen vocabulary remain notably scarce.
Therefore, even if the actual fixation period of each script came later, one might reasonably argue there's no impediment to viewing their lexical scope as fundamentally archaic.
Yet while this holds true conceptually, practical examination of individual terminological instances reveals considerable chronological leaps.
Thus even regarding *desu*, its emergence as Kyoto-area slang and subsequent proliferation in Kyōgen may not belong to what's called the earliest script era.
This concern applies not solely to *desu*-lineage terms but manifests widely enough to warrant systematic attention.

There seem to be people who believe that the *asu* contained within the stem of *desu* originated as an abbreviation from *asobasu*. Whether the honorific *asobasu* transformed so straightforwardly into the conversational honorific *asu* remains problematic.

*sōrō* *sō*

The approach that regarded etymologies as single origins was still believed at the time.
However, when viewed against factual evidence, this single-origin approach proved in many cases to be mere fantasy.
While meaning could indeed be established through the primary etymology, it was through the accretion of secondary and tertiary etymologies that a word’s definition crystallized.
There were words whose etymological perspectives remained unestablished; nevertheless, beyond what might be termed their primary roots—while incorporating other interpretive layers—they continued to be used and evolve.

I believe that viewing *su* as emerging from *asu* is correct.
However, from a certain period onward, other etymological perspectives indeed began to intrude and proceeded to clearly erode the primary etymology.
The history of *sōrō* (候) was long, but it had been considerable time since the samurai class adopted it into the standard language.

The transformations of the dialogue particle *sōrō* appeared in the kouta of the Kanginshū anthology and Kyōgen kouta, as well as in prose within Kyōgen plays.

This was quite worth considering.

In *kouta* songs, one found instances of "...su".
"...su yo"
"...suyono" existed, and paralleling this, "...soyo"
there emerged "...soyono".
It went without saying that there could be no doubt *soyo* and *sōrō yo* derived from *sōrō*; however, in *kouta* songs and Kyōgen plays, people had generally interpreted these as *sayo yo* ["indeed so"].
“Indeed”
Everyone seemed to have interpreted it as meaning “Sō yo no” (indeed so).
The act of perceiving things in this way was likely more pleasant for people of that time as well.
The term *saburafu* (候) had two words with similar pronunciations.
Besides *sōrō*, there existed a lineage derived from the proper noun “Saburō.”
Though their natures differed, they continued to run parallel in stylistic terms.
The fact that both personal names and *sōrō* followed exactly the same path—from *saburo* > *sō* > *sō*—was quite intriguing.

In documents thought to be from the Muromachi period, the fact that *soro* and *sō* appeared in greater numbers than *su* and *suyo* could be inferred to stem from their having retained a quality perceived as closer to standard language—this being why even in song lyrics and Kyōgen plays, *su* and *suyo* remained scarce except in markedly informal expressions.

Brothel district speech

The Yoshiwara speech of Edo retained its archaic forms even into the Shin-Yoshiwara era.
The belief that this demonstrated the historical lineage of old pleasure quarters constituted the pride harbored by these brothel districts.
The various brothel houses of Yoshiwara—having gathered from their respective provinces to form a single quarter—were said to have preserved regional customs in their households while particularly maintaining local dialectal terms unmodified in their speech.
This linguistic phenomenon may have led them to autonomously develop what might be termed *kutsuwa no fuokuroa*.
The courtesans' terminology consequently exhibited regional variations that served as distinguishing features of each establishment.

This tradition likely contained elements of truth up to a certain point, while the life events of women in each household preserved a special style that was largely similar with minor variations.

However, this was not necessarily limited to Yoshiwara alone.

In the brothel houses of Kyoto's Shimabara and Osaka's Shinmachi as well, similar phenomena could be observed, and in other regional old pleasure quarters throughout the country's provinces, this appears to have been regarded as a characteristic feature of households that prided themselves on their traditional prestige.

Even when observed in Edo, things similar to Yoshiwara speech were used in other pleasure quarters as well, and in unlicensed brothel districts known as Okabasho, similar special terms developed.

