Pathway to Japanese Literature

Inaugural Statement

Due to our members' long-awaited demand, *Yuiken News* has now been launched.
Our esteemed members will likely welcome this.
However, among these meticulous members, some may now feel concerned about financial difficulties.
The newsletters we had been publishing until now were ostensibly meant for all of Yuiken, yet in practice amounted to nothing more than research forecasts from Yuiken’s research organization department.
*Yuiken News* emerged to supplement this insufficiency; however, even after its launch, there will likely still be many cases where we must send research meeting forecasts as “special editions” directly to members.
Given this reality, the economic burden of publishing this newsletter is not insignificant.

However, we could not sacrifice the fundamental fact that the newsletter remained absolutely necessary for both the Association and its members simply because of certain financial sacrifices.

The organ journal *Yuiron Kenkyu* had a considerable number of general readers; nevertheless, that it must above all else belong first to the members was something needing no renewed emphasis here. Yet *Yuiken News* stood even more distinctly as the members’ own—even more intimately tied to their daily lives.

Detailed assembly reports, vivid depictions of research meetings, accounts of members’ minor scientific endeavors, or personal updates fostering camaraderie—such private matters found no place in the formal journal. For members however, these constituted news of vital importance.

An organ to convey such reports proved essential for our Association—a role we resolved *Yuiken News* should fulfill.—Thus it had first and foremost to function as a diary shared between the Association and its members.

While relatively private and personal reports for members would be sent through this News, there was another unique function of this News that had to be pointed out. This concerned temporary issues arising between the publication of one organ journal and the next; when there was something we wished to report to members prior to issuing the organ journal, it was this News alone that could promptly publish such matters. Articles requiring speed and up-to-date reporting were to be published there, and from this perspective alone, one might have considered *Yuiken News* to be the Materialism Research Association’s newspaper.

Members’ research and well-formed analyses should each be directed to the Research Meetings, while essays, discussions, research notes, correspondence, and such would appear in the Organ Journal. Now, this News provided space for members’ fleeting ideas, hopes, and any content emerging in raw forms of emotion or will. If a member wished to write a semi-official yet private letter to another member, it could likely only be done through this News. Considering that, *Yuiken News* would serve members as their correspondence medium.

*Yuiken News* was—for both the Materialism Research Association and its members—a diary, a newspaper, and a letter all at once.
Yet being issued merely twice monthly (on the 5th and 20th), this frequency constituted both its distinctive trait and inherent limitation. Given opportune circumstances however，it might well have evolved into a proper newspaper，a true chronicle，or correspondence so frequent as to border on excessiveness.

One typically avoids elaborate reasoning in diaries，just as modern letters eschew formal debate.
Though during early modernity—when book and magazine publishing remained modest—diaries and correspondence often adopted essayistic or polemical forms，such practices had long since faded by contemporary times.
Even modern newspapers，as they stood then，accorded little significance to logical discourse.
Our *Yuiken News* too would likely have grown into such modernized formats—a diary，correspondence，and newspaper befitting its era.
Members could thus have employed this *News* without contention or stiffness，freely and sociably.

That said, since this *News* was its inaugural issue and contained too many administrative articles, we could not quite provide the kind of ideal (?) pages just mentioned—but the problem lay in the future.

I wish to reiterate: Please keep firmly in mind that this *Yuiken News* is our own as members. Thus, just as each member bears an obligation to maintain diaries, a responsibility to read newspapers daily, and a social duty to write letters periodically, so too do they carry obligations, responsibilities, and duties toward *Yuiken News*—though nothing exceeding these—and it is within these bounds that members are entrusted with commitments to this *News*. To state it plainly: We earnestly hope every member will apply themselves to support this *News*, particularly through enthusiastic submissions.

In this “time of emergency,” given the current state of affairs, our Materialism Research Association’s research activities were increasingly gaining in significance.
It might even have been said there had perhaps never been an era like that time when “materialism” went uncomprehended—and when “materialism” found itself so misunderstood.
Discerning individuals in society had likely recently come to abruptly “recognize” our Materialism Research Association’s objective significance; our Association had lately been steadily gaining influential members.
The launch of *Yuiken News* unexpectedly reflected this Association’s proactive circumstances.

(No. 1, November 20, 1933)

Sado and Niigata—Travel Essays

The ferry bound for Niigata departed from Ryotsu, Sado Island, at 1:00 p.m.
Having boarded with Mr. and Mrs. I, I placed my trunk in a spot unlikely to catch sunlight and seemingly safe from theft. After arranging my hat and removed suit jacket on top, I worried the hat might blow away and draped the jacket over it instead—only then settling into a traveler’s ease.
Though fifteen minutes remained until departure, the other female passengers already lay on the deck with closed eyes. Calculating I could sort seating later, I first bought copies of Tokyo Asahi and Tokyo Nichinichi for a leisurely read.

