Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Genbun Itchi*, Now a Dead Term

The term *genbun itchi* had now become a relic of the past, having shifted and moved on. There was a palpable sense that it had turned obsolete. Having fulfilled its role and advanced to the next stage, it died and became an empty husk.

I was occasionally reminded of how Japanese prose had transformed with the torrential momentum of this half-century to arrive at its present form.
The life and death of words were equally intense in accordance with that transformation.
This was naturally the trace of ceaseless progress.
From the hard shell—from a state confined within a mold—breaking that old shell, the torrential desire to transfer and express the movements of the heart into words without limit created this transformation, bringing about today’s arrival.
Even if there were certain people who ignited the spark for this, one cannot help but think that in truth, it was the result of our nation’s spirited activity and the truly youthful force of its heart’s vitality pressing forward.

The initiation of *genbun itchi* marked the beginning of notable stylistic transformations, but it was not the origin of the current itself.
This was a fact that each Meiji literary historian had already explained in detail, and though I thought it need not be restated, I wanted to briefly share my own perspective.

The issues of national script or expression regarding prose had already begun to be advocated by various scholars since the Meiji era's dawn.
This was seen not as an imitation of Western culture, but rather as arising from a self-awareness toward expression forms that had been regarded as an unbreakable shell—a consciousness born alongside new cultural influences.
This was likely an inevitable awakening, but looking back from today's distant vantage point, one cannot help but feel profound respect for those predecessors who harbored such anguish—a testament to their intellectual acuity.
However, when reading these arguments across various texts and finding all such writings employed old *kanbun*-style *kundoku* expressions, doubts arose about whether these opinions were mere armchair theorizing or stemmed from genuine intent.
The fact that they merely conceived ideas but failed to translate them into contemporary expression clearly revealed the absence of any organic connection between deliberation and action.
What appeared as intent without ability lay precisely in this point.

Even after passing through the Meiji era and into Taisho period, I still recall confronting such astonishing contradictions firsthand.
It involved a petition advocating Romanization as the national script being drafted, with signatures to be added at its conclusion.
Despite their fervor for adopting Romanization, the text itself was composed in stiff kanbun-style classical expressions.
Had they written that document in Roman letters, no one could have deciphered its meaning meaningfully.
Yet all the association's leaders had signed it—a fact that compelled deep reflection on my part.
This occurred during Taisho times when Japanese prose had already grown complex and freely expressive.

At this moment, I found myself hesitating to add my signature to it. This petition, no matter how one considered it, did not appear to have been written by someone fully committed to writing Japanese in Romanization; rather, it seemed nothing more than empty rhetoric entirely divorced from practical implementation. When I reflect on such memories of my own, the psychological aspect of the contradiction between the sentiments and practical implementation among advocates of early Meiji-era theories—such as national script reform and new literary styles—becomes somewhat clearer to discern. They recognized the necessity yet remained entirely confined to their habitual ways. Whether this marked the early dawn of all things new or not, when a claim was publicly declared without being put into practice, it amounted to betraying one’s own arguments; unless advocated while being implemented—even imperfectly—it became no different from discussing dreams.

It appears that the first instance of this being implemented was Mozume Takami’s *genbun itchi*.
It was made public in Meiji 19 (1886) and, though awkwardly, was written in colloquial style.
As for these considerations and investigations, they should be left to historians.
However, when we observe the traces of these pioneers’ considerations, we touch upon that era’s “heart’s anguish” with sincere emotion.
When a boundless expanse of new horizons unfurled before them, and unknown currents from that realm came flowing in—when their hearts pulsed fiercely toward it (how invigorating that dawn’s fresh vigor must have been!)—their own expressions remained confined within an old shell, possessing only mute mouths; this anguish born of contradiction remains palpably felt even today across the gulf of time.
And the mind from which this anguish arose was truly keen—a hunger worthy of respect.
Moreover, this was not merely one aspect of written expression; through it, we are well taught that it also represents one facet of the intellect that operated upon all manner of affairs as Japan internally grew and flourished over the subsequent half-century.

The realization of genbun itchi began with novels.

Therefore, what I have always found intriguing is that genbun itchi writing first found practical application in novels.
The reason this implementation did not emerge sooner in shorter practical writings was likely because these "molds" possessed a quasi-symbolic nature that resonated with people's sensibilities, with no awakening yet occurring to their constraints, unnaturalness, and imperfections.
Indeed, even when recalling how we—mere boys in the Meiji 20s (1887-1897)—wrote letters following age-old formal templates without sensing anything peculiar, and even when reading the well-crafted letters of contemporary adults who composed reasonably complex matters and expressed sentiments through prose utterly divorced from colloquiality, one recognizes how an unaltered mindset persisted: a formal compact regarding expressive form—a "manner of speech" inherited from tradition—that they never contemplated changing.

