Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

――If It Melts, Let It Melt

Meeting on the road and smiling—as the scattered snow melts away if it melts, so too is love spoken of (Man'yōshū, Volume 4).

...those who stood unyielding against authority; as dew and frost melt away if they melt, on the threshold where departing birds contend—(same volume, Book 2)

One variant reads: "If the morning dew melts, let it melt" (possibly read as 'kaka')—on the threshold where mortals contend.

I do not intend to make “kenabakenukani” the main subject in this case. However, I feel compelled to lay out one premise here as an explanation. This employs frost and snow as introductory poems. There were also those that used dew. Needless to say, the examples found in the Man'yōshū are extremely fortunate remnants; there must have been tens of thousands of actual compositional examples beyond these. What are treated as exceptions in so-called “grammar” may in fact have been the norm during that period. For instance, when dealing with phrases like “kenabakenukani,” I feel particularly compelled to maintain such a mindset. Another point is that this “kani” type of conceptual approach was likely difficult to find in prose. Given that it was an era when regulated verse served as the primary literary form, perhaps this type of typological pattern had not yet been introduced into the still-developing prose style.

At my dwelling’s evening-shadowed grass: “White dew—if it melts, let it melt”
How vividly it came to mind! (Man'yōshū, Volume 4)

When autumn comes, on the pampas grass above—"the settled dew should melt away"—how I am reminded! (same volume, Book 8)

...the heart clings to “If the morning dew melts, let it melt”
How I love—so evident yet unattainable—this hidden spouse of mine! (same volume, Book 13)

While this was an example using "beku," it went without saying that they were largely of the same form.
Furthermore, one could state that overall, "beku" represented a more modern conceptual approach imbued with contemporary sensibility—and indeed a grammatical form—compared to "kani."
Moreover, one could frequently observe instances where this became clearly and directly established as “kenubeku.”

In the extant examples from the Man'yōshū employing "beku," dew and snow compete in quantity, attesting to their widespread favor. Yet when it comes to frost—which strikes us as most appropriate—instances have conversely grown scarce. But I believe we cannot assume this distribution truly reflected the realities of the contemporary song world.

There were even instances where mist was employed with expressions conventionally using verbs such as "disappear," "pass," or "rise."

When I recalled helplessly—on Saho Mountain, "the rising rain mist should disappear"—
came to mind (same volume, Book 12)

This would represent a shift in typological patterns.

In this manner, the free migration among celestial phenomena—those descending elements—was driven by conventional usage and ingenious leaps.
It merely followed the same trajectory as the transformation inherent in pillow words' essential qualities.

We must contemplate the minds of ancient people who took satisfaction in forging set phrases through profound connection with—and linkage to—the word “vanish,” a term embodying despondency, mental anguish, or death from torment.

However, regarding meteorological phenomena and *kenukani*—
Through persistent discussion of the interplay between *kenukani* and *kenubeku*, some progress gradually began to emerge.

For instance, first, even when examining the relationship between "dew" and "disappear," it became evident.
If one forgot this mutual interplay,

When autumn came, “water plants—pampas grass and such—the flower’s unable to meet”
Though I yearned, you knew not.
If I did not meet you directly (same volume, Book 10)

………………Ⅰ

...the tachibana tree with a hundred sprouting branches; as May—when beads are strung—draws near, “though they cannot meet,” the flowers have bloomed (same volume, Book 8).

………………Ⅱ

When [the expression] develops from dew’s “ayu” aspect and discards such origins entirely, it becomes the inaugural example; later, only the formal “aenukani” comes to be used.
The world would surely reject this emotional-logical progression in such cases. Yet I implore you to recognize this as an academic assertion supported by innumerable examples beyond quantification.
While “kani” should inherently form free unions with words it seeks, it remained shackled by these historical constraints.

In essence, the changes in phrases, verses, and their techniques were due to history’s slow, shuffling steps. Furthermore, even when applied to “kashō” (可消), we see phrases like “scattered snow in the empty sky” or “snow falling brightly from heaven.” In the manner of phrases like “Toyokuni’s Yūyama snow,” the crafting of cumbersome rhetorical devices followed the same pattern as seen in “the rising heavenly mist on Saho Mountain.”

In the morning dew blooming riotously: “Dayflower—though the sun sets, should disappear” comes to mind (same volume, Book 10).

This example in particular could be said to demonstrate the aforementioned psychological process. The mechanism lay in how the old relationship with kenubeku flickered within the subconscious through “dew” and kenukani. On the surface, they made the manner in which dayflowers should disappear into a metaphor for their own hearts. This was an unfolding of a heart that had fully comprehended what was easy—the transience of this flower’s nature. And furthermore, these new techniques had come to necessitate adding the explanation “though the sun sets.” Thus spanning from the first to the fourth line, it came to be structured as a lengthy introductory poem. But even such forms could be said to have acquired their superficial rationality through nothing more than the pursuit of typological patterns.