Sharebon and certain kibyōshi appeared from one perspective to pride themselves on wielding such language with particular flair.
These linguistic phenomena likely arose both from natural variations emerging within small brothel districts' daily life and from transplanting universal aspects of Yoshiwara speech.
One example:

nansu (nanshi = light imperative form) — namasu... honorific language

*zamasu* (*zāmasu*)... conversational honorifics

...ansu (omowansu/ikansu type)... honorific language

...insu (ikinsu/minsu/shimansu)... conversational honorifics

……insen (ikinsen)……negation

Among those listed above, *nansu* was a contracted form of *nansansu*, having likely evolved through *nahansu* in its development.
The ansu-type suffixes—seen in forms like ...su—appear to have been widely employed as “common easy honorifics” beyond those brothel district terms listed above, likely representing dialectalized forms of ancient through medieval-era expressions like *ikasu* (“to go”) and *omowasu* (“to think”). However, I cannot definitively assert this.
The contracted forms along the same line—*ikassu* and *omowassu*—created through gemination persisted in Edo as honorifics among craftsmen and townspeople, though I cannot conclusively determine these originated as brothel district speech.
What might be termed “palace speech”—unexpectedly used by higher classes—seemed to have flowed into the city streets and trickled down from those of status to lower-class people.
This might well be designated “regional entertainment language.”
Terms such as *ikinsu* and *shinsu* (or ...iisu), in parts of Yoshiwara and as Okabasho speech, typically employed *ikiisu*, *ikinsu*, or *otsuseisu* (“to say”); particularly with *insu* (“*ikinsu*,” “*arinsu*”), these appear to have been thought to express the pleasure quarters’ distinctive atmosphere.

*Insu*, *ansu*, and *zamasu* arose from intentional or licentious pronunciations of *gozarimasu* that caused phonological erosion, appearing to avoid the sincere impression conveyed by *gozarimasu*. First shedding "go," then mispronouncing "ri," they ultimately eradicated it. Recently under different circumstances, identical changes came to be observed in the same words. Women of the upper-middle class and above seemed compelled to manifest class consciousness, through which they inadvertently revived this phonological phenomenon. This constitutes what is termed "*zāmasu* speech." It derived from *gozāmasu*. This development likely arose from persistently emphasizing the 'za' [sound].

Among these types of brothel district speech, I had presented some examples of honorifics and polite language; however, even regarding proper nouns and other words, various peculiarities were practiced. But I will not touch upon that now.

The issue here lies in the distinction between *ikansu* and *ikinsu*, particularly in the case of *sakai*, where the latter reveals numerous implications. The *su* in expressions such as *ikansu* resembled the long-standing honorific suffixes discussed earlier; or perhaps, as a temporal trend, one should view it as having incorporated special phonological elements such as *ikaāsu* and *omowaāsu*. I had tentatively avoided the theory positing *ikansu* as an archaic form; however, in instances where honorifics like *ikasa su* ("to go," hon.) and *omowasa su* ("to think," hon.) came to be pronounced as *ikashiyansu* and *omowashiyansu* through the addition of contracted sounds, one might observe what could be termed a long-term survival of conjugational patterns—a temporal characteristic of grammatical usage.

However, this could ultimately be said to have preserved—even in later eras—the distinctive features of what might be termed the conjectural form lineage within honorific language.

At present, though forms such as *ikansu* ("to go") and *omowansu* ("to think") appear nearly identical in structure, we must here address examples like *ikinsu* and *minsu* that differ in meaning.

This “su” was clearly honorific language—that is, polite language, specifically the “su” of conversational honorifics. Therefore, forms closer to the original such as “ikiisu” (to go), *miisu* (“to see”), and *shii su* (“to do”)—as seen in constructions like “…do not know” and *toriisen* (“will not take”)—were clearly used stemmed from a clear awareness of their etymological origins, standing in contrast to *shinai* (“do not do”) and *minai* (“do not see”). When one said ‘mīsen’ while maintaining a consciousness of polite language in mind, what was being said became clear. In such aspects could be observed both the Edo residents’ profound linguistic introspection and the manifestation of their pursuit of linguistic amusement in daily life.