It was not merely a passive consideration of feeling no need to change that old style; rather，a mindset of protecting tradition with religious fervor was at work here，and one cannot help but recall how the *genbun itchi* movement subsequently waged a grueling battle against it over many years.
“Futabatei Studies”
In Issue No．6 （April 16，1938），I will quote here from the concluding section of Mr．Maeda Akira’s “On Futabatei Shimei”：

“I wish to record here that on May 13 of the following year (Meiji 42 [1909]), over twenty days after we were shocked by the sudden report of [the deceased] becoming ‘a guest who would not return’ in India’s Bay of Bengal, when the farewell ceremony was held at Somei’s funeral hall, Mr. Shimamura Hōgetsu read a *genbun itchi* eulogy before the altar for the first time.”

It was not merely because a *genbun itchi* eulogy was suited to the founder of *genbun itchi*. In today’s world where colloquial prose has become entirely commonplace, one might find it difficult to imagine, but at that time, despite *genbun itchi* gradually gaining momentum even in general writing beyond novels, there were those who still criticized it as vulgar and insisted it could never be suitable for solemn ceremonial texts requiring dignity and gravity. However, Mr. Shimamura’s eulogy was solemn through and through; it did not lose any formality whatsoever, and yet it thoroughly conveyed the sentiments. Mr. Shimamura truly enlightened the ignorance of those who criticized through facts. And this also marked the first instance of a colloquial-style eulogy.

When reading Mr. Maeda’s account, one could vividly imagine the state of those who opposed genbun itchi as an illegitimate form of written expression—a state that resembled flickering candlelight on the verge of extinction at that time.
We young people had felt as though seeing cumulonimbus clouds spread out before us.
Looking back now, it was the mentality of those who had absolute faith in old traditional customs—a mentality that lay across the path of newly progressive expressions even as it naturally faded away over time along with bygone "customs and mentalities."
It was exactly that.

Even so, that this new practice of attempting to write prose based on colloquial language began with novels strikes me now as having been an entirely natural progression—one I’ve come to fully comprehend.

Individuals who held the opinion that treating written prose and the colloquial language currently in use as two separate things was mistaken—and those who publicly presented such arguments—can be found far back in Meiji literary history. Despite this, actually writing *genbun itchi* prose proved by no means as easy a task as these arguments suggested—this was likely the state of affairs in the beginning. As I have mentioned before, while it appears utterly contradictory to see these advocates writing in old-style prose themselves while calmly preaching the necessity of a new form, upon closer reflection, it may not be that the early Meiji *genbun itchi* proponents never attempted to experiment with that style themselves. Each may have tried in their own way. If this supposition holds true, then it would mean every single one of these people who attempted the reform ultimately met with failure in their endeavors.

They believed their arguments were sound, yet when put into practice, they proved unsuccessful.
Did they then end up merely advocating new ideas while donning their familiar old hats?
Reading Mozume Takami’s colloquial-style prose brought this supposition into sharper focus for me.
From my own experience—there was a time when I aspired to write everything in Romanization and threw myself into its implementation—I became reasonably proficient and confident I could write most things this way. But constrained by its limited social acceptance and practical utility beyond narrow circles, I ultimately reverted to writing primarily in kanji-kana mixed script.
This experience too seems to share certain commonalities with that of the earliest genbun itchi advocates.

On one hand—and this is something one could also sense when reading Mozume Takami’s prose—it was an era when the crucial distinction between *writing in colloquial style* and *transcribing speech directly into text* had not yet been thoroughly tested. When they attempted to compose prose according to their own ideas, it resulted in excessive verbosity: rambling and lengthy, tediously convoluted, utterly “unlike proper writing”—in other words, they themselves keenly felt that upon reading it, their sentiments failed to flow smoothly through the text. This self-contradictory outcome must also be considered. At this point, even I was left aghast; had those people not tasted the bitter experience of being unable to make any progress? I believe that such imaginings are by no means fictional. It is only now that we can truly appreciate how Futabatei and Bimyōsai’s respective decisions to conclude sentences with “da” and “desu” manifested their crucial struggles—a revelation emerging from precisely this context.

Though there had been advocacy, it feels somewhat strange that the genbun itchi style—which no one could easily handle—could be written smoothly only when crafting novels.
Because that author was exceptional, one might say the earlier advocates merely conceived the idea and debated it.
In other words, arguments and debates took precedence; there was likely also this aspect—that those who engaged in them did not take action themselves but waited for others to implement it.
It was actually undertaken by one or two pioneering novelists.
Such may have been the sequence.
However, if such a way of thinking exists, it would seem we must consider it more thoroughly.

I boldly hold that it is permissible to think this way.
The novel’s style had already adopted *genbun itchi* as far back as Sanba Ichiyū’s era.
Whether in *Hizakurige*, *Ukiyoburo*, or *Ukiyodoko*, those works were written in a *genbun itchi* style that masterfully balanced spoken and written language.
It might be acceptable to go back even further; in any case, I perceive that the stylistic approach of late Tokugawa period novels—what was described at the time as "breaking down and speaking" monogatari zōshi—was indeed *genbun itchi*.
In the prose of novels, such training and tradition had long since existed.
Of course, it was necessity that taught them to do so.