For the two or three days I stayed at the home of Mr. H, who had kindly come to see me off at Ryotsu Harbor, I had deliberately avoided reading newspapers; as a result, they now appeared like unfamiliar creatures provoking a fresh taste.
I had opened the Niigata edition in search of local color; however, I could not help but hand a single half-page newspaper sheet to Mr. I with a wry smile.
The Niigata edition carried an article stating that Mr. I and I were holding a lecture in Niigata that very day.
I was introduced as a former professor at Hosei University, and Mr. I as a rising critic.
The other newspaper stated that the two of us, having finished our lectures at Sado Summer University, would hold a large-scale lecture in Niigata on our return.

The talk of a “Sado Summer University” was a complete lie—all we did was wander along the Siberia-facing coastline of Ōsado, watch *Okesa* dances with a group of female students who happened to be there, and enjoy their hospitality (though we did hold one evening discussion meeting). In any case, I thought this had turned into quite an affair.
As I discreetly observed, Mr. I also seemed to grow increasingly uneasy.

However, Mrs. I alone—with her bobbed hair—appeared carefree as she leaned over the pier rail, waving her handkerchief.

When we had passed through Niigata before crossing to Sado, the river port and factory districts along the Shinano River visible from Numata, along with the modern colonial-style scenery seen when crossing Bandai Bridge from Niigata Station, had made the city seem like a vibrant provincial hub; yet it struck us as unexpected that upon disembarking there again on our return, Niigata now revealed itself as an utterly gloomy town.
We walked through every corner of Furumachi Street but found nothing to enjoy.
Moreover, though we stopped at secondhand bookstores and new bookshops along the way, not a single establishment carrying *Yuiken* could be found.
Our spirits grew heavier by the moment—though I’m told shops stocking *Yuiken* do exist there after all.

The so-called grand lecture in Niigata was, in reality, nothing more than a discussion meeting.
And the venue for that discussion meeting was a restaurant called Italiaken.
However, to our surprise, this Italiaken—in stark contrast to the shabbiness of Niigata’s cityscape—stood as a magnificent, splendid four-story establishment that made us involuntarily halt in our tracks.
Yet what astonished us more upon nearing the entrance was a sign towering imposingly by the street: “A Meeting to Ask Questions to Mr. Tosaka Jun and Mr. Iwaki Masaru” (Fee: 50 sen).
Upon closer inspection, it was painted in blue and red like a bookstore’s placard.

I had gained some composure by the time we walked this far (having put something in my stomach too), so I wasn’t particularly flustered now—but Mr. I, that is, Mr. Iwaki, was so extremely panicked that he ended up dispatching his wife to retrieve the unfinished manuscript from where we had left our briefcase.

The decision was of course to read this aloud.

Following me in order was Mr. I, and against the backdrop of a large stage with its curtain lowered, we delivered a lecture—truly a single lecture—to an audience of twenty-five or twenty-six individuals associated with *Shinkō Bungei*.

As for the content, I cannot quite disclose it yet, but it is safe to report that Mr. I, being taller, had a more resonant voice.

Changing our spot along the riverbank and drinking beer, we engaged in an atheism debate with a certain man who worked at Zenkyo and had converted to Shinran’s teachings through "Naka," so we finally reached our lodgings at a high-class boarding house at three o'clock the following morning.

By seven o'clock, the three of us were already aboard the upbound train departing from Niigata.
However, the same group of female students who had been traveling with us—keeping a certain distance since Sado through sheer happenstance—were once again aboard the adjacent car.
The chaperone was a professor of Japanese art history at Kyoto Imperial University who, seemingly self-conscious about leading female students, discreetly came to greet us.
Since I had received candy from one of their group and promptly devoured it all, I felt obliged to return the courtesy by going to bid farewell when parting.

By fulfilling this social obligation, our grand lecture tour spanning Sado and Niigata was brought to completion.
(End)

(No. 30, August 29, 1935)

The Masses, Persuasiveness, Demagogy

The other day, I tried my hand at giving a campaign speech for a certain Diet candidate, but while waiting in the speakers’ preparation room, a drunkard barged in and stubbornly insisted he too must be permitted to deliver a supporting speech.
“Speeches by scholars like you are too stiff for the masses—you people don’t understand the masses at all! When addressing them, you must adopt a tone like ‘O stars glittering in the firmament! O solitary blossom blooming upon the earth!’” he proclaimed.

No one paid any heed to what this drunkard was saying, but I, who had little concrete understanding of what the masses truly were, could not entirely dismiss the feeling that there might be some truth in the arguments this drunkard was advocating.
The reason was that, in short, this drunkard was speaking as a representative of the common notions held by people in society at large—politicians, newspaper reporters, barbershop patrons, and the like.

Moreover, there was no small concern that—according to many previous theorists—the term “the masses” had perhaps been employed in some particularly convenient meaning.
There may have been a sense of regret that they had selected only progressive proletarians as representative of the concept of “the masses,” while dismissing the majority of society as unworthy of bearing the name.

Given these circumstances, those of us present at the scene, myself included, had in fact grown somewhat skeptical; however, when I actually tried giving a speech, I came to realize that this was decidedly not the case.
Even with my way of speaking—like a clumsy lecture, explaining things at length with logic and numbers—the audience listened quite attentively.
At key points, they would applaud.
The audience was largely made up of small merchants and artisans.