Petitionary request – Imperative form

In this regard, what similarly demonstrated sensitivity to honorifics in conversational contexts was Kyōgen theater language from an era generally predating this period. Particularly in light commands—or to rephrase, the "petitionary request" form—such as *kikashime* ("to let hear").
"If you find it disagreeable, let us cease."
"Show it to me."
In expressions such as *kokoesashime* ("show understanding"), we could observe this phenomenon. The expressions developed such a disparity between their original significance and practical usage—to the extent of being phrased as casual imperatives like "...do for me"—that the terms themselves came to be employed in a softened manner. It could be said that such terms, as practical usage, contained a remarkably refined and gentle sensibility. In reality, such terms were being exchanged precisely among classes of people who did not use such elevated standard-like language. It might be termed the fictional standard language of Kyōgen theater. Therefore, in later periods, terms of the *shime* lineage became isolated as Kyōgen theater language and likely ceased to remain prevalent in regional dialects.

While I believe various classifications exist for Kyōgen theater language, the mode of speech centered on *sōrō*—beginning from ordinary conventions and employed in dialogues—constitutes stage language proper to Kyōgen: dramatic terminology characterized by a straightforward manner of expression. So to speak, it was a missive of samurai etiquette—one used on highly formal occasions encompassing both celebratory and inauspicious events. The manner of speech found in communications from court presenters and messengers came to be perceived as actual everyday language through their conventionalized use as stage terminology.

Rogue vernacular

Therefore, as dialogue became informal, sōrōbun terms diminished.
When actions and expressions took center stage and emotions more akin to live theater than scripted drama emerged, the language became liberated.
When it came to quarrels, arguments, or everyday interactions, Kyōgen language came vividly alive with striking expressiveness.
In this section, the realistic language of that era emerged.
That was not “sōrōbun language.”

However, there was another peculiar phenomenon in Kyōgen theater language.

The popular terms of that era—considered refined language though in reality they were not—contained within their supposed refinement both the idiosyncrasies of Kyōgen theater language and a particular historical trajectory.

People accustomed to using fashionable expressions—those inhabiting such an atmosphere with their seemingly sophisticated speech—employed within Kyōgen terminology phrases that in truth lacked genuine dignity.

This misconception, I believe, stemmed from our longstanding tendency since earlier times to imagine that Noh and Kyōgen performers led lives far more tranquil, harmonious, and elegant than their actual existence as artists.

Their lives proved far more licentious and unconventional—nomadic in nature, often verging on lawlessness, at times mirroring exactly the lives of people from various outcast communities.

Even confining our view to Kyōgen alone, its plays naturally depicted amidst contemporary fashions such figures as self-indulgent daimyō and samurai, water-soaked ruffians, and those who abducted married women or led dissolute lives.

Such images of those indulging in extravagant luxuries equally reflected their true selves swaggering unashamed through society.

The language they themselves used chased after urban trends.

We can still discern today from what manner of existence the defining characteristics of Kyōgen theater language emerged.

Kyōgen theater language

(Hakuzōsu’s lines) Today, having certain reasons, I humbly request guidance—[From *The Fox-Trapping* onward, per the 300-play collection.]

(Crowd’s lines) “Having all agreed, we humbly come forth—” *Yakusui*

If literally translated, this would resemble saying "...the thing that was done is" in modern Japanese.
However, "su" differs from "desu".
“...I beseech you humbly!”
“...I come forth sōrō yo” resembles a correct literal translation.
The “te” attaches to the continuative form of the present perfect auxiliary verb, followed by “su” inserted as a conversational honorific, with “wa” (わ) added as an emotive suffix.
Moreover, this “su” clearly originates from sōrō.

Nevertheless, emerging from an even older stratum of classical language, it gave people the impression of something that had persisted until the late medieval period.

Though the *su* in *asu* and *desu* differed fundamentally at their roots, one could not call it erroneous to argue they were identical.
This constituted the true nature of etymological inquiry.

As I had just noted, while the significance of *tesu* remained clear—even when compiling such examples—*desu* had come to resemble it ever more closely.
Yet through this intermingling of disparate perceptions—through such lines of thought—we might broadly conclude that *tesu* and *desu* were terms flourishing concurrently during the same era: expressions bearing an uncanny polite sensibility while being thoroughly naturalized among unprincipled users.
The speaker would first make others acutely conscious of their own elevated status, instill in their counterpart a sense of being treated as an equal or superior, yet could simultaneously harbor an undercurrent of disparagement.
Save for exceptional circumstances, these served predominantly as first-person narrative predicates.