Even if we do not engage in such overanalysis, Tsubouchi Sensei’s *Shōsei Katagi*, while inheriting old traditions, was clearly a work freely composed upon a foundation of colloquial language.
The founders of *genbun itchi*, whom present-day literary historians praise as having accomplished an “epoch-making work,” can be understood thus: even as they emerged from these preexisting foundations when writing novels, they discarded the habits of classical literary style—this being the very enterprise of *genbun itchi*’s pioneers.
Because such foundations existed, the *genbun itchi* style manifested in novel production as something with clear adjustments; thus, what the early advocates had “conceived yet been unable to achieve” took splendid form and began developing further through numerous stages of refinement and transformation.
In Mr. Maeda Akira’s previously cited statement—though the true nature of society’s perception remained ambiguous—the reason *genbun itchi* was seen as vulgar until around the end of the Meiji era warrants reconsideration.

The Founder of *Genbun Itchi*

Now, regarding the founding of *genbun itchi*, there had been casual assertions of a trivial primacy dispute between Yamada Bimyōsai and Futabatei Shimei—debating which gentleman came earlier—but this was not a matter of great importance.
Rather than that chronology, I believed it was the inevitable result of each man’s immersion in European literature shaping their expressions—a point I found deeply intriguing.
Fundamentally, for those devoting themselves to literary art, the pursuit of stylistic ingenuity had to be regarded as a physical necessity.
When writing prose, there existed an instinctual demand in everyone to resolve this unease by finding a satisfying mode of expression—one simply had to articulate it.
There might be writers lacking this impulse—they lay beyond consideration—but what others perceived as a “quirk” in anyone’s prose—a quirk when viewed holistically—constituted that individual’s manner of expression.

Let us first consider Bimyōsai, who appears to have been deeply familiar with English literature. Given that the European language he acquired was English, he seems to have read many of those novels extensively. These narrative styles appear to have resonated perfectly with his sensibilities. Ozaki Kōyō—who belonged to the same literary circle (though their personal closeness remains unclear)—likely engaged in similar reading of foreign literature to comparable depths, yet their ultimate divergence must have stemmed from fundamental differences in temperament. When I reflect that Ozaki Kōyō was not counted among the “group” of *genbun itchi* founders, it becomes truly intriguing. Kōyō demonstrated greater self-assertiveness and possessed the talent to render traditional expressions both freer and more abundant. Moreover, he appears to have been far more of a pragmatist than a lyric poet-like fantasist such as Bimyōsai. This was not merely a matter of superior literary talent; rather, he simply did not seem like someone who would have been inclined to experiment with new forms of expression such as *genbun itchi*.

When reading Mr. Honma Hisao’s *Meiji Literature History*, one indeed recognizes that Bimyōsai was an intelligent and quick-witted youth.
Mr. Honma appears to be a Bimyōsai scholar, yet he also comes across as something of an excessively ardent admirer.
What this brings to mind is Uchida Roan’s account of his observations on Bimyōsai; reading this work, there is none of that futile sensation of scratching an itch through one’s shoe, and with the impressions from their shared early youth recorded so bluntly, one gains a vivid understanding of both the man and his era.
To me, Uchida Roan—

It was precisely when this Westernization movement—the Rokumeikan era—reached its zenith, when society grew utterly ecstatic chanting “First came the West, second came the West” while championing European culture, that Yamada Bimyōsai emerged: riding this current, he created an extreme Western-flavored genbun itchi style which instantly ignited popularity, propelling him to become a literary titan.
Bimyōsai was like a premature baby hatched in the artificial incubator of Westernization fever.
Juxtaposing this decisive assertion—(“Meiji Authors” — [Bimyōsai Bimyō])—with impressions of Bimyōsai’s works lingering in my old memories and detailed explanations from Mr. Honma’s *Meiji Literature History*, I feel anew that the origins of Bimyōsai’s new style have become clear.

First and foremost, I was grateful that through Mr. Honma’s literary history I had finally come to understand the general outline of Bimyōsai’s advocated genbun itchi theory.
Of course, even for their time, those arguments were remarkably simplistic; had they been compared more rigorously with other genbun itchi theories of the period, it would likely have become apparent that they could not necessarily be regarded as original.
What stood out most glaringly was Bimyōsai’s overbearing fervor in denying everything and charging forward.
Mr. Honma attributes this to the grand scale of his ambitions, but for my part, while I could accept the image of youthful audacity getting carried away, I could not help finding the ostentatiously ambitious arrogance utterly peculiar.

The particular reason one sensed this lay in the fact that the very person who negated other writings in his arguments—the expressions in his own works as an author, his own prose—was itself an extremely unnatural, contrived fabrication.
Even when considering factors such as the era, the author's age, and various other conditions, his works remained unnatural, forced, and shoddily contrived fabrications—which led one to conclude that his arguments themselves had not arisen from any inevitable necessity.
Uchida Roan denounced the garishness of Bimyōsai’s prose, but I could not help feeling that being unable to avoid speaking in such a manner struck one as abnormal.

My knowledge of European literary works may be meager, but within what I do know, I have no recollection of ever encountering such personification or such peculiar modes of expression.
If there are those who view this as flaunting literary brilliance, I find myself wanting to oppose even that.
In short, it was merely a contrivance in which he concocted various self-justifying rationales with a meager and narrow mind simply because he had conceived something new.
However, while that expression must have at least appeared beautiful to the author himself, the very fact that he himself considered it good and beautiful was already strange.