It might not have been possible to immediately label the audience of a political speech as “the masses.” However, one could at least regard voters in general elections as the masses without any immediate issue. According to the results, it became clear that logic-driven persuasion backed by numbers was indeed effective on the masses. They spoke of the power of discourse, but this proved that as long as it touched real life, even the most complex theories could possess clear-cut persuasive power.

The discovery that today’s masses truly possess a theoretical capacity to be persuaded—or have indeed acquired the possibility of being persuaded scientifically—filled me with immense pleasure.

The minds of the masses are now theoretical and scientific; their lives demand it. The conclusion becomes that only those like the aforementioned drunkard remain unaware of this.
Who falls into the category of drunkards without even needing alcohol?

The results of the general election at first glance appear to celebrate the future prospects of the proletarian faction.
But with the minority of proletarian (?) representatives in parliament, they likely hold no actual voting power in practice.
I have no intention of discussing here the political functions beyond those mentioned, as I do not aim to engage in politics here, but it must be said that what is called the advancement of the proletarian faction holds an extremely significant educational effect and enlightening significance from the perspective of political education.
In other words, it is education and enlightenment regarding political common sense that proclaims: the masses are the owners of a theoretical capacity to be persuaded.

But this is, needless to say, a matter concerning the masses, and not one concerning that segment of society which leads or controls them.
Therefore, it cannot be concluded that through this, “society” itself has come to possess a theoretical capacity to be persuaded, nor can it be concluded that it will come to possess one.
The phenomenon that society manifests may indeed be the exact opposite.

Moreover, even with the masses themselves, it would be dangerous to hastily conclude that this theoretical capacity to be persuaded they possess today is something they have inherently acquired as is.
If one forgets that the masses, within this theoretical capacity to be persuaded, also hold as a possibility one aspect of extra-theoretical impulsiveness, it would amount to a miscalculation regarding their persuadability.
The problem of theoretical persuasiveness toward the masses must include within its calculations this very possibility of impulsiveness (demagogy) inherent to the masses.
Following the masses’ theoretical persuasiveness, the problem of countering demagogy is now approaching.

(No. 43, March 15, 1936)

A Glimpse into Yuiken's Founding Days

I’ve been told I must write about my memories of Yuiken’s founding days for the 50th issue of Yuiken News.
It’s not memories of the News but memories of the Association itself—but then, there are so many things to recall that I don’t know where to begin.

However, what cannot be forgotten when recalling the founding days is Mr. Saegusa Hirono’s contributions.
It was also Mr. Saegusa who brought the proposal to establish Yuiken to Mr. Oka Kunio, but setting aside such political activities, the first task that only Mr. Saegusa could accomplish was finding an office.
Initially, he contracted a suspicious six-tatami Japanese-style room at a place called Nanitoka-so in Shinjuku as a temporary office, but his niece, who was supposed to borrow money for the deposit, never arrived as promised.
Just as I was wondering what had happened, about two hours later came the proposal to abandon that place and find another.

I felt disappointed that we had gone to the trouble of deciding on it, but by that time, the Tohoku Building—a structure in Tokyo with the best location and most affordable rates—had already been selected.

Mr. Saegusa was a man of remarkably diligent character.
Even if he was always one or two hours off the agreed time, I found myself unable to get angry.

This was the Tohoku Building where our office now resides, but back then, it had been a tiny second-floor room with only one desk, forcing Mr. Saegusa to use a chair as his desk and kneel on the floor to draft the inaugural issue's manuscript.
When aesthetically examining Mr. Saegusa's manuscript pages, they revealed a disorderly unity akin to Trocadéro's construction.

Mr. Saegusa bought a teacup and scrubbed it vigorously at the water spout.
And then, just as requested, he wielded his skilled brush and wrote the Yuiken signboard.
"It is the signboard that still hangs today, reading 'Materialism Research Institute Office.'"
Mr. Saegusa, perpetually sleep-deprived and buried under a mountain of entrusted tasks, would usually end up making these sorts of misprints.
To commemorate Mr. Saegusa’s honorable misprint, I hope this signboard will never be replaced.

This was one glimpse of Yuiken from about four years ago.
At that time, the movement of progressive thought was at a critical juncture (1927).
The establishment of Yuiken was merely broadcast on J.O.A.K.

(June 1936)

(No. 50, July 1, 1936)

Advocating Research in Literary Studies

The Materialism Research Association had a mountain of tasks that ought to be undertaken; whichever one we took on left us acutely aware of our manpower shortage—but among these，I believed establishing literary theory，that is，literary studies，now held utmost necessity for Yuiken when considered from various angles.

In Yuiken’s organ journal，it could not be considered that literary issues had been sufficiently addressed thus far.
While research meetings in each division’s art section had in fact been established since the association’s founding，and special art research meetings had recently been conducted vigorously，the approach taken in the organ journal remained highly disorganized.
At first glance，one might even get the impression there were too many articles related to art and literature，but this was merely due to fragmentary pieces being included.
In a sense，literature is the cultural form richest in popular appeal；therefore，even from the perspective of enlightening cultural activities，I believed it necessary to systematically allocate space for literature in *Yuiken*’s journal.