II

――If it grows, let it grow

O charming field, do not burn it.
Amid old grass, new grass mingles―*If it grows, let it grow* (*Man'yōshū*, Book 14).

The grammar appearing in this poem was undoubtedly something entirely distinct from “kenukani,” with no relation whatsoever.
It was simply one example where the usage of “kani” retained its ancient certainty.
“If it grows, let it grow” stood precisely as such.
From the perspective of modern understanding, apart from the conjugation issue of “oihaba, ofuru,” one question remained.

First, people would break down the emotional tone sensed from this poem and hold in their hearts the interpretation: “If it grows, let it grow as it may.”

Even unburned, the grass shall sprout.
Kasugano shall leave it merely to spring’s “hi” (Shinkokinshū, Book 1).

This song, as an improvised poem, intrigues through its lack of insistence; yet the actual state of mind that led to its creation remained profoundly nebulous.
It is here that symbolism evocative of ritual hymns comes to emerge.
What interests me is how the ancient-style expressions found in folk songs from the Azuma-uta—such as “If it grows, let it grow”—came to bear modern nuances. Moreover, one could say that after several such typological patterns appeared in earlier poems, this constitutes an adaptation—one carrying a certain responsiveness to those precedents.

The *Kokinshū* and *Ise Monogatari*’s “Musashino—today do not burn.
The young grass’s leaves lie nestled.
I too lie nestled” represented a leap into exchange poem conventions.
When examined through this lens，symbolic verses had existed since antiquity—awaiting ever more meticulous resolution—their resonant points sparking countless folk songs across generations.
Such typology-generating songs invariably contained elements provoking fundamental questions.
Even this particular composition stirred suspicion regarding its original performative purpose.
As songcraft，it belonged firmly within folk traditions—indeed，the realm of national proverbs.
The deeper one pursued these inquiries，the more endless doubts proliferated，compelling repeated rational interpretations until final oblivion claimed them.
Thus did typological patterns emerge without limit through such processes.

After winter’s dormancy—those who burn the spring fields may not burn enough, yet my heart burns (*Man'yōshū*, Book 7).

At this time, even the allegorical poems from the *Man'yōshū*—mistakenly taken as symbolic songs—contained resentment toward the burning of spring fields.
The heart that denied field-burning—shifting first through rebuking the burning impulse—came to be used in this metaphor where, most inconveniently, it ignites my own heart.

The divine poem of Kitano known as “Even if we build it, let it burn again.”

The poem beginning “Sugawara ya—until the roof planks meet” likely came to be regarded as a divine composition because the typological patterns of ancient field-burning songs are symbolically perceived here. The mere presence of the phrase “Sugawara ya” does not mean the emotions tied to the Kitano divine poem were simply expanded to form a single work. Nor can this be considered merely a surviving poem about Sugawara in Yamato Soekami District. When mentioning Sugawara, the practice of alluding to its neighboring area Fushimi had been transmitted since antiquity as a custom—through veiled means within societal memory. In other words, it is because phrases from widely circulated folk songs—a type of pillow word—that had existed as fluid language before poetic composition came to be incorporated.

This must have been abruptly cast aside through some rationalization, resulting in such a logically inconsistent poem.

Fluid language refers to a certain linguistic stimulus that people maintain in a semi-conscious state while attempting to materialize it—as a suggestion, perpetually perturbing human hearts. By grasping this, one comes to apprehend the concept that forms new ideas. Yet the nature of such language itself may be fragments of linguistic memory from the past, or it may equally be language embodying thoughts destined to emerge in their era.

“If it grows, let it grow”
There may have been predecessor forms existing prior to this.
But be that as it may, it was an undeniable fact that the concept of "entrusting"—as seen in the poem *tada haru no hi ni*—was indeed present.
Phrases like “If it grows, let it grow as it may” or “…let it be” had blended into the emotional tone.
This then raised the second problem: whether we should interpret “oihaba” (“if it grows”) as being positioned as the premise for “ofurukani” (“let it grow”) in the manner described above, or whether we ought to follow the example of “kenaba kenukani” (“if it melts, let it melt”).
In truth, I had allowed this point to be implied through concrete examples without attempting a single explanation.
“If it melts, let it melt”
“Kenaba kenubeku” became “kenukani.”
The fact that only "kenubeku" was used could only mean that the former had been the older form of the latter.
And where lay the rationale for allowing it to become fixed as simply as in the latter case?
Regarding this matter, I had to begin by explicating from the phrase "O charming field."
As for *omoshiroki* (“charming”), I would not discuss it here since I had already addressed it in a prior paper of mine, but consider the phrase: “In these days when you, O charming one, remain unseen.”
When viewed through phrases like “In these times when the charming children remain unseen,” this expression seemed to contain a sentiment akin to deeply familiar faces yet still standing vividly as phantoms throughout.
If one were to interpret this provisionally, it would roughly correspond to something like “nostalgic…”.
“The field unchanged from last year—its nostalgia.”
Moreover, the act of intending to burn that field.
“In the sense of ‘Now, already, new grass was about to sprout mixed with old grass,’ in antiquity, had it not been that they meant ‘let [it] be entrusted’...?”
Furthermore, when interpreting this more simply—even taking the meaning as “Do not burn this nostalgic field where old and new grasses mingle, appearing ready to sprout”—I considered there to be no grammatical inconsistency.