In short, I concluded that Bimyōsai was nothing more than a mere craftsman. At the same time, when we were young and began writing in colloquial style, it was not merely due to superficial reasons like literary trends or his status as a forgotten figure—we found absolutely no traces of stylistic influence flowing from Bimyōsai. Even if only briefly, though he had been an author so highly praised for a time and long spoken of as a founder of *genbun itchi*, all that remains is the fact that he himself wrote novels in that peculiar colloquial style; nothing flowing from it ever formed the foundation for later colloquial expression. When Uchida Roan called him a “premature baby,” one cannot help but feel he meant it in the sense of an infant born but never nurtured—a child delivered a month too soon.

Futabatei’s Genbun Itchi

In stark contrast to Bimyōsai’s vigorous and impassioned debates, Master Futabatei wrote Ukigumo from complete silence and published his translations.
All these works written by Futabatei employ genbun itchi, and he likely labored painstakingly over their expression.
On the other hand, compared to Bimyōsai’s thickly layered expressions—which seemed to society like dazzling “masterpiece prose” or “masterpiece works”—Futabatei’s expressions, born of his steadfastly earnest and straightforward attitude in striving to write a new Japanese prose grounded in colloquial language, may clearly be said to have become the source of later colloquial-style writing.

As Master Futabatei himself states in his forthcoming account titled *“On the Origins of My Genbun Itchi,”* his prose did not stem from any ambition to pioneer a new literary style, nor solely from the desire to transplant into Japanese writing—through translation—every nuance he had savored from original works (one must reject vague notions of mere “faithful translation”). Rather, it emerged through an inevitable necessity: to express without embellishment, as directly as possible, both these translated elements and the organic movements within his own creative works. This interpretation strikes me as most accurate.
It differed fundamentally from Bimyōsai’s approach.
Where one party believed ornamentation to be beauty and considered their clumsy contrivances skillful prose, this one followed the singular path of seeking to transfer living breath directly into writing.
As time passed and society at large gradually came to recognize that beauty in prose lay not within the hollow ornamentation of so-called ornate phrases, Futabatei’s painstakingly crafted expressions came to be tacitly understood and naturally formed their own current.
This marked an occasion worthy of celebration for Japanese literature.

Futabatei Shimei’s “On the Origins of My Genbun Itchi” provokes much reflection on various points; therefore, I wish to transcribe its full text here and set down my own thoughts in response.

*“On the Origins of My Genbun Itchi” — A Talk by Futabatei*

As for opinions on genbun itchi and such—since I haven't conducted any significant research on the matter—I would rather tell a confessional story.
That's the origin story of how I first came to write in genbun itchi—though it sounds grand, it's really just the full tale of how it all began because I couldn't write proper prose.

I don’t know how many years it’s been—it was quite some time ago. I did think I wanted to try writing something, but being inherently inept at composition, I was utterly clueless about direction. So I went to Professor Tsubouchi and discussed what I should do, whereupon he said: "You’re familiar with Enchō’s rakugo, aren’t you? Why not try writing exactly in the style of those rakugo stories?"

So I tried doing exactly as I was told. However, since I am a Tokyoite, it goes without saying that it was in Tokyo dialect. Thus, a work in Tokyo dialect came into being. I promptly took it to the Professor’s place. He read through it thoroughly, then suddenly slapped his knee with a thud and declared, “This is good! Leave it exactly as it is! It’s better not to make any forced corrections!”

I felt somewhat uneasy, but I couldn’t very well get angry at being told it was good—though that said, deep down, I was a little pleased. Be that as it may, since it imitated Enchō, it naturally adopted the genbun itchi style—but here lay another issue. It was “I am... that is” Should I adopt this tone? Or would it become “I refuse”? The question of whether I should proceed with that style. Professor Tsubouchi maintained that it was better to have no honorifics. I was not without my reservations, but since this came from Professor Tsubouchi—whom I had even considered asking to make corrections—I decided to set aside my doubts and try writing without honorifics. This marked the origin of my beginning to write in genbun itchi.

Before long, Mr. Yamada Bimyōsai’s *genbun itchi* was announced. Upon examining it, I saw that it employed the polite honorific style of “I am...” and thus belonged to a different faction from my own. In other words, I represented the “da” style while Mr. Yamada championed the “desu” school. Later inquiries revealed that Mr. Yamada had initially attempted the honorific-free “da” style but found it unsatisfactory, ultimately adopting “desu” instead—or so I heard. For my part, I had first considered using the “desu” style before settling decisively on “da.” Thus our fundamental approaches stood diametrically opposed.