To be sure, the reason the organ journal *Yuiken* had not been particularly proactive on this point until now stemmed not only from insufficient strength in this area but also from their judgment that literary research activities ought to be entrusted to other parties—given that society contained no small number of groups akin to literary research circles and an abundance of literary magazines. However, upon reconsideration, one must acknowledge that literary theory or art theory has in fact made little reliable progress, and it seems fair to say there are virtually no research organizations operating on the premise of conducting foundational studies in literature.—Therefore, at this juncture, would it not be eminently appropriate for Yuiken to professionally undertake foundational theories of literature through both its research meetings and organ journal?
This constitutes precisely why we propose to Yuiken the establishment of literary studies.

How indispensable literary studies are as a science today requires no explanation here. Since society had not prepared a well-defined framework for literary studies, in literary criticism and other areas, one might unexpectedly fall into errors or find oneself unable to undertake proactive work. ―Fortunately, Yuiken possessed a considerable number of literary scholars, art scholars, literary critics, and writers as members. When listing the specialized members who should be mobilized for establishing literary studies now―starting with Eguchi Kan, Moriyama Kei, Kubokawa Tsurujirō, Nakano Shigeharu, Niijima Shigeru, Amakasu Sekisuke, Takaoki Yōzō, Honma Tadakazu, Izu Kimio, and Tokunaga Yasushi―I believed there was absolutely no shortage in either numbers or capability. I considered it fair to say this in light of Japan’s cultural level. What was necessary therefore was for us to mutually and clearly recognize that the theme of “literary studies” constituted a perfectly suited task for Yuiken at that juncture. Even if each member employed their own approach, they needed to promptly concentrate their activities along these lines through research meetings and the organ journal. In any case, I thought it was splendid and worthwhile work.

Let no one dare say that Yuiken has degenerated into mere literature. To degenerate into mere literature is precisely a result stemming from the inadequacy of literary studies. Moreover, Yuiken is not attempting to show partiality toward literature. The work of establishing literary studies will impart a significant impulse to research in philosophy, social sciences, and natural sciences. In any case, in various senses, the research in literary studies at Yuiken was work that hit the mark perfectly.

(No. 54, September 1, 1936)

――Summer Journey: Sado Island Travelogue

On the Discussion Meeting in Takada

Mr. Hori Shinji, Mr. Mori Koichi, and I stopped at Takada and Naoetsu during our Sado Island trip and held a discussion meeting with young enthusiasts from Joetsu on the evening of August 17.
I must regrettably omit the secret stories from our Sado travels in this solemn academic journal (?).
While I wouldn’t mind sharing them, it would be unfair to the other two gentlemen.
Should this provoke their anger, I shall have them write their protests in the next issue of *Yuiken News*.

But enough digression—the location was a certain inn in Takada. The landlady there was said to be a poet, and though our group was asked to provide calligraphy, none of us appeared suited to become poets given our vulgar handwriting that was unbearable to behold. "Ah, no—my apologies once more; you two are exceptions though." But in any case, I think this probably served as tea money.

But enough digression—those gathered numbered roughly twenty people. They seemed to be acquaintances of one another. There were also people who had come from considerable distances, staying overnight. Kimono fabric merchants, transport workers, postal workers (? bureau staff), car dealers, and so on—since these were people with real-life experience, the conversation proved enjoyable and easy to follow. A while back, there had been a women’s literary lecture in Takada where Ikuta Hanayo, Matsuda Toko, and Mori Michiyo apparently came; according to what these people said, the local cultural enthusiasts here were supposedly very simple and pure—though given that these three ladies themselves had been fidgeting about so much that the enthusiasts mistook them for factory girls, their account wasn’t exactly reliable.

But enough digression for the third time—at the discussion meeting, Mr. Hori and I were made to do the talking. Because we two spoke at such length, Mr. Mori ended up not having to say a word. During my stay in Sado Island, I had terrified you both with my titanic snoring, so I made amends by holding forth at great length.

My talk concerned something like the interplay between morality, mass appeal, and literature, while Mr. Hori’s consisted of a meticulous account of recent Spanish political history. After an exchange of questions and opinions, I believe we disbanded sometime past eleven o’clock. Even after disbanding, the conversation blossomed endlessly without showing any sign of stopping.

The following day, we visited Uesugi Kenshin’s gravesite at Kasugayama under the guidance of our host, Mr. Iwaki.
Since we took a group photo in front of Uesugi Kenshin’s grave, you will likely have the chance to see it before long.
As for how Hori-kun felt about it, he sat down on Lord Kenshin’s gravestone and was photographed.

That afternoon, we received many souvenirs and boarded the train bound for Tokyo—the people we had met were primarily those from Joetsu Literature. By distributing *Yuiken News*, I believe we were able to thoroughly establish recognition of Yuiken. In closing, we express our deepest gratitude to Mr. Iwaki and the other dedicated individuals.