"I am an archer in plain view" (*Yugao*)

"I am a daimyo in plain view" (*Kashima Mōde*)

In the case of desu particularly, Kyōgen performers would enunciate it with such strained articulation—pronunciations like deesu—that tugged at our sensibilities. They produced utterances like deasu that unsettled etymological assumptions. Yet these could not definitively be attributed to Kyōgen's standard classical pronunciation.

desuru masuru

Izumi Kyōka would often juxtapose characters using old and new speech forms in his novels, striving to delineate their contrasting personalities and lifestyles through linguistic differences. He surprisingly frequently imbued rigid speakers with obstinate, unenlightened souls. Particularly in *Fūryūsen* and *Zoku Fūryūsen*, he created a social reformer named Mr. Ōyama—the sole character who persistently spoke in archaic dialect. This Mr. Ōyama employed deesuru with relentless consistency. Meanwhile, Kanazawa's educated class were made to use desu as their intellectual badge. This great hypocrite alone was denied the common desu. Kyōka must have deemed this antiquated dialect fitting for expressing an exceptionally grotesque and obstinate spirit.

To the extent we have understood, we know of no examples where *deesuru* preceded *desu*—though it possesses considerable historical depth—but Mr. Izumi utilized the *desuru*/*deesuru* forms that developed in a particular region during the period leading up to their Meiji-era standardization as expressions worthy of weighty significance.

In our considerations of the relationship between standard language and dialects, have we not perhaps been surprisingly inattentive to the presence of this superfluous “ru” attached to the terminal form endings?

We cannot help but wonder whether the term “…*mōsuruni*,” which frequently appears in theatrical language and gives an impression of formalized expression, should be regarded as isolated words with similar forms yet distinct meanings, or whether there exists some coherent rationale connecting them.
The use of *mōsu* as *mōsuru* cannot be dismissed as unrelated.

In the *masu* derived from *mōsu*, we have observed that *masuru* is particularly numerous. Was it truly a matter of whether this was not the terminal form but the attributive form, whether “masu” was correct, or whether “masuru” should be categorically denied—did no one wish to reach a definitive conclusion? Here too, for convenience, I will examine examples drawn from Kyōgen theater—a rich repository of older usages.

“Is there a Japanese interpreter here?”
“Ado humbly presents this.”
“Chinese Sumo”

“Jirō, from this point onward, (I) shall humbly present (the turtle) to you by means of…” [From “Urashima”]

Of course, there is also *masu* used in similar ways, but this does not mean that the two *masu* forms become confused with each other. Moreover, the logic remains consistent. But no matter how thoroughly we examine them, both of these two *masu* forms are not honorific-system *masu* at all—they belong rather to *mōsu*, being what we might call "*masu-ru*." Just as *deesuru* carries an archaic quality while sounding steadfastly earnest in one respect, *masuru* likely imparts a scrupulously honest impression of polite formality.

*masu masuru*

There was likely such a connection between *mōsuru* and *masuru*. As a tendency of that period, people likely employed such dialect-like forms—tediously verbose and even sounding obsequious. They considered this to be an extremely scrupulously expressed terminal form and were presumably satisfied with how it profoundly deepened the sense of politeness. Through *kuchikamijō*, they must have felt they could fully heighten this scrupulous formality. While the aforementioned misunderstanding between *tesu* and *desu* was not entirely absent, there had been fundamentally no etymological connection between them as root forms. The particle *de* derived from *nite*, while *te* had merely attempted to become an auxiliary verb or its conjunction form. Thus in each case, the meaning became consolidated and preserved within *su*. Honorifics and conversational honorifics had after all been in opposition since astonishingly ancient times. Therefore, their confusion had not originated from the very outset. There existed inherently oppositional natures from their inception; manifestations of inverted characteristics relative to one another would emerge. Opposed forms resembled each other in structure yet developed differing inflections at particular points. Among these, inverted honorific forms like *tamafu...tamafuru*, *tamafure*, and *tamae*—practiced from antiquity through the medieval period—came to clearly distinguish contexts concerning others (particularly nobles) from those regarding oneself. This approach facilitated semantic changes with ease and diversity, but later generations ceased to value harnessing this abundant inversion functionality for shaping linguistic expression. Forms where honorifics and conversational honorifics no longer opposed each other—forms clearly reduced to one side alone—proliferated increasingly. From this, people grew less sensitive to distinctions between honorific usage and polite usage, resulting in numerous cases where the foundational significance became unclear.