However, being fundamentally lacking in literary cultivation, I tended to lapse into vulgarity. I would spout nonsensical things. Professor Tsubouchi said I needed to make it somewhat more refined. Though Mr. Tokutomi (who had contributed to Kokumin no Tomo around that time) argued it should be formalized in writing, my disagreement with both seniors' theories stemmed from my own rule: I would not use Chinese-derived words that hadn't gained status as naturalized Japanese vocabulary. For example, while a term like "manners and etiquette" likely originated as Chinese, it had by then become Japanese—this was acceptable. However, since the term "refined demeanor" hadn't yet undergone this linguistic baptism, it was impermissible. The term reiroku counted as Japanese when meaning "refreshingly clear," but if taken literally as "stones rolling about," it wasn't Japanese at all. My rule was to avoid any Chinese-derived terms not assimilated into Japanese. Even within Japanese, expressions using soorou (候ふ) had completed their historical role and were discarded. I resolved to steadfastly use contemporary language, entrusting it to natural development while awaiting flowering and fruition in due time. Forcibly blending Chinese-style and Japanese-style texts was futile. Believing human will couldn't alter linguistic destiny, I endured such foolish struggles.

Idioms, compound words—I did not use any of them.
The only reference I used was what they call the Fukagawa dialect found in Shikitei Sanba’s works—that sort of thing.
Phrases like “You fool! I ain’t no kite fallen in a pumpkin patch—quit spoutin’ such highfalutin nonsense!” or “I ain’t no well bucket for you to haul up and down!” or “Even a paper Shōki banner’s got more sense than this ill-fitting middle layer!” and even “My belly’s all North Mountain drizzle” or “What’s with the Arima doll brushes?”—crude yet poetic.
Because I believed the spirit of colloquial language resided here, I relied on this to some extent—there was nothing else beyond that.
I did intend to incorporate Western grammar, but that differs from how language is actually used.

At the time, Professor Tsubouchi had advised me to incorporate some embellishments of elegant prose, but I detested that notion. In fact, it might be more accurate to say I strove to repel any infiltration of elegant prose elements. And though I attempted to embellish common words, this ultimately ended in failure. I believe it would likely end in failure no matter who attempted it—it’s quite difficult, you know. Thus did I waste my efforts...

When I reflect on it now, that too belonged to a time before a certain period.
Now? Well, now I've surrendered to Professor Tsubouchi's doctrine and am devoting myself to studying both Japanese and Chinese writing.

This "On the Origins of My Genbun Itchi" was excerpted from Volume 10 of Kaizōsha's *Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: Futabatei Shimei Collection*. According to the chronology in this collection, the talk——being a transcript of Futabatei's remarks——was originally published in the May 1906 (Meiji 39) issue of the magazine *Bunshō Sekai*.
Even without delving into my old memories, the transcriber of this talk was Mr. Maeda Akira, who was then a reporter for *Bunshō Sekai*.
This fact, as well as Futabatei himself having trusted Mr. Maeda’s skill in transcription, is detailed in his essay *On Master Futabatei* included in *Literary Figures of Meiji and Taisho*.
Therefore, this talk is one of the essays I had long trusted and considered reliable.

First: "I did think I wanted to try writing something, but being inherently inept at composition, I was utterly clueless about direction."
When I went to Professor Tsubouchi’s place to discuss matters and was instructed to "learn from Enchō’s rakugo," I listened with far more acute empathy to this depth of utterly perplexed sentiment than to Bimyōsai’s facile critiques of classical and modern prose.
Undoubtedly, the literary works that Futabatei had immersed himself in resonated in his heart alongside their expressive qualities.
This had inevitably become an imperative demand that could no longer avoid expressing anew the form and raw movement of the heart—though it had reached that point, it still lacked a suitable form. Such appeared to have been the case.
When I called myself inept at composition, it was because the literary prose of that time—or what was called elegant prose—consisted largely of dead expressive forms, while new-style political novels and similar works were crude and lifeless; amidst this flood of such writings, I suppose it became a matter of finding those styles unappealing.
I had absolutely no interest in them; therefore, I thought it impossible to believe I could write well while mingling among such works—even hearing this now across time, it seems perfectly natural.
Therefore, it would be mistaken to interpret Futabatei’s assertions here as a form of irony.
To view Futabatei—a man who left behind such splendid translated works—declaring himself as "inherently inept at composition" as employing irony toward his era is an error, I believe.
It was precisely because Futabatei’s artistic conscience remained so acute that he truly felt this way—and at the same time, one cannot help but empathize deeply with his words. The result was that genbun itchi prose emerged naturally from this very process.
(Though Futabatei himself likely crafted his prose through immense struggle, the fact that it inevitably arrived there constitutes a form that emerged naturally.)

Next, reading how Professor Tsubouchi had advised [me] to study Enchō’s rakugo revived within me a long-forgotten yet deeply familiar memory.
I had long forgotten that this guidance originated from Professor Tsubouchi himself until my youth—around Meiji 34 or 35 [1901–1902]—when I happened to hear of it through several friends.
Prior to this, I had indeed heard Enchō’s rakugo once or twice—though I never attended storytelling theaters with student companions—on occasions when my father took me there and I fortuitously encountered Enchō’s performances.
At the time of listening, nothing lingered in my mind beyond mere amusement; but later, upon hearing these guiding words—or perhaps directive phrases—from Professor Tsubouchi’s teachings, I distinctly sensed an implicit suggestion within them.