(End)

(No. 54, September 1, 1936)

Yuiken’s Love Theory and Other Matters

We occasionally encountered inquiries asking whether Mr. Oka Kunio’s love theory constituted, in other words, the love theory of the Materialism Research Association.
Of course it did not.
This required no renewed clarification here.

One day, three of my friends came huffing and puffing to visit me. Since I was out, they visited me again around the following Sunday, all three together. Thinking it must be some grave issue, they explained that since Mr. Oka’s love theory required critique, Yuiken and others should take it up, and proposed coordinating said critique or development with Mr. Oka. So the five of us gathered and attempted to lay out various policies for critiquing and developing the love theory. However, this was merely a personal discussion, and Yuiken as an organization had not yet reached the point of undertaking anything. This was because Yuiken had not yet decided on any policy.

Mr. Oka’s consistently unchanging ideological opponent had been Ms. Kamichika Ichiko.
However, what the public might not have known well was that Ms. Kamichika had in fact also been a member of Yuiken and had even been one of its executives in the previous term.
But if you asked me, even if Ms. Kamichika were defeated or Mr. Oka thrived (?), it did not mean that Yuiken had been brought down (?).
Rather, it would have been fair to say that Yuiken aimed to utilize (?) the two’s debate to contribute to the examination of a social scientific theory of love.

In the recent issue of *Fujin Koron*, Mr. Oka and others had stated their respective positions, but within those writings—specifically in the piece authored by Mr. Oka’s wife—there were passages that could be interpreted as if someone from Yuiken had advised Mr. Oka on behalf of Yuiken or as if Yuiken itself had taken measures regarding the matter. Since the matters conducted at a gathering of four or five of Mr. Oka’s friends would never constitute actions taken by Yuiken, I explained that I wished to bring this point to her attention for due caution—and in this manner, I personally urged even Mrs. Oka to take note. Of course, Mrs. Oka was kind enough to understand that Yuiken was unrelated to Mr. Oka’s personal relationships. Thus, Yuiken has neither agreed with Mr. Oka’s theory nor expressed opposition to it. From Yuiken’s established position, if we were to take up this problem, it should not be a matter of simply agreeing or disagreeing; rather, critique and development must be our task.

In any case, “Yuiken’s Love Theory” has yet to be completed. I would like to briefly clarify this point. This is because false rumors have recently become quite rampant. False rumors—that is to say, so-called *dema*—but the other day, I was surprised when a rumor about Professor Takooki Yōzō appeared in a certain newspaper. I don’t know whether what they say about Takooki-kun is true, but the claim that I was the mastermind behind attempting to train this “Shakespeare who is out of touch with the masses” is entirely a false rumor. In truth, there is a hidden figure steadily waiting in the wings. In essence, false rumors and distorted reports are precisely such half-baked things.

A false rumor spread that there was concern about a certain senior’s circumstances, so my wife went to visit him.
But the other party was startled and said, “Has something happened to Tosaka-kun?”
was the response.
The senior was unaware of the rumors concerning himself but knew only of those concerning me.
In other words, false rumors seem to arise from the unequal distribution of news.
And so on.

(1936.12)

(No. 62, January 1, 1937)

In Praise of Natural Color Films – The Problem of Color Films

Comparing theater and film might have seemed meaningless, yet I found myself compelled to juxtapose them nonetheless. In doing so, I could not escape feeling theater's profound constraints weighing upon me. The stage labors under countless material limitations. While these restrictions culturally manifest as conventions and traditions—or what audiences might call cultivation—we must frankly recognize their roots in the physical shackles inherent to this journalistic medium called theater. Yet despite all this, I discovered I had no inclination to watch films immediately after attending plays (primarily modern theater in the broader sense). Let me clarify—this was never because films lacked artistic merit or literary value. Even had those qualities been diminished or absent altogether, my partiality toward cinema would have remained unshaken. Through rigorous self-examination, I gradually understood that theater's singular charm—the quality that forever keeps film at arm's length—resides precisely in its chromatic liberty.

Recently, with the arrival of films like *Ramona* and *Desert Garden*, interest in color films—particularly natural color films—seemed to have greatly increased. I had only seen *Ramona*, but I believed I could become an unconditional advocate for natural color films. Even in natural color films—where dye concentration allowed free coloring methods—there appeared some exaggeration; however, as long as this deformation remained painterly in quality, it was not undesirable—indeed, it might even have been beneficial. Even black-and-white films exaggerated shadows far beyond real-life perception—a characteristic we must recognize as constituting photography’s essential charm. Admittedly, from cinema’s inherent material realism perspective, excessive color exaggeration risks fostering deception; yet the concentrated brilliance seen in refracted images at the base of the camera’s dark chamber remains undeniably admirable.

Technicolor and color-separation-based stereoscopic films are technically incompatible.
But when viewing Technicolor，the first thing one notices is how colors render perspective strikingly clear.
Since this reproduces considerable depth，it can substitute for stereoscopic films to some extent.
At least compared to those so-called “pop-out movies” or “stereoscopic films，”they prove more realistic in three-dimensionality.