In any case, such a conclusion appears derivable without issue. Certain adverbial phrases were formed using *ka ni*. In such cases, formally speaking, even short sentences had to employ clauses that fully corresponded to their conditions. Even when formally substituted by *beku*—which in later periods had differentiated into a meaning closely akin to it—that *ka ni* came to be acceptably replaced without issue. Even when becoming *beku*, such adverbial phrases still contained complete conditional clauses. Solely through repeated fragmentation and fixation, they have come to take a form that remains accepted even today.

The relationship between *ka ni* and *ka ne* is something I currently do not have the time to explain. Put simply, they originally emerged as two entirely unrelated terms that had no connection. Through their phonetic resemblance, the degree of semantic interaction between them gradually became increasingly significant. Therefore, when translating this as *beku*, it generally appears to correspond to one pattern of usage. Yet despite such formal similarity, the striking divergence in actual usage examples suggests they differ etymologically at their roots. As for *ka ne*, it approximates terms like "pre-" or "material." To that extent, it creates phrases that feel closer to nouns. I, on the other hand, do not believe these differences stem from formal differentiation of terms with a shared origin. *Ka ne* appears to have encompassed one major category of phrases—such as *kataritsugu ga ne* ("to transmit through narration")—and also existed in synonymous parallel constructions like *iitsugu ga ne* ("to transmit through speech"). When applying this to *ka ni*'s usage examples, we must interpret it as meaning "as we are now recounting in sequence." Even when relating to the future, it differs from *ka ne*'s mode of expression that anticipates distant prospects. This amounts to declaring, "It must be exactly as stated here."

III

——*Ie ba e ni* (If spoken, cannot be)

If one speaks, one cannot [express it]; if one does not speak, the heart grows troubled—a time when the heart laments as one.

Though this poem remained in the *Ise Monogatari*, I believed its grammatical structure contained a significantly older form than what was generally considered characteristic of that period.
"Ieba" and "iwaneba" were placed in opposition; even when constructed as a contrast between "iwaba" and "iwazu—iwazaraba," it amounted to the same thing.
Regarding *eni*, from anticipating what followed—elaborated slightly below as "if one does not speak, the heart grows troubled"—I sought to emotionally nuance its significance and render it comprehensible.
"Ieba ii eni de" signified "if one tries to speak, one cannot consistently do so." While examples in poetic texts were rare, this expression appears to have been widely employed in actual practice.
The term *en ni*—which appeared frequently in Heian-period literature and, by the samurai era, gradually came to possess content appropriate to its *ateji* rendering as "艶に" ("sensually")—was in fact the nasalized form of this *e ni*.
*"Iwaba"* ("If one speaks")
Alternatively, following the premise of *ieba* ("if spoken"), *iien ni* ("cannot speak") became habitually repeated until eventually *eni* alone came to represent it through emotional sedimentation.

What we observed here was that a category such as *kenaba kenukani* (“if it melts, let it melt”) had become detached as *kenukani*—just as *kenubeku* had been formed—and that *eni* became fixed while still retaining the ability to impart a mood akin to *iien ni*.

This was precisely the same type of example that could be considered for the term *kate ni*.
The phrase *“hiroeba kate ni kudaketsutsu”* was typically explained as meaning “if one tried to gather [the fragments], they crumbled away bit by bit even as one did so.”
However, this too was merely a homophonic association that had likely only come to be heard since ancient times.
If one tried to gather [the fragments], the form “unable to gather” must have shed one instance of “gathering.”

The same phenomenon could be observed in *“e—u”*.
The same phenomenon could likewise be observed in synonymous pairs such as *“kate—katsu”* and *“ahe—afu.”*

...Ever since our prolonged parting... bit by bit, your shadow dimly appears before me; thus loving you, my aging body—ah, must this be Abe-mu kamo? (Man'yōshū, Book 19)

With this body growing old, how can I love to fulfillment?
“[Being] unable to love to fulfillment... [it] will proceed”—such was the intended meaning.
It did not simply signify whether one’s body could endure.
“*Motona* and similar terms would most properly be explained hereafter, but as this matter too proves extensive, I shall reserve it for another occasion.”