In today's terms, it was that descriptive power. Since it was ultimately rakugo, the settings weren't particularly complex, yet through its plain everyday delivery, vivid scenes would form in listeners' minds—people came alive through their actions, and though depicting quite lowly characters, the stories maintained an inherent dignity. Such was the descriptive force they possessed.

It was through this hint from Professor Tsubouchi's words that I later came to vaguely contemplate Enchō—though it's improper to discuss myself in such contexts. Even after learning this guiding principle, when it came to whether I belatedly went to hear Enchō... Well, I did think listening might prove educational, but ultimately never went.

Now I regret my indolence, yet paradoxically feel it may have been for the best. When young, I suspect having such a mentor might have carried greater risks.

Secondly, upon reading passages about the *da* and *desu* styles, one comes to profoundly realize how predecessors struggled with achieving coherence at sentence breaks during *genbun itchi*'s formative years. The reason these sentence breaks and their stability became such pressing concerns during that era—the Meiji 20s (1887–1897), when *genbun itchi* was consciously established—warrants careful examination. They likely saw this as the key to forming *genbun itchi*'s structure through the concluding elements involved in transitioning writing to colloquial style. While blending what were then called vulgar terms within individual sentences apparently caused little difficulty, they found their minds remained uneasy when reaching sentence breaks unless they firmly settled their approach. In this regard, both Futabatei and Bimyōsai seem to have struggled in various ways.

This "desu"
Regarding the adoption or rejection of *da*, debates over its merits continued thereafter—though likely no one produced any standout treatises on the matter, nor was it such an inherently difficult issue—yet among writers, this apparently remained a lingering concern indefinitely.
Even as we entered the Meiji 40s [1907–1912], I recall there were still those who would occasionally raise the topic.

Looking back today, after it has completely passed into history, proper stability has been achieved, relative importance clarified, and fluidity attained—so it must prove somewhat difficult for anyone to recall the confusion of those early days.
Even those who knew that era intimately—and there must be many still living—likely find their daily preoccupations from those times all but erased.
To such an extent does this matter now seem to have been a minor, peripheral issue.
Yet it is believed that this colloquial style only became fully stable, acquired its natural form, and reached a state of fluidity upon entering the final years of Meiji—the 40s.
In other words, it goes without saying that Futabatei’s “da” style has now become the foundational expression, while the “desu” style persists as a mode of presentation with its own distinct and situationally appropriate nuances.

Thirdly, though I recall reading this talk not in the pages of *Bunshō Sekai* but much later, the point that truly compelled deep reflection upon reading it was this “resolve to avoid using Chinese-derived words that had not yet gained recognition as part of the national language.”
It could indeed be called an invisible monumental feat.

Even if Futabatei himself declared it a failure, the mere fact that he had attempted this at all remained a monumental undertaking and testament to remarkable resolve.
The great value of this resolve still remains questionable as to how much it is truly recognized and appreciated even today among those actually engaged in the craft of writing.
Had this been more smoothly recognized by the general public with awareness properly disseminated, the Japanese language would have become far more beautiful and lucid than it is now.

I held this conviction—though it was unrelated to Futabatei’s rules—but later, upon joining the movement to write Japanese in Roman letters and pursuing it, I arrived at the same position as this opinion. Following this, I thought I must consider the selection and organization of the Japanese language, but doing so felt like confronting countless entities inhabiting a vast expanse, leaving even myself utterly bewildered; in the end, I couldn’t muster the courage to plunge decisively into it. Moreover, even now I have yet to clearly grasp its starting point. —But this remains one of the crucial issues for the Japanese language that someone must clearly consider and undertake through some method.

That Futabatei boldly attempted this monumental feat is something we must engrave in our hearts and admire—yet at the same time, when considered from the resolve to write in genbun itchi prose, one might say this was an inevitable outcome. However, he attempted to devise and put this rule into practice—and failed. This was Futabatei’s own disappointment and anguish—for Futabatei himself possessed a sensibility that could not comfortably use Chinese-derived words lacking recognition as part of the national language in his own writing. This fact, in substance, is thought to have correctly directed the course of genbun itchi’s development.

The fourth point was, "Although Professor Tsubouchi advised incorporating elements of elegant prose,"
Futabatei disliked that approach.
This aversion stemmed from an inevitable mindset of one who had contemplated the qualifications of a national language—recognizing beauty within colloquial speech and striving to extract it from above.
Particularly when considering the decorative language society praised as "elegant prose" for some time thereafter, alongside the era's habitual ways of thinking and superstitions, to Futabatei it must have felt like nothing more than dead ornamentation.
Professor Tsubouchi's well-intentioned advice had delivered a misguided theory to those who already knew and embodied the truth.

I have been led to consider the following matters through Futabatei’s discourse.
In fact, the reform of Japanese literary style—which had begun to sprout as a faint awareness from the Meiji 10s (1877–1886)—entered the 20s (1887–1896) and began to grow, its vitality strengthening amidst various attempts.
And I believe that Futabatei’s undertaking, equipped with the most correct elements, naturally became the mainstream and flowed forward.