su

The honorific conception of *atafu* became *tamafu*, and when expressing “being given” politely, it was respectfully rendered as *tamaharu*. Another such inversion came to oppose one another in considerable numbers. This complexity would either lead people to naturally discard one of the two existing forms and unify them into a single form, or—since longstanding customs found a single form insufficient—retain both while rendering them indistinguishable except in tonal nuance.
“*masu*”
Should we say that *masuru* too remained solely for the satisfaction of such sentiment, with any actual distinctions having vanished?

“I shall humbly take my leave.”
The 'te' in 'an'ai o kōte su wa' posed absolutely no problem as a continuative auxiliary verb—whether phrased as '...ide sōra wa' or 'an'ai koi sōra wa'—hence 'makari-idesu'.
“I shall humbly depart.”
“Makari-idesau” and other forms—whether appending *su*, *so*, or *sau* (all carrying the meaning of *sōrō*) directly to verb stems like “ide”—amounted to the same thing.
In the case of “Guidance…”, it was naturally the same.
That is, if one removed the accompanying elements, it became “*idesu*.”
as in "kōhisu," "ikisu," and "misu"
They belonged to the *nasu* category.
This *su* had of course been employed early on as a general conversational honorific, yet its users did not necessarily consider it entirely distinct from true honorifics; there were instances where they blended both into a single entity, conflating their nuances.
In actual usage, through their innate sensitivity, they clearly distinguished between these two types.
That said, once these elements became intricately intertwined, they could not help but cause confusion.
This too had numerous examples in Kyōgen theater.
Indeed, in actual conversation, such instances must have been innumerable.

sakai suken

The honorific *su* often originated from archaic honorific forms, and in Kyushu—where many regions preserved honorific conceptualization—there remained numerous elements that had not been lost.
For example, while other regions employed various expressions such as “ikinasaru kara” (go [honorific] because), “o-iki da kara” (go [polite] because), or “ikatsushiyaru kara” (go [humble] because), the Kyushu dialect used “ikasukeni”
When one heard *“ikasuken,”* one’s ears truly felt cleansed.

“Starting tomorrow, since you’ll be Captain-san…” — from the novel *The Walker*

This was an example from the Kumamoto Yamaga region, but such usage generally held true throughout Kyushu.
Author Kimura Yūshō, a native of Yamaga Town, had dozens of usage examples of forms like *ken*, *suken*, and *sukende* in works written as if depicting Yamaga.
*Ken* derived from *keni/karani* (=*kara*), with its foundational elements being "*kara*" (reason) and "*ke*."
“Because you do”
What corresponded to honorific “nasaru kara” was “suken,” meaning *su* and *ken* were not necessarily closely bound together.
Nevertheless, as a tendency of Kyushu dialects, their application of honorific language even where unnecessary—and to situations not requiring honorifics—had given rise to a disparaging treatment method.
This should be termed a “light honorific,” a category where honorific-style forms like *ikiaru* (“to go”) and *toriaru* (“to take”) transformed into *Yukiyaru* and *Toriyaru*, evolving further into modern dialect variants such as *Toriyoru* and *Yukiyoru*.
Therefore, this *su* demonstrated an extremely minimal degree of respect and even appeared employed merely for conversational flexibility, yet it had not fully transformed into polite language—that is, conversational honorifics.
To be precise, *ken* was *keni*, and these two were often used in parallel within the same regions.
They proved most prevalent in Chūgoku and Shikoku but occasionally appeared in far-flung areas.
Had *keni* undergone transformation to become “*ki*,” or had it started anew from “*kai*”? We found *ki* forms in places like Kōchi, Tokushima, Kaga, and Noto.
This likely belonged to the *keni* lineage.
There existed a distinct *sakei ni* considered a term that emerged later in Kyoto.
This was presumably a variant form derived from *kai ni*.