In this manner, while remaining verbs, they gradually branched off into roles resembling those of auxiliary verbs. As part of this process, the omission of words that had formed compound phrases with them could be observed. And then they further transitioned into an adverbial form.

Looking at this example—since it carried the meaning of “With this aging body, if one loves thus, one cannot love to fulfillment”—the process of *kaku koiba* (“if one loves thus”), as with previous examples, had already sufficiently conveyed its significance as actual content; even if excised from the context, it could still be understood.
In essence, from the later rationalization of forms surviving from previous eras arose the explanatory mechanism for phrases like “...shadow dimly visible” and *kaku koiba* (“if one loves thus”).

“kaku koiba, koi aemu kamo” (If one loves thus, can one love to fulfillment?) and “ieba e ni” (if spoken, cannot)—
It may reasonably be considered to possess the form of *“hiroeba hiroi kate ni.”*
“...kenukani...”
“...kenubeku...” represents the same mechanism by which a portion of the conditional clause became detached.

The *en ni* derived from *e ni* gradually approached the linguistic tone of “sensually,” but the older it was, the more it preserved the meaning of *iien ni* (“cannot speak”). When people forgot the etymology of a term that conveyed a meaning akin to “ineffably good,” it was only natural that they would seek significance in the phonetic form *en ni*. Therefore, even in Heian-period diaries and tales, if one examines usage examples of *en ni* in older works, it becomes apparent that their connection to what would later be termed “sensually” (*en ni* written as 艶に) had grown tenuous.

Why, then, were such conventions of maintaining what might be termed cumbersome grammatical structures practiced?

IV

――*To mo* (Though) Part 1

[Though] left unspoken—「*Ki ni wa ari to mo*」—it must reside in your well-worn koto, my lord (*Man'yōshū*, Book 5).

With mountains and rivers between us becoming [a barrier], “Tohokutomo”—deem your heart near.
My Beloved (same volume, Book 15)

For example, *“mitomo akame ya”* was, properly speaking, *“mitomo miakame ya.”*
Furthermore, when considering what appears even more formal:

“Though the pools of seven rapids in Matsuura River may stagnate, I shall not stagnate—I will wait for you” (same volume, Book 5).

As in [the example], it took the form expressed as “*yodomu to mo yodomaji*” (Though [the river] may stagnate, it shall not stagnate). However, in this case, “I shall not stagnate” functioned as an adverbial phrase occupying a position integrated into the grammatical role of “waiting”—this interpretation was correct. In other words, from the first line through the fourth line, they had fully become a preface poem—such was the mechanism here. This form must have been the outward appearance of *tomo*’s authentic usage examples.

Moreover, even when examining *“ki ni wa ari to mo”* (“though it may be in the tree”), [the text] showed that the consciousness behind *“...though it may be in the tree, it must reside in your well-worn koto wood”* had not entirely vanished, even as it was forgotten.

“Though the Ikonogawa may never cease,” shall my words to you ever cease? (same volume, Book 20)

[The poem] states: “Though the Ikonogawa may never cease its flow, just so, shall my words to you ever cease?”

Island Shrine—the Upper Pond’s released birds.
Do not grow wild and depart.
Though You Are Not Present in the Ten Directions (same volume, Book 2)

“Even though you are not present, as if you were here—do not grow wild and depart.”

Though they called it a treasure of no worth throughout the ten directions—could it ever compare to a single bowl of turbid wine? (*same volume, Book 3*)

Though they called it a worthless jewel—as if it were not a treasure—after undergoing the process through which one would argue it could never compare to a bowl of wine, later eras’ “though you are not present in the current situation”...
It had become possible to explain these constructions in the manner of saying, “Though they call it a worthless jewel...”

Upon closer consideration, the phrase “though it may be in a tree that does not speak” was built upon proverbs that had already existed before this poem—proverbs which forcefully articulated, through numerous typological patterns, how tree spirits, stone spirits, and such do not speak.
Thus, while people knew that “trees were bound by spells not to speak,” this citation of past knowledge remained.
Therefore, first and foremost, it contained the meaning: “Though it may be in a tree that does not speak, it is not exactly as in that proverb.”
Even when it underwent another leap forward and developed new grammatical roles, it still created the same concord expressed as “it must reside in the koto wood.” Such was the mechanism.

The conceptual approach of “mountains and rivers lie between us, creating distance” has existed since antiquity and has been favored even in modern times. Examples such as *“Yamakawa mo hedatamu kuni”* (“Though mountains and rivers may divide the land”), *“Umiyama mo hedatamu kuni”* (“Though seas and mountains may divide the land”), *“Ashihiki no yama o hedate”* (“Parting through the foot-dragging mountains”), *“Ashihiki no yamakawa hedate”* (“Parting through mountains and rivers”), *“Takayama o sashisho to shite”* (“With high mountains as barriers”), *“Takayama o hedachi ni oite”* (“Setting high mountains apart”), *“Yamakawa o nakani he nari te”* (“Mountains and rivers having become barriers between”), and *“Yamakawa no he nari te areba”* (“Since mountains and rivers form barriers”)—even within the *Man'yōshū* alone—make one realize how numerous typological patterns were employed over long periods.