Despite natural color films’ unconditional superiority，their failure to dominate likely stems entirely from economic（and thereby technical）difficulties.
But once production reaches critical mass，I suspect business viability will require natural color formats.
In my layman’s view，I even sense natural color’s era may dawn within two or three years.

When talkies first appeared, there apparently existed a curious “aesthetics” that sought to prove the artistic superiority of silent films; similarly, it seems there is now an “aesthetics” that praises monochrome films over natural color ones. But such claims amount to an “ethics” of sorts—the kind that argues poverty brings peace of mind.

(1937.4)

(No. 70, May 1, 1937)

An Account of Traveling Through Hokuriku with Nakano Shigeharu – A Summer Travelogue

It was on the night of the first day of this month that I departed Ueno with Mr. Nakano Shigeharu.
When we arrived in Toyama around seven o'clock the next morning and felt like having breakfast, I asked Mr. Nakano how long it would take to get to Takaoka; he said it would be an hour, so I bought a station bento—only for us to arrive at Takaoka Station before I could start eating.
There was only about a fifteen-minute interval.
It was my mistake to consult Mr. Nakano, who had bought tickets to Toyama under the assumption that it lay beyond Takaoka.
As a result, the two of us, while carefully cradling our bulky station bento boxes, ended up meeting the cultural figures of Takaoka City who had come to greet us for the first time.
In the end, we never got a chance to touch that bento, yet it weighed on our chests all day long.
Even as we conversed with the guests who came to visit us at the inn, our attention kept drifting to that thing placed in the tokonoma alcove, leaving us unable to fully engage in the conversation.
In this restless state, we were taken to Himi Coast.
Because our preparations for the lecture were not yet in order, we were unable to while away the time on Karashima Island until the heat subsided—a regrettable outcome indeed.
When we returned to the inn and were about to start preparing earnestly for the lecture, an Inspector from the Toyama Prefectural Office came to visit us to express his respects.
After chatting for several minutes, we promised to meet again and parted ways—but thanks to that, our lecture preparations were ruined: Mr. Nakano read *King* magazine at the inn, while I dozed off using a zabuton cushion as a pillow.
Given this situation, it seemed the audience would number at best a hundred people, at worst around fifty.

The venue was the Takaoka Chamber of Commerce and Industry—an impeccable location—but the heat proved unparalleled, and mosquitoes seemed to outnumber the attendees. Even so, the audience must have numbered at least a hundred and fifty or sixty. While repeatedly dabbing at our perspiration, Mr. Nakano critiqued recent works of the New Japan School, and I lectured on the scientific spirit. With over thirty attendees at the subsequent discussion meeting, the event could be considered broadly successful.

On the night of the third, though we had been scheduled to hold a lecture in Toyama City, an order arrived to convert it into a discussion meeting. Attendance would be capped at fifty people. As all advance ticket holders were apparently admitted, the count reached around seventy. Regrettably for Mr. Nakano, however, the beautiful poet—who had so eagerly questioned him about that day’s venue—never materialized. We began by each speaking seated for thirty minutes before transitioning to questions. While this novel format proved largely effective for dialogue, the prefectural authorities countered with their own innovation: they obsessively photographed the venue throughout.

That evening we lodged at our friend Mr. Nagasaki’s home in Toyama. The discussion meeting in Fukuno—a town of five or six thousand—scheduled for the fourth’s evening was restricted to twenty participants. Worse still, we received strict instructions: no opening remarks exceeding five minutes, and absolutely no mention of troop deployment figures or public morality issues. Our entire group found ourselves profoundly mortified.

Cultural lectures remained exceedingly rare in Toyama Prefecture; even discussion meetings counted as novelties here. Yet despite such curiosity, proceedings never quite found their rhythm.

Our increasingly constrained program came to an abrupt end with the cancellation of the lecture scheduled for the fifth in Kanazawa. It was frustrating—utterly frustrating. Even Mr. Iwaki—our host—uncharacteristically suffered heart palpitations severe enough to require injections.

I too began suffering from diarrhea due to overindulging in ice cream and required a full day’s rest at Mr. Iwaki’s house in the middle of Tano. Mr. Nakano hurried off to his strict father, an avid reader of proletarian literature, while I, dejected, found myself stepping onto the platform at Ueno Station in the early morning of the seventh.

Being able to meet with Toyama Prefecture’s cultural figures and learn about the local cultural climate was an irreplaceable benefit.
He heard that their plans for a coterie magazine had since matured.
The experience of having pioneered (?) this region remained, above all else, a pleasant memory.
(1937.8)
(No. 77, August 15, 1937)

Watching *Tsuchi*

I think it was nearly twenty years ago that I read *Tsuchi*.
As far as I recall, it was a thick, square book smaller than B6 size.
The reason I felt compelled to read it was that I was following Sōseki’s famous dictum.
When my daughter grew up and started talking about places like the Imperial Theatre and Mitsukoshi, I wanted to make her read this novel—that was the gist of it.
The Imperial Theatre was a high-class theater at the time.