When considering the transmission routes of dialects, such phenomena could be contemplated within honorific lineages.
The scarcity of honorific language, polite language, and humble language in their own dialects made regional people feel disadvantaged, and incorporating these elements became one of the major policies in dialect reform.
Therefore, conversational honorifics containing particularly reflective psychological elements came to be actively incorporated.
The development of such emotions was a natural path characteristic of what might be called the feudal era.

sakai shike

As I mentioned earlier, with *suken*, the junction between honorific language and particles appears clearly and mechanically. However, even if their chronological sequence remains unclear, terms whose etymological origins have become obscured through natural and harmonious blending still exist in dialects—terms that at first glance appear to have been formed earlier than *ikasuken*. When considered from Tokyo, it conversely appears almost as if they are pushing out from the Ōshū region and attempting to enter. However, such a statement cannot be considered factual. From such a perspective—in nearby areas extending into Niigata, particularly reaching its Shinano border, prevailing in southern Nanbu within Ōu while existing here and there as linguistic enclaves—we find precisely *suke*. When viewed through distribution history, it cannot be seen as something that persisted in partial concentrations centered on Ōshū. These forms not only survived along dissemination pathways from the center but also underwent phonological differentiation and folk rationalization in various regions—a distinctive mode of preservation. The *shike* found in Aomori and parts of Niigata should be seen as demonstrating such forms.

In any case, between the unified dialects of *suken* and the lineage of *suke/shike*, not the slightest difference could be seen in their morphological organization.
If we were to identify one point of difference, in Kyushu dialects honorifics had clearly entered as honorifics—or more accurately, as light honorifics—and their function remained fully intact.
In Echigo and Ōshu dialects, not only had any consciousness of honorifics been lost, but even the semblance of significance in that particular aspect had become impossible to discern—a condition in no way different from that of Kamigata’s *sakai*.

Foundation of Honorific Perspectives

It could only be perceived as something resembling an ancient interjection or inserted character/phrase.
The nearest association lay in the "jiya" (modern "ja") that Professor Yanagita had noted.
If we extended our consideration to include elements of the da and de aru lineage, one might even sense potential for further development in that direction.

Those unaccustomed to honorific usage in regional dialects would gradually lose any semblance of honorific or polite speech after incorporating standard forms into their linguistic frameworks—or perhaps they had fundamentally lacked the cultural foundation to adopt such honorific sensibilities.
Yet through repeated practice of these incorporations, it remained undeniable that regional languages gradually acquired an air of cultivated refinement overall.

Even if one uses honorifics precisely as honorifics, it cannot be said that the custom of honorific language matures within people's hearts.
Even in regions where *sakai*—combined with *kai* and *su*—was used, the emotions implied by phrases like “because you do” or “because you did” never arose among people from start to finish.
However, we must consider that in some regions, they softened the linguistic substrate by approaching it through the perception of conversational honorifics, gradually becoming integrated.

The Lingering Standard Language

The "sakai" and "sakaini" centered on Osaka
What one perceived when surveying *sakaide*'s past and present was that, in terms of honorific lineage's linguistic sensibility, it appeared to represent an attempt to imbue one's speech with refined elegance and sweet emotion.
This likely diverged from its original purpose, yet even here lingered discernible traces of the rationale behind this term's intrusion [into usage].
Regional culture hinted at possessing considerable sophistication through this phenomenon.
We sensed this sensibility permeating the linguistic substrate within regional dialects across the land.

Prior to *sukai* advancing toward Tōhoku, the Kamigata *sukai* had likely already transformed from its original *sukai* form and adopted the phonological shape of *sakai*.
It is precisely because forms bearing an uncanny resemblance to extremely ancient classical language survive as dialects outside unexpected regional documents that, since antiquity, the very existence of dialects—imbued with classical significance—has captured scholars’ attention.
The literary knowledge we trust astounds us on one front while also obscuring our wisdom.

In central regions and areas presumably most susceptible to central influence, *sukai* maintained an appearance of not even fleetingly revealing itself.
This constituted the astonishing reality in the history of the dialect particle *sakai*.
So to speak, like a once-sown seed that over time sprouts as an isolated bud—in such manner that it appears utterly disconnected from its antecedents—it emerged as if discovering virgin soil.
But in reality, words as words had continued appearing unceasingly upon the earth's surface.
Our documents had merely closed their eyes and stopped their ears.