Among these, setting mountains and rivers in opposition appears to have been especially favored.
Now, what contains what might be called the folk proverb “mountains and rivers divide…” is found in the phrase “mountains and rivers lie between us as barriers, making it distant though they may.”
Therefore, as its primary meaning—though the verse states “mountains and rivers lie between us as barriers, making it distant”—we must discern content declaring “we are not distant.”
The secondary semantic leap becomes what says “though mountains and rivers […] make it not distant, deem it near.”

Even what were not strictly proverbs came to be processed through *tomo* in this manner if they could be similarly conceptualized. The defining feature of this *tomo* usage lay in its flexibility—proverbial phrases did not require fixed forms, allowing free conceptualization and interpretive or emotional elements to blend into their structure. At its core lay aspects where modernized rephrasing of earlier models faced no inherent obstacles.

Such linguistic customs inevitably differentiated methods akin to this approach. One could freely devise such conceptual frameworks even without direct roots in ancient poetic phrases or established proverbs—as seen in cases like “Though the Ikonogawa may never cease...” Here, even absent explicit verbs like “cease” or “dry up” for this specific river, inference operated through typological patterns established with other waterways. Ultimately, this constituted a method of innovative repurposing—conjuring “proverbs” or “prefatory phrases” before executing conceptual leaps.

“‘In Yamatobe where west winds blow up to part the clouds’ Sogioritomo”
Could I ever forget? (*Kojiki*)

“Crossing mountains and traversing seas, Tōmo”
The charm of novel Chinese-style expressions would not be forgotten (*Kojiki*).

“Who has girded the great sword? Not drawing it, Tomo.”
Even if they accomplish it to the end, I think we will meet (*Kojiki*).

To categorize these as preface poems would suffice as one approach—yet their phrasing evoked something akin to proverbs. Examining the “great sword…” example revealed how the literal expression “drawing the great sword…” transformed into the grammaticalized form “not drawing it though,” as it were.

In the process by which such *tomo* gradually became fixed as auxiliary particles in usage examples, there existed extremely old instances in the *Kojiki* and *Nihon Shoki*.
This was because the sequence of ancient songs did not necessarily indicate the order of their composition.
But at the same time, within those examples, there existed elements bearing an extremely close resemblance to what we might intuitively recognize today.

“……If the village birds flock as mine, if the retreating birds withdraw as mine—though you say, ‘I shall not weep,’ Tomo—Yamato’s single plume grass bends low: to make you weep, I will stand in the morning rain’s mist……” (*Kojiki*)

“In Ōiwaya of Oshisaka, crowds come entering; crowds come entering Irioritomo…” (*Kojiki*)

“In Yata, a single stalk of susuki grass stands alone—though it stands alone—if the Great Lord deems it good, let it stand alone though it may.” (*Kojiki*)

“On bamboo grass leaves where hail patters—after we’ve led them to sleep, though people may depart…” (*Kojiki*)

“Though you say ‘I shall not weep,’ you will not remain unweeping”—this structure had now been revisited once more.
As a logical form, it ultimately resolved into “…to make you weep” through the pattern “though [one] says [they] will not weep…to make you weep (-ma + -ku).”
Examining the Oshisaka example too, we find logical resolution in the structure: “though they enter and dwell…we will strike them down.”
Yet one step prior, it must have contained the meaning: “Though they enter and dwell, we will enter undeterred.”

The latter two were later-attested as documented examples but remained “tomo” that evoked the same sensibility.
“In Yata, a single stalk of susuki grass may stand alone—though it stands solitary, it will endure.”
“Though people may depart, let them depart as they will (or: though they may leave, leave it to them to leave),” and indeed there existed grammatically concordant structures that mirrored this pattern.
Simultaneously, expressions resembling idiomatic phrases had also been assimilated.
The phrase “Though the village birds... I shall not weep” performed no grammatical function as a modifier, yet formally, its placement after conventional phrases likely delivered compositional satisfaction.

Moreover, one must pay attention to the point that there are even vigorous parallel phrases present.

“Oshisaka’s…”
However, layered atop this practiced tone was an instructive quality akin to proverbs.
They bore parallel phrases that amplified their rhetorical force.
Both “Yata’s…” and “On bamboo grass leaves…” appeared to carry preface-like verses attached to other phrases, yet each maintained an intrinsic connection to them.

5

— *to mo* — Part Two

Though Shiga's great inlet ripples may stagnate,
Could I ever meet again those of old?
(*Man'yōshū*, Book 1)

Attempting to explain this simply through the so-called conditional sentence pattern was misguided. He likely posited that “Shiga’s Ōmawari had thus stagnated.” “Yet even if it does not stagnate (as though remaining unstagnant), could I ever reunite with those of old?”—the primary expression of this sentiment could be observed in the latter part of this poem. The secondary unification further shaped concordant grammatical structures. Since one invoked *tomo*, it took form through responses like “might we meet again?” Yet this interpretation did not hold semantically. Without invoking “though it may stagnate,” one failed to depict the actual calm lake surface prepared for boating excursions. Ultimately, this *tomo*—pulled by grammatical logic—represented a transformed version of what should have been *domo*. In essence，it was because the mind’s inclination toward expressing sentiments like “Could we ever meet again?” had first stirred that even grammar became prearranged under such hypothetical conditions. For grammars pursuing formal logic rigorously，this constituted an inevitable outcome. Yet even here，might there not remain one more psychological basis requiring consideration?

As I have tediously elaborated time and again, the primary form of *tomo* was distinct from later conceptions of concordance. That is to say, it constitutes a method that rejects allusive metaphors like "proverbs" or "preface poems," instead explicitly articulating one's own circumstances. This may be said to reveal the origins of negation as a technique within metaphorical expression—referring to a mode of expression that closely resembles its referent while not being the thing itself. We scholars have long grown accustomed to employing this method as optimal for translating and explicating preface poems in the *Man'yōshū*, a practice likely compelled by this latent awareness embedded within the technique itself.

To restate once more,

Upon the rocks in Kawakami’s upper reaches, may they not grow moss—if only it could remain eternal.
Eternal Maiden (same volume, Book 1)

This poem had merely inverted the conceptual approach of *tomo*.

Upon the rocks of Kawakami’s Yutsu cluster—though moss may grow—if only they could remain eternal.
As an Eternal Maiden

We may also consider cases phrased in this manner.
"*Musazu*" does not refer to the present state but rather stands in contrast to "*musu*."
While it is said that "the Yutsu rock cluster in Kawakami grows moss," in this case it does not mean they literally grow moss—it instead comes to signify eternal freshness...

Through this method, the "zu" in phrases like "koitsutsu arazu wa" ("if one does not love ceaselessly"), "koisezu wa" ("if one does not love"), and "monoomowazu wa" ("if one does not ponder things") might also have unraveled. For this analysis, another paper had been prepared.

Fundamentally, the primary form took the structure: "Though Shiga’s Ōmawari was something that always stagnated, without stagnating, could one ever meet again those of old?" However, when explaining this in a somewhat intelligible manner, one might have viewed it as taking the form: "Shiga’s Ōmawari had stagnated—though one waited for people, being unable to wait..." After this process, the concluding point of this *tomo* shifted downward and became resolved through "may we meet again?" As I had frequently exemplified, the corresponding point of *tomo* was originally located immediately after *tomo* itself in ancient usage. It appeared that due to the emergence of the custom of dismissively using *tomo*, a method of explanation had arisen that employed differing content and direction—both expressively and rhetorically interrogative.

6

—To what end—

Silver too, gold too, jewels too—treasures surpassing all in *naniyo ni mo*.
Could they ever compare to a child?

This poem was particularly celebrated even among the modern works of *Man'yōshū* Book Five.
But had there truly been anyone who explained this through rigorous grammatical logic?
As for someone like Dr. Yamada, his work might already exist—though I had not heard of it.
They likely interpreted *nani semen ni* ("to what end") as something worthy of abandonment—without explicitly deeming it futile—given its plain linguistic tone resembling "what shall one do?" However, in this usage case, the term retained archaic traces in form, standing diametrically opposed to *tomo*.
"Nani semen ni" was equivalent to "nani ni" ("what for").
"Semu" corresponded to "nani sure zo" ("what would one do").
"What would one do?"
Just as with "adō su to ka," it paralleled the modern "nani shi ni"—
It was the *su*, corresponding to expressions like *dōshite* ("how/why"), that replaced *ari* ("to be") in facilitating infinitive meaning expression.
Therefore, there were times when one could perceive the nuance of "for what purpose."

In the same long poem by Okura that follows this same logic—"Though people revere and yearn for the seven kinds of treasures, *for what purpose am I?* My child Kohi, a white pearl born within me..."—one might attempt to read [the phrase] as *nani semen* ("to what end"), but its meaning remained elusive.
If one interprets [the phrase] as “*nani semen ni*” (“for what purpose”), [the verse reads]: “What use would the seven kinds of treasures be to me as treasures?
One should explain that “the treasure within me is my child Kohi, a white jewel.”