However, having read it, I must admit that even now I cannot erase the impression that it was difficult to read and boring.
And so, I never mustered the courage to try rereading it after that.
When I saw the passages that Mr. Nakano Shigeharu had repeatedly read and which evoked the appearance of the characters, I was impressed, thinking that indeed only an expert could achieve such a feat.

I don’t know whether invoking the original work when discussing a play is advisable or not, but having seen the staged version, I found myself impressed anew by how they managed to craft such a cohesive adaptation. That what had been considered a rather flat work could contain such dramatic tension and climactic peaks struck me as even somewhat surprising. I thought I really should have gone to see this sooner. Though I must say, the sort of happy ending at the play’s close didn’t quite feel like a resolution.

The dialect appeared thoroughly mastered—the excellence of the trio comprising Kanjii, Otsuu, and the old man matched exactly what had been said about them. The landlady’s unnatural affectation as a Tokyo downtown resident, the anti-dynamic quality in how the father and daughter swung their hoes, and the disproportionately long intermissions—I believed these points had already been noted by others. As for the young master’s oil-in-water-like incongruity, I suspected some critic must have remarked on that too.

Given the relatively meager stage equipment, realizing the opulent lifestyles of nobles and bourgeoisie proved challenging—particularly with foreign works. Yet under such constraints, this production managed remarkably well. Under those conditions, one found that “realism” itself could suggest contemplative approaches without needing to forcibly attach ideological elements. Kanjii proved perfectly cast and indeed succeeded splendidly. By contrast, Otsuu’s portrayal seemed compelled to rely somewhat on eliciting fan-like sympathy. Still, for audiences predisposed to fixate on Otsuu as the central interest, this corrective approach might ultimately have served them well.

(1937.10)

(No. 82, November 1, 1937)

To Mr. Ueno Kōzō

Upon reading part (III) of Mr. Ueno Kōzō’s “On Artistic Cognition” in the December issue of *Film Creation*, I was struck by an unexpected sensation. I recall that on previous occasions when reading this person’s writings—particularly upon reaching passages addressing my own views—I have been surprised to encounter unforeseen criticisms; this instance proved no exception. According to Mr. Ueno, my essay “Literary Studies as Epistemology” published in *Materialism Research* asserts that “the epistemology of literature must equate to the epistemology of science, thereby rendering this epistemology inapplicable to art in general.” However, I consider this nothing less than an outrageous slander—or at the very least, a grave (and semi-deliberate) misunderstanding.

The assertion that literary epistemology is scientific epistemology has no connection whatsoever to me; in that work, I expounded on how literature is not science, and it is precisely epistemology that determines such issues—this is what I argued. When speaking of epistemology, is Mr. Ueno presuming that it refers solely to “scientific epistemology”? Moreover, the claim that “this epistemology cannot be applied to art in general” arises precisely because literature is not painting or music; [number unclear], and isn’t it only natural that there exist epistemological theories distinct from those pertaining to cognition? To say that this epistemology cannot be applied to art in general and then to conclude that literary epistemology must therefore be scientific epistemology is exceedingly reckless.

As for how literary cognition differs from scientific cognition—or, to rephrase it in the manner Mr. Ueno favors, how literature and art in general perform a “higher” form of cognition than science—this is something I believe I wrote about quite tenaciously in my book *Morals Theory*. In cases where Mr. Ueno introduces, criticizes, or applies my theories related to literature or my views on art as reference material in the future, I would ask him to read this book first. Were he to do so, he would not conceive such misguided notions. That my writing serves to prove to third parties that Mr. Ueno’s critical target is by no means his own fabrication brings me modest honor; yet that even the core and contours of my views should be fabricated through this process causes me profound distress.

It seemed that Mr. Ueno had some kind of preconception governing his analysis. To put it plainly, I suspected that an obstinate insistence—declarations like “I am an artist!” or “I’m a career art theorist!”—kept surfacing within his otherwise earnest examinations; without this predisposition, such fundamental misunderstandings would hardly arise. Moreover, Mr. Ueno appeared to operate with a conception of “epistemology” entirely divorced from my own interpretive framework. While this divergence itself did not concern me, I must protest his imposition of this personal conceptual lens upon my arguments.

In essence, I maintain that discussions of “artistic cognition” fall squarely within epistemology’s purview—a principle especially applicable to the term “cognition” itself. Herein lies Mr. Ueno’s primary error: framing the issue as “If science’s entire essence lies in cognition, does art’s essence likewise reside solely in cognition?” This approach presumes cognition equates to scientific cognition—a false equivalence forcing him to misrepresent my stance as claiming literary epistemology must mirror scientific epistemology. Let me clarify: my actual theory posits that art *is* cognition.

Artistic cognition and thought do not emerge through retroactive processes like fleshing out “ideas” or deliberate “formalization.” True artistic cognition exists only when form is apprehended from inception—when thought manifests *as* form rather than being shaped into it afterward. Any epistemology asserting expression exists separately from cognition—that one can cognize without expressing—represents precisely the sort of nonsensical framework I reject.
(1937.12)

(No. 86, January 1, 1938)

As one of the former executives,

We suddenly announced a statement concerning Yuiken’s transformation on January 8th of this year. For members and others deeply connected to the association, this may have been a bolt from the blue. However, for other members, it may have felt like nothing more than an entirely natural phenomenon. Rather, there may even have been people who criticized that this matter came far too late.