They had not completely erased all traces, but presented an appearance of having been buried from the surface. This constitutes the documentary reality of dialects. Yet they continued surviving and maintaining their vitality—appearing to have died out even in oral usage, only to become strikingly conspicuous with time's passage. There existed three modes of dialect manifestation: documentary attestation, rare usage, and frequent usage—yet the latter two remained unheeded. Only secondary growth forms emerged conspicuously. But within the realm of dialects, this held nothing astonishing.

The forms connecting "kara" and "su" were not "iki-su" or "omohi-su", but rather "iku-su" and "omofu-su".
(e.g., iku-su-kara, omofu-su-kara) had to be used—a strong grammatical perspective on kara that led to forms like "iku-kara".
They desired forms resembling *omou kara* even for *iku su* and *omou su*.
What created forms like *sukai* and *suke* was the construction of patterns like "terminal form + *su* + *kai*", bypassing the intermediate *su* that lacked deep semantic significance—or had been forgotten.

It is thought that thereafter, the intermediate sound “su” in such a position was gradually drawn closer to “sa.” In other words, wouldn’t this be the natural conclusion—that the phonetic quality of *sukai* was drawn toward this [sound], became something closer to *sakaini*, and gradually shifted in that direction? When, with the passage of time, the manner of perception had changed, even the *sukai* that remained scattered in distant regions would naturally have manifested the nascent elements of *sakai* that had been nascent from the start and transitioned into the stages of *sake* and *sakei*—this seems reasonable to conclude.

In regions where we observed the distribution of *sukai*, *suke*, *shikai*, *shike*, and *shiki*, even when *sakai*, *sake*, *sakee*, and *sakaide* emerged, it did not necessarily mean they subsequently flowed anew from Kamigata.
The same phenomenon had occurred even more prominently in Kamigata—the very birthplace of *sakai*—and this was worth bearing in mind.

As I mentioned earlier, some dialects had not completely disappeared but had instead greatly declined over a certain period.
And then, due to some motivation, they experienced a significant resurgence.
This is an example found not only in dialects but across language as a whole.
That which emerges bearing a long-established style is folk song.

What the ancient history of sakai leads us to realize is that among all currently surviving distributions of this dialect, there exist instances which cannot be definitively claimed to have first appeared as sakai only after sukai had spread.

I felt there was some deficiency in materials, but reasons for this exist.

Resurgent Linguistic Vitality

The sakai of Kamigata regained its vigor during the mid-Edo period, and it is said there had already been an earlier era of prosperity in more ancient times.

Similarly, in some regions during the heyday of *sukai*, there seem to have been places where *sakai* first appeared in those areas. And this compels us to recognize that it likely represented a new import from Kamigata—. That vigor does not stem solely from the capricious nature of dialects or their tendency to assert themselves through haphazard spontaneity. The primary reason this phenomenon attracts attention lies in how the *su* and *sa* of *sukai* and *sakai*—as dialogue honorifics—evoke only a soft flexibility reminiscent of honorific acclimation, while in dialect grammar, they appear to have left no discernible traces anywhere.

In the form of the Kyushu dialect combining *su* and *keni*, and structurally between what matured from it—though appearing as a belated development—and *sakai*, which fits neatly into that framework as demonstrated by *sukai*, there likely existed this lineage of dialects that richly conveyed honorifics, conversational honorifics, refined speech, and self-deprecatory forms through its nuanced sensibility.
The absence of what ought to exist likely hints, through *sakai*’s history, at the pre-modern era that went undocumented in literary records.

*yotteni* *yotte*

Though the geographical reach where *sakai* was used could be called extensive, from when elementary education became widespread in the Meiji period—and subsequently as middle education began flourishing around the 30th year of Meiji—the selection of standard dialects intensified, and the tendency to avoid *sakaini* and *sakai* grew markedly stronger.
This simultaneously marked the point at which *yotte* gained momentum.
The grammatical interactions between *yotte*/*yotteni* and verbs like *suru* (to do), *yuku* (to go), and *omou* (to think) were dialectal in nature, but since phrases like "...ni yotte" carried a tone reminiscent of colloquial classical or literary Japanese, a tendency emerged to favor constructions like *suru yotte* and *yuku yotte*—leaning decisively toward *yotte* itself.

At the height of the Meiji period, when the Kamigata dialect first developed self-awareness as a distinct regional speech, this selection emerged from precisely such circumstances.