In any case,"Though pearls may be called treasures along with gold and jewels—what purpose makes treasures surpass a child? Could they ever compare?" he posited.
When we thus juxtaposed these two works,the long poem discarded elements corresponding to narrative sections to render its meaning comprehensible,yet preserved archaic styles while demonstrating transition toward rational interpretation characteristic of subsequent eras—does this not hold?

Though 'superior treasures' appeared wholly unrelated to 'could they ever compare,' one might have considered their emotional linkage through phrasing like 'superior treasures...a child' at deeper levels.
The term *masareru* ("surpassing") inherently indicated this phrase should connect upward,but grammatical concord retained only vestigial responsibility for concord itself,having abandoned logical function.
Thus interpretations linking 'superior treasures' with 'a child' emerged naturally as plausible conclusions.

In the prose of late dynasty monogatari diaries, such phenomena were observed even more frequently.
The term *aware* came to anticipate attachment to anything from “delightful” to “sorrowful” and “joyful”—with all such descriptors being omitted.
Thus emerged expressions like “*aware nari*” (how poignant) and “*aware no…*”
These were employed in phrases such as “*aware naru…*”
Through this process, the connotations of *aware* itself appeared remarkably broad.
Such usages had become so thoroughly familiar that they no longer registered as issues requiring examination.
All came to regard *aware* as possessing its own distinct patterns of usage.

Furthermore, even in the adverbial form *asamashiku* ("astonishingly"), all omitted the narrative predicate that would follow below, sufficiently conveying mood through this modifier alone. As a form incorporating this omission, one could compose sentences ending with "...*asamashi*." In sentiments expressed through phrases like "so astonishing that...," there existed sadness, helplessness, ugliness, and even joy. These gradually became unified into tendencies expressing modern pathos. Similarly, this held true for cases of "unreasonably" (*warinaku*) and its adjectival form (*warinashi*). Through habitual omission of narrative predicates below—directly evoking moods through these terms—they eventually acquired independent significance and tended toward becoming fixed.

Expressions like *nakanaka* also had many such examples.
What was even more extreme was *utate*.

7

―Utate―

"*Utate* is distinctive as an adverbial form."

Tokuda Kaishin's heart was clouded with doubt.
Attend to all matters skillfully.
O my brother.
Even in moments we meet (Man'yōshū, Book 12)

To speak of autumn—how the heart aches!
Utate House—how I wish to see you likened to a flower! (Same volume, Book 20)

The latter work, being by Yakamochi—a pseudo-archaic writer—could not be trusted in its individual words, but examples like this one appeared to reflect usage still alive at the time, so it likely was not a mistake.

Beneath the hairy peach tree in my dwelling moonlight spills—Kutsuki no Korohito with hidden intent (*Man'yōshū*, Book 10).

The crescent moon obscured by clouds unseen clearly—how I yearn to behold it!
Utatehihi (Same volume, Book 11)

Though never existing without longing at any hour—how profuse grows this longing for Tokuda Naohiki! (Same volume, Book 12)

To enumerate them all proves tedious indeed—yet this likely constitutes all known usage examples from the *Man'yōshū*.
In the *Kokinshū*—though possibly erroneous—as an exceptional instance:

Were one to pluck it seeing it as flower—the patrina flower bears a name ever more utate in aspect (*Kokinshū*, Book 19).

[An exceptional case] remained. These [examples], while possessing content unhindered even by their increasing nature, could be said—if they held truth—to have preserved antiquity solely in form.

In the *Man'yōshū*, [the term] existed only in forms such as *utatekeni* ("with increasing nature") or *utate konokoro* ("these days of increase"). There must have been other expressions beyond these, but judging solely from these examples, even other instances appeared to demonstrate a progression—day by day—toward a particular state. "*Keni* goes without saying—it is the *keni* found in *hi ni keni*." "'Kono goro' ('these days') means 'over several days,' thus indicating progression in daily circumstances." From this perspective too, one could infer that *utate* contained meanings such as "increasingly" or "progressively." That is to say, it corresponded precisely to the concept of "ten" ("shift") preserved in the old commentaries on *Nihon Shoki* and other works subjected to *kanbun kundoku* (Japanese reading of Classical Chinese texts).

Originally, *utate* did not possess connotations belonging to the semantic lineage of “melancholy” (*ushi*). However, as usage examples in poetry became skewed over time, *utate* came to be influenced by narrative predicates.

When one sees flowers, they find no solace but only ever-increasing sorrow; likening them to a person, one becomes acutely aware of heartache. To speak of autumn—how the heart aches all the more.

Even if only for this moment we have managed to meet, listen well to my words.
Lately—day by day ever more—one became aware of the heart growing increasingly melancholic.

Even when observing how *utate* attached to "these days" (*kono goro*) in phrases like "*utate kono goro...* troubled heart / how I wished to see / abundance of longing," one came to perceive *utate* as functioning like a narrative predicate—particularly given the frequent inversion of phrases in such contexts.
As this form progressed, *utate* gradually came to represent the narrative section.
One should have reflected on the relationship between adverbial phrases and narrative predicates in the Heian period, as previously discussed.