The world was abuzz with talk of Yuiken’s ideological conversion. However, we did not know whether this transformation constituted what was called ideological conversion. The suspension of certain collective research activities and the transformation of the association into a business-oriented unit was, of course, an ideological conversion in the broad sense. However, the decision to further solidify the editorial policy of our organ journal as an academic research publication merely reaffirmed its original purpose. We decided to take this opportunity to liquidate the considerable emphasis we had previously placed on commentary activities. If we did not do so, it was because we would invite various unforeseen and foolish misunderstandings.

Setting aside the above points, whether Yuiken underwent what is called an ideological conversion or not is, in any case, not a particularly meaningful perspective. Yuiken has indeed shifted from a research organization to a business entity. That is all there is to it. And this business entity, which is the objective of our transformation, intends to make none other than the publication of an increasingly research-oriented academic journal the fundamental basis of its management. Through this, I think we would be able to secure a research publication platform for members and other scholars while also indirectly providing part of the foundation for their livelihoods.

Now, what had been of direct concern in managing Yuiken up to that day?
It was none other than the very intellectuals across the land who harbored an unusual interest in Yuiken—whether for good or ill—those interested parties themselves that had been of direct concern.
This reputation arose both from goodwill toward Yuiken and from a sense of distance maintained by those very individuals themselves.
The fact that irresponsible rumors interfered with Yuiken’s management caused no small heartache for those directly involved in its operations; indeed, there were times when it even seemed Yuiken might be led astray by the very consideration of certain well-meaning individuals should matters worsen.
There had not been few occasions when I thought that rather than hastily making judgments, maintaining greater composure or resolve might actually prove wiser.

I, along with Mr. Oka Kunio, resigned from our executive positions.
This was entirely due to personal reasons, for there was a part of me that thought we must not cause even the slightest inconvenience to Yuiken itself.
This was done out of consideration for the matter of the so-called writing ban that was effectively imposed on the two of us (along with many other journalists) through a segment of journalism.
However, the matter concerning the two of us is, in essence, a personal one.
This is not something directly related to Yuiken.
In a corner of society, there were those who thought Yuiken was being run by Oka and Tosaka; of course, this was an outrageous misunderstanding, and those who know, know that Yuiken is not such a personal endeavor.

I think that Yuiken will henceforth advance with ever more stately strides. For this purpose, the meticulous and precise implementation of business management is especially necessary. We earnestly hope for the assistance of our members and readers. In conclusion, as one of the former executives, I hereby express a portion of my heartfelt thoughts.

(1938.1)

(No. 87, 1938.1.15)

Untitled—Recollections: Five and a Half Years

On February 12, 1938, the Materialism Research Association was finally dissolved.
Since its founding—precisely five years and five months—we could not help but feel some emotion; however, becoming sentimental on this occasion would not have been very moral.
Rather than dwelling on that, since the journal *Yuibutsu Kenkyu* (Materialism Research) was scheduled to be renamed *Gakugei* (學藝) and published under fresh editorial direction, I thought it would be better to envision that future and take pleasure in it.

To friends who marveled, “You’re quite the optimist!” I would always explain:
“My optimism contains a scientific Lebensweisheit—a ‘philosophy.’
First, understand this: life is a gamble through and through.
If odd comes up 50 percent and even comes up 50 percent, bet on whichever—odd or even—looks more promising.
By my calculations, you’ll gain more than wagering on the slump.
Mr. Pascal said as much about God.
You’ll see this isn’t just my ‘philosophy’—within that logic, I’ve resolved to stay optimistic.”

While reflecting on the logic of odds like a gambler, I revere the virtue of adventure like a showman.
It’s not limited to romantic adventures, but whenever I undertake a task, my fondness for adventure cannot be separated from my theory of optimism.
Without a theory of optimism, one would never feel inclined to embark on adventures.

Now, I would like to recommend to my many friends in the field of work this romanticism and idealism composed of a theory of optimism and adventurism.
At the dissolution of the Materialism Research Association, I think recommending this romanticism and idealism might be somewhat amusing—what say you, gentlemen?
And by the way, I would like to recommend one more ill-advised thing.
That is a certain nihilism and cynicism.
Yuiken has ceased to exist—well then, isn’t it enough to simply say, “Ah, I see”?
To hell with tragic posturing!
At least that way is “profitable.”
I think about things solely from a perspective of profit and loss.
If you will call this materialism, then call it so.
Even as I say this, I find myself wanting to recommend a kind of materialism as well.
Those who fret over what might happen are indeed enemies of materialism—even as I say this, I find myself wanting to recommend every manner of dubious thing.
I have a tendency to climb, so unless someone stops me, it looks like dawn will break.

“Well then, gentlemen, snore deeply and sleep soundly. Sound sleep is the secret to a long life.”

(1938.2)

(No. 88 Final Issue, 1938.2.15)