Haru no Ya’s *Shōsei Katagi* and Yazaki Saga’s Works

According to several chronologies, *Shōsei Katagi* was published in installments starting in Meiji 18 (1885) and completed in January of Meiji 19 (1886).
(Based on Mr. Honma Hisao’s *Meiji Literature History*, Volume 3 of the *Meiji Taisho Literature Collection*, and *Tsubouchi Shōyō*.) Therefore, this novel was published earlier than Bimyōsai’s *Kakiyamabushi* or Futabatei’s *Ukigumo*.
*Kakiyamabushi* was first published under its original title *Satirical Novel Tengu* in the ninth issue of *Garakuta Bunko* in November of Meiji 19 (1886), then serialized through the thirteenth issue, followed by *Ukigumo*...
The first installment was published in July of Meiji 20.
Thus, *Shōsei Katagi* was published prior to these works written in *genbun itchi* and must have left a clear impression on nearly all those devoted to novel writing.

The points to consider when reading *Shōsei Katagi* today are twofold: first, why Professor Tsubouchi resolved to write a novel at that time—the aspect of sensing such a demand within the era’s milieu—and second, why he chose that particular style (though I believe it arose for the most part from habit), despite what may have been reasoned preparations.
It seems fair to think that even at the time of its publication, as a work, it was not particularly admired by those with somewhat new sensibilities.
In this regard, Uchida Roan’s reminiscences honestly and straightforwardly recount the impressions of those sentiments.
“To speak frankly, Mr. Tsubouchi’s first work *Shōsei Katagi* is neither a masterpiece nor anything of the sort.”
“(Omitted) So even when reading Mr. Tsubouchi’s *Shōsei Katagi*, I wasn’t surprised at all—to put it plainly, I’d always thought literary scholars shouldn’t be allowed to write novels.”
“(Jumping) ‘But how much power might the name “Literary Scholar Haru no Ya Oburo,” boldly signed to works like *Shōsei Katagi* and *Imōto to Seikyō*, have truly wielded over society?’”

It would not be appropriate to regard this statement by Roan (from *Meiji no Sakka*) as a form of sarcasm.

In any era, bandwagoning—quick to astonish—always appears in similar forms; without allowing time to consider the substance of things, applause and cheers boisterously enveloped everything.
However, in the era of *Shōsei Katagi*, we must recognize that beneath that apparent “frivolousness” lay an immensely powerful latent force demanding newly vital elements—something to clear the era’s vision.
It was precisely this spirit that served as the womb birthing post-mid-Meiji literature—thus even what Roan dismisses as “trivial works” became pivotal keys to an epochal turning point.
Such phenomena were something that I myself would come to personally experience several times later on.

Now, the reason I specifically brought up *Shōsei Katagi* here was not to make such critical-sounding remarks.
It was because I wished to state how closely the narrative prose of this novel resembled works written in the *genbun itchi* style.

I came to need to reread *Shōsei Katagi* forty years later, when it was treated purely as a historical artifact in literary history, and finally managed to read it through—but what struck me most profoundly at that time was that Professor Tsubouchi had written this novel in such a style without heeding the *genbun itchi* debates already being publicly discussed in those days.
However, for those who had developed minds sufficiently advanced to freely handle both narration and description—moving beyond simply relaying a story’s outline to actually depicting scenes—the style then called “vernacular prose” appears to have been more convenient to employ than so-called “beautiful elegant prose.”
The vernacular prose honed by late Tokugawa novelists out of necessity for detailed depiction seems to have remained the most suitable style for Professor Tsubouchi when writing *Shōsei Katagi*.
It had only slightly—changing inevitably when speakers shifted—taken on a professorial tone.
This already served as fertile ground for advancing *genbun itchi* in substance—so why couldn’t Professor Tsubouchi take that final step? In hindsight, such an act might seem as simple as raising a hand or taking a stride, but in those days, it must have felt like breaching an iron wall.

This so-called "vernacular prose"—emerging from what was then called *zokubun* in contrast to elegant prose—was where I placed some significance on the fact that the "founders" of *genbun itchi*, who had advanced one step further, read this *Shōsei Katagi*.
The founders likely did not particularly admire this work (as Roan states), nor were they directly influenced by it; however, could they not have sensed some degree of force exerted here—namely, that within expressions naturally sharing their own atmosphere, in terms of prose from a novel written by an up-and-coming scholar slightly more advanced than themselves, there lay a free articulation of colloquial expression?
This supposition, at the very least, seemed to me to hold some element of truth.
And though they were likely not consciously aware of it, it seemed to have fully exerted its influence.

Rather than referencing old works (though some may dismissively call it research), works that have appeared in the immediate past exert a more vigorous influence.

Therefore, when considering the course of genbun itchi, I had lately come to recall *Shōsei Katagi* as an immediate predecessor.

Another would be the novels by Yazaki Saga no Ya that were published consecutively since Meiji 22 (1889), such as *Kusare Tamago* (Rotten Egg), *Hatsukoi* (First Love), and *Nozue no Kiku* (Chrysanthemum at the Field’s Edge) included in the Kaizōsha edition of the *Modern Japanese Literature Collection*.
(All were works published in Meiji 22 [1889].
"Hatsukoi" — January.
*Kusareta mago* — February.
When examining works such as [*Nozue no Kiku*—July], one saw that all were written in an unforced, natural genbun itchi style.
Viewed against Bimyōsai’s eccentric styles, these works appeared as far more splendid prose; while Ken'yūsha novelists of that time still toyed with their writing, one could sense here that a pure new stream had joined the literary source flowing from Futabatei.