Consequently, *yotte* came to exist atop *sakai* and *sakaini*, and above this, *kara* came to gain influence as “Edo-tsuko.” From this we may infer that prior to the mid-Edo period, *sakaide* had been dominant for *sakai* as well, but later, as it became simplified into *sakaini kara sakai*, it moved toward desiring a suffix-like form akin to *kara*.

“Go *yotte*.”
“*Iku yotteni*” equates to “*iku sakai*.”
The fact that their grammatical structures remained identical even down to *iku sakaini* demanded careful attention.
To put it simply, one might say Meiji-era regional language education steered dialects toward selecting either *yotte*—which most closely resembled *kara*—or else *seisei sakai*.
Moreover, one could recognize how *sakai*, *yotte*, and *kara* all attached equally and completely to terminal forms.
Therein lay precisely where dialects’ hidden movements emerged.

Dynamics of Dialect Elements

This morning’s storm did not seem to be a storm, was it not?
The sound of the Ōi River’s rapids, was it not?
(*Kanginshū*)

The water froze—or so one wondered.
The Minato River dwindled, verily.
We too, in our solitary beds, found our bodies wasting away, verily.
(Ibid.)

Dialects fluctuated yet never perished, resurging when conditions favored them—whether these represented instances where thoughts became etherealized, lingering at the lowest strata of consciousness; or cases preserved without significant change over long years; whether semantic nuances shifted considerably while grammatical structures endured largely unaltered through time—given that such matters remained insufficiently clarified, it would have been prudent to hesitate before simplistically assuming that forms like *yukisukai*, *yukusakai*, and *yukushike* directly succeeded expressions such as *yuki-su*, *omohi-su*, and *tori-su* even in Edo brothel district dialects.
But to remain overly timid in this manner was to allow the flow of scholarship to grow thin.
The form became the *hosori-su* of *hosorimasu* and *hosotte imasu*, yet the etymological awareness of *hosori sōrō* had not been lost.
Even if forms like *nageni su* themselves did not survive in dialects, one might still recognize here a continuous grammatical thread that persisted.
This was the intangible yet visible chain of continuity inherent in grammatical history and the history of the national language.

To this *su* are attached the *kai* of *kara*, *kara*, and *karani*.
Considering the attachment of *noke*, *keni*, and *ken* presented no inconvenience whatsoever; moreover, words of the same form such as *sukai*, *shikai*, and *suke* still remain abundantly in dialects today.
The fact that *sukai* relates to *sakai* remains logically coherent—provided one does not hastily assert their order of formation.

*sukai*—having lost the sensibility as a dialogue honorific—is none other than the closest blood relation to *sakai*.
In this manner, simply stating that "*sakai* emerged" would generally suffice as an explanation—and one not likely mistaken.

The *sa* of *sakai*, the *su* of *sukai*

Even what might seem the inevitable argument that *sakai* and *sukai* differed in their grammatical connective relations within surviving contexts could be resolved so effortlessly through phonological change that the issue practically vanished. While this may indeed have been factually accurate, considering that *sakai* emerged from an organic grammatical structure still left some room for explanation.

The phonological change theory (*sakai* < *sukai*), burdened as it was by a weakness that rendered organic elements inorganic, remained preferable to avoid if possible. Moreover, as previously noted, if one considered eras predating *sukai* and *sakai*—periods when both *sa* and *su* forms had been used without semantic distinction—and traced back to when *sakai*, *sukai* (or perhaps *shikai*) were in common usage, their development through organic phonological shifts appeared plausible. Even within the Muromachi period itself, the remarkably fluid phonological changes observed in plainspoken academic terminology—seen in Buddhist institutions inheriting Kamakura-period traditions and later Confucian commentaries—suggested we might anticipate discoveries beyond our expectations. The resolution of *sakai* and *sukai* would naturally follow from such considerations.

The living state of spoken language, seemingly recorded by chance in works like the *Kanginshū* and Kyōgen plays, temporally connected directly to the era of commentaries.
But here, I had to proceed with due consideration of limits.

There was a danger of extending *sakai*'s history nearly infinitely.
It was merely a long-lived colloquialism that had fallen behind the standard language.
From this, I did not wish to engage in grandiose treatment that might suggest it belonged to the history of the Japanese language.
This represented the fullest measure of common sense that those raised within this dialect had painstakingly maintained.