To follow up on the previous column, in which we looked at how a speaker referred to himself/herself (first-person), we will now touch upon pronouns used to address the listener (second-person).

If an exchange student were to falteringly ask me, “Are you a professor?” (anata wa sensei desu ka?), I wouldn’t be angry(1) . But if a native Japanese student asked me “Are you a professor?” (anata wa sensei desu ka?), I’d be annoyed. It would be better if s/he had said “Uh…. are you a professor?” (ano… sensei deshoo ka?). On second thought, I wouldn’t be annoyed so much as alarmed. If a student referred to someone who appeared to be a professor with the pronoun “you” (anata), I would think that professor was probably on the verge of being sued. It would imply: “Are you really a professor? Ok, I’ll see you in court.

The words anata (you) and watashi (I) appear as a pair at the beginning of every textbook on Japanese. To foreigners, the pronoun “you” is ok for everyone. But this only applies to “foreigner” characters.

Of course, in TV commercials and street-corner surveys, “you” (anata) often shows up, for example: “You can return your skin to its youthful state!” or “What country do you want to visit?” etc. However, this does not mean that it is always fine to use “you” (anata) in Japanese. Commercials and surveys are always directed at an unseen, unknown, unspecified mass of people, so there is no established human relationship between the speaker and listener. Therefore, it is acceptable to use “you” (anata).

So long as one lives in the midst of acquaintances, situations in which one should call another person “you” (anata) will almost never arise. I myself have not once called anyone “you” since, at least, the beginning of this year. It’s disrespectful. Although “you” is polite language, it is only polite when said by someone of “high rank.” After graduating from law school, and finding myself with nowhere to go, I took the entrance examination to an undergraduate humanities program. During the interview, the professor scolded me: “Why do you (anata) want to take a degree with no job prospects?” Only a professor of that stature is allowed to use “you” (anata). It’ll be quite some time before I reach that level.

Of course, as I said at the beginning, it is probably somewhat easier to refer to as “you” (anata) a person whose individual merit may seem no better or worse than that of anybody else due to certain public circumstances. For instance, being sued or on the verge thereof. However, if it is easy to call a suspect “you” (anata) but not a judge, who one would call “your honor” (saibanchoo), this would after all indicate that “you” (anata) is a word the use of which is reserved for those of “high rank.”

What? You say that in the manga Sazaesan, Sazaesan says “You forgot your lunch box” (anata, obentou wasureteru wa yo!) to her husband Masuo? Is she looking down on her husband in this case? No, of course not. This “you” (anata) is the “you” used by people (especially women) to refer to their significant others in cases where a marital or romantic relationship exists. Although the young women of today may not familiar with it, there is a work about men and women set in the Edo period by Yamamoto Shugoro in which one can find the following conversation:

“…… I’m Yaroku. Call me by name from now on.”

“Are you kidding? What wife calls her husband by name? Let me call you ‘you,’ like any other married couple.”

[Yamamoto Shuugorou, Yuurei Kashiya 1950]

This word also used to often appear in popular music not long ago. If we consider that two people in an intimate relationship can both act “superior” to each other, and that while the “superior” man often uses omae(2) (you/brusque) while the woman uses the more polite anata, this “you” (anata) seems to be related to the polite “you” used by those of “high rank” mentioned earlier. Without more research, I cannot be sure of the details.

However, regardless of how we handle the “you” (anata) addressed to a significant other, what is clear at this point is that while “you” (anata) is normally a polite word, there are various circumstances under which it can be offensive to people. The rudeness that may be perceived when someone calls another by the polite anata—even if they refrain from brusquely using omae, kisama, or temee—derives from the fact that the speaker has transcended his or her position, and is behaving as a character of superior status (“high rank”). This is all I wanted to say.

*　*　*

(1) While the pronoun “you” (anata) does exist in the Japanese language, it is seldom used. Generally one uses the other person’s last name with an honorary suffix such as san (Mr./Ms.) or sensei (Prof.).

(2) Omae, kisama, and temee all translate as “you,” but are more brusque, less polite variants, and are most often used by men.

Previously, I mentioned that when answering the phone, a large percentage of Japanese women raise (or lower) their voices, becoming almost different people. To be sure, this is probably fine with the person on the other end. But for the people around the woman in question, it must be unsettling to hear her from the backstage area, as it were, switch to her phone voice to make her character more presentable.

The home is probably the representative place where one can get away with such embarrassing behavior. After all, the rest of the family is, more or less, in the same boat. Everyone tacitly agrees that, even if it is just a facade to keep up appearances, having mom act like a “refined lady of the house” by using her raised phone voice, it is better for the appearance of everyone in the family. The man who acts like a “gentleman” in society, but is a spoiled “rich kid” at home (part 92), the guy who is a cool adult outside, but at home is a runty “child,” the woman who is a refined “young lady” when she goes to parties, but on getting home shucks her shoes and clothes, drinks too much, and pukes (part 93); dad, you, me, everyone has their flaws—it’s best we turn a blind eye to each other.