From then on

I had wanted to write this piece concerning the founders' initial period, and I intended to wait for another opportunity to address anew the subsequent developments in this colloquial style expression. There is one thing that strikes me as odd regarding Uchida Roan's *Meiji no Sakka* (Meiji Writers) (edited by Mr. Yanagida Izumi), in which I came across the following passage.

“As the founder of *genbun itchi*, Yamada Bimyōsai long monopolized the honor, and now it is thought that Bimyōsai and *genbun itchi* are inseparable.” However, Bimyōsai’s *Summer Grove* was published in August of Meiji 21 (1888), one year later than the first installment of *Ukigumo*. To be precise, while “Musashino” from *Summer Grove* was initially serialized in the Yomiuri Shimbun, *Ukigumo* still predated it.

According to Mr. Honma Hisao’s literary history, the previously mentioned *Kakiyamabushi* is considered Bimyōsai’s first work in *genbun itchi*—now, since I have been unable to obtain this *Kakiyamabushi* (in fact, I am writing this note without having read it)—this would mean that Bimyōsai’s works were made public earlier. Could those discrepancies be errors in Roan’s memory?

Now, regarding that point—this matter of precedence was not considered particularly important.
At least for me, Yamada Bimyōsai’s genbun itchi had left no significant benefit for us later, whether as a debate or as a work.
He was merely thought to be one who had dabbled in such a style and, to put it harshly, did no more than indulge in verbose debates about it.
Moreover, there had been several predecessors who had advocated for genbun itchi from even earlier times, and in fact, Mozume Takami, among others, had left behind writings that were far more earnest than those of Bimyōsai.
I believed it was crucial for us to consider what had become the source of today’s Japanese prose style—having come this close to colloquial language and attained such balance—and to understand the matrix that gave birth to these origins.
When considering how such a monumental change had occurred in Japanese literary style, the day of its inception was not a mere accident, nor could it have sprung solely from the mind of a single individual.
I thought so.
That was why I could not muster interest in arguments disputing the precedence of works written in genbun itchi.
Moreover, works such as those of Bimyōsai were thought to be nothing more than fleeting bubbles.

Now then, after that, what course did this genbun itchi style follow, and in what manner was it accepted by society?
To put it succinctly, until around the end of the thirties, it had appeared from the surface to be nothing more than a mere tributary.
Kōda Rohan, Mori Ōgai, Ozaki Kōyō, and all the renowned novelists who followed them generally wrote their works in the classical literary style.
The majority of literary works and discussions that we read from our boyhood through adolescence until around twenty years of age were written in the classical literary style.

However, even though the expressions displayed in the works of Futabatei or Saga no Ya were present during that period, we have no recollection whatsoever of reading them while finding them particularly remarkable.
When I reflect on this, it strikes me as strange.
This was because it was an era when most literary works were written in the classical style—so much so that approaching them with what people commonly called an "unusual writing style" might have been the natural course.

As I traced back these memories, it became clear that the period during which *genbun itchi* texts were viewed as an “unusual writing style” and regarded with a sense of oddity was merely an initial phase—and that this interval was likely relatively brief.
By the time the thirties arrived, although two styles were being used in parallel, had it not already reached a point where no one paid them any heed?

Around the twenties [Meiji era], after novels in the genbun itchi style had been published, general novels sought their stylistic origins in the Genroku era or retreated further into “elegant” classical texts—yet through this, each writer struggled to cultivate their own expressive beauty.
That seemed like a current flowing in a direction entirely opposite to genbun itchi.
But I see this as the form in which that era was undergoing its "birth pangs."
It must have been a phenomenon of tangled intermingling, with each person groping their way forward.
Ultimately, it must have been a struggle arising from the desire to transcend the artistically meager, crude, and—to put it bluntly—vulgar literary expressions of the past and create something far more beautiful.

Within this struggle—in the very midst of it—I believe there lay a certain awakening toward art.

"The end of the term *genbun itchi*"

Now, finally, it was deeply interesting to recall when exactly the term *genbun itchi*—the name for this unification of spoken and written language—had faded from our collective memory and become a dead word.
Of course, there could be no clearly visible boundary in such matters, nor should there have been any definitive record of it.
However, by tracing through various memories, I believed we could make a general estimation.

That was, I believe, around the late Taisho era. Around the time when national language issues began to be fervently debated, and elementary school language education underwent new developments—being vigorously researched and implemented—the old term *genbun itchi* was replaced by *kōgotai* (colloquial style), or so I have tentatively concluded. By this time, Japanese literary style had already almost entirely become colloquial, and the classical style that had previously been mainstream had come to belong to a special domain. Thus, by the time *genbun itchi* faded from use, explicitly identifying it as *kōgotai* had become limited to situations requiring contrast with classical writing or special explanation—such was the state of affairs.