The narrative predicates corresponding to *utate* were consistently omitted, and *utate* itself came to enter the narrative section. Then there entered the frequently employed *ari*—used as a substitute term replacing the narrative predicate. That is to say, *utate ari* represented this phenomenon. And thus, this term had already come to possess content such as "*utate*, [it] is melancholy."

When Norinaga applied the classical Japanese gloss "...tokoso, aganase no mikoto kaku shitsurame, tonori naoshitamaedo mo, nao, sono ashiki sama yamazute, utate ari" to the Kojiki passage "...登許曾、我那勢之命為如此登詔雖直、猶其悪態不止而転," I could not help but feel this constituted a temporal error. As prose, it might have been inferior, but would it not have continued as "their vile conduct ceasing not but increasing (*utatekeni*), Amaterasu Ōmikami..."? The form that emerged later than "*utate ari*" was "*utateku*," and thus, in modern times, forms such as "*utateshi*," "*utateki*," and even "*utatei*" also came to be used.

The significance of terms like *izō* ("increasingly"), originating from what might be called an intense signification, merged into narrative predicates to become an expression of melancholy; eventually coming to be perceived as existing solely within its own usage patterns, generating quasi-inflectional forms, and ultimately assuming a purely adjectival guise.

8

―Sleeves Gleam Brightly―

O Anashi Mountain of dense foliage—even as others watch you with the mountain people, entwine those mountain vines! (*Kokinshū*, Book 20)

I had now reached the point where I needed to explain what I had intended to say. Above all else, my purpose lay in wanting to draw attention to shifts in grammatical consciousness. It was only from such a standpoint that the free relationship between grammar and the national language became visible; I wished to argue that fixing this relationship even slightly would cause it to descend into mere logical games.

However, as my immediate case study, what I had selected proceeded to elucidate how past Japanese possessed several expressive methods now deemed unnecessary in today’s national language. I discussed what significance the convention of grammatical concord came to hold in our language’s developmental history, and similarly, how the omission of conditional clauses was repeatedly expanded upon to compensate for their emotional deficiencies. Ultimately, the development of adverbial phrases in our national language grew more literary the older they were. Thus, through layer upon layer of fixation, they came to be employed as simple—so-called single-word—adverbs. This was what I wished to demonstrate—that such phenomena could be discerned even within the linguistic heritage of a people who had possessed advanced literature from quite early on.

...As the waves beat ceaselessly—since I journey here longing for Wagimo-ko—there upon Ago Bay's rugged shores were seen: ama maidens gathering seaweed, their hands entwined with brocaded sashes and jewels swaying gently, white hemp sleeves fluttering.
Mutually longing, it seems— (*Man'yōshū*, Book 13)

It was by no means merely the brocaded sashes with their gleaming patterns that were conveyed through “shining brightly.”
At the very least, the phrases beginning with "Ago Bay"—which were originally meant to form part of the poetic text—were abruptly transformed into adverbial phrases through the use of *kani*.
These lengthy adverbial phrases were originally complete sentences; furthermore, the adverbial phrases—which had to possess conditional constructions precisely because they needed to retain literary qualities—underwent gradual simplification.
Thus, *kenaba kenukani* was recast from a new perspective of conceptualization into *kenaba kenubeku*, then came to be expressed solely as *kenubeku*, increasingly shedding entirely what might be called introductory verse elements like “dew-and-frost”—this evolutionary path had in fact only been half-traced.

I feared that interposing a remark here might confuse readers' comprehension, but I deemed it necessary to append this much as an annotation to the unaddressed portions.
The *ka* in *kani* was in fact the *ke* from those so-called *mi*, *ke*, and *sa* suffixes attached to adjective roots—it was not actually *ge*.
Simultaneously, it also constituted the *ka* found in terms like *shizuka*, *kakoka*, and *tashika*.
Thus I believed this formalization—resembling fixed affixes—had occurred only after considerable progression.

Moreover, these contain solidified fragments of ancient poetic texts—even these are found among things of an older era.
Almost all—amidst what had become new—were but things retaining the faintest vestige of the past.
Therefore, we lacked sufficient materials to elucidate their grammatical function; that was precisely why.
But when viewed in this light, I felt something resembling an explanation had somewhat taken shape there.
Regarding each individual explanation, I could not guarantee there were no errors.
But if there were no errors in the general methodology, it would prove useful in demonstrating that such hidden facts had existed.

Such circuitous explanations represented one forgotten methodology in grammatical research while also serving—through what I considered my ultimately ordinary final conclusion—to allegorize an approach that, in its process, contained certain unconventional elements.
That is, linguistic texts always proceed from complex to simple—this constitutes both the expression of that belief and its underlying logic.