As I just said, we’re all “in the same boat,” but this doesn’t completely explain why it is particularly easy in the home to recognize the smoothing over of character that goes on backstage. A person can be “father to Person A, husband to Person B,” or “daughter to Person C, big sister to Person D;” the home has a variety of overlapping human relationships, not unlike a workplace. Moreover, when the whole family (A through D) gathers in one spot, all these relationships often manifest themselves at once. That “one spot” is the home. At home, the limitations of always attempting to use one character with regards to everyone probably become pretty apparent.

Nick Campbell, who I mentioned last time, is surveying a huge amount of data, spanning a number of years, on the daily conversations of Japanese women. According to this research, the speaker’s tone of voice changes greatly depending on which member of the family she is talking to, for example adopting a raised voice when speaking to her daughter, or a stiff voice when talking to her husband (Campbell, Nick, and Mokhtari, Parham. 2003. Voice quality: the 4th prosodic dimension, ICPhS2003, 2417-2420, http://www.speech-data.jp/nick/feast/pubs/vqpd.pdf).

Come to think of it, in Yasunari Kawabata’s Maihime (The Dancer, 1950–1951), Shinako Yagi, the 21 year-old, single protagonist, refers to herself as both “I/me” and in the third person (“Shinako”). Shinako generally calls herself “Shinako” when speaking to her father Moto’o (3 out of 3 times), her mother Namiko (49 out of 55 times), and her mother’s assistant Tomoko Hitachi who is three years older than Shinako (7 out of 7 times). On the other hand, she uses “I/me” when talking to her younger brother Takao (1 out of 1 time), her senior schoolmate Nozu (5 out of 5 times) in whose marriage proposals she takes no interest, and her mother’s lover, Takehara (1 out of 1 time). Cases of her using “I/me” are few, and while the details are vague, her different uses of “Shinako” and “I/me” can probably be explained by whether or not the other party is her superior or inferior, and whether s/he is a member of Shinako’s family. Or rather, it might be more straightforward to say that she uses the third person to create a “child” character that will be coddled by others; when she cannot, or doesn’t want to, be coddled, she uses “I/me.” Although the above discussion does not compare with Campbell’s scientific approach, the idea that at home Shinako’s character changes subtly depending on whether she’s talking to her parents or her younger brother is probably relevant.

How to go about convincing others (not only laypeople, but researchers and colleagues from various academic backgrounds) to accept this new idea that “it is necessary to include the concept of character in communication and language research”?

As I said previously, I believe that the best method is to make use of various real examples in order to bring others, by hook or by crook, to an intuitive “understanding” of the necessity of the concept of character, and this is exactly what I have been doing in this series.

Of course, my ideas are only that —my ideas. But in fact experiments showing that the concept of character is necessary on a “scientific” basis have actually begun. For example, in a paper jointly authored by MOKHTARI Akiko & CAMPBELL Nick, “Speaking Style Variation and Speaker Personality” (in OKADA Hiroki, SADANOBU Toshiyuki (2010 Eds.) ‘The Potential of Cultural Literacy,’ Hitsuzi Shobo), the authors describe how they recorded a single speaker, who used 30 tones of voice, speaking with various people in-person and on the phone. They then used these recordings in an experiment. A report of their experiment, as simply summarized by me, is as follows.

The people selected as test subjects, i.e. the listeners, were unacquainted with the speaker of the recordings. The test subjects were instructed to listen to 30 voices. They were asked to listen to each voice carefully, and divide them into groups by speaker. Of course, all 30 voices were produced by one person, so one would expect they would not be able to distinguish them, but incredibly, the subjects were able to sort all the voices into multiple groups. The subjects were further asked to fill out a questionnaire regarding what kind of people they thought had produced the voices in each group. The subjects responded by assigning various ages and appearances to the speakers in each group. At the end of the experiment, the subjects were flabbergasted to learn that all the voices had been produced by a single person.

In conclusion, the authors observed that “the amount of variation in manner of speaking, depending on who the speaker was speaking to, far exceeded the expectations of the test subjects.” Stated another way, while the test subjects probably recognized that a speaker might change his/her style of speaking depending on the other party, their estimates of the amount of variation were far lower than actual variation. Why did the subjects, or rather why do we all, unrealistically underestimate this kind of thing so much?

I think it is because we “good citizens” live in a world of commitments, and are conditioned to accept certain kinds of ideas. When I see you and speak to you, I believe that you behave precisely like the kind of person you are, and that you will be that kind of person anytime, anywhere. I do not think to myself, you seem thus and so now, but I don’t know what you’re like when I’m not around. I want you to believe that I am precisely the kind of person I seem to be also. This does not just apply to you and me. I assume that all people (or at least all my acquaintances) accept the idea that each person behaves and speaks in a “straightforward” manner, just as their personality dictates. It is not that we categorically deny the existence of shady characters that, although they aren’t supposed to change, actually can, and often do change. It is just that we live our lives without even thinking about this (this is what it means to live a social life) and thus we can maintain our unrealistic estimates without a second thought.

When answering the phone, Japanese women (homemakers especially) use a voice that is completely different from their normal voice. They give their voice an inordinately high, cheerful tone, and begin by saying Hai moshi moshi, XX de gozaimasu (Yes, hello? This is XX speaking). I would bring up this change of voice in order to make my readers realize the necessity of the concept of character, but this is not a rule; in reality, there are also women, albeit lesser in number, who give their voice an inordinately low (calm) tone when answering the phone. Thus, today I introduced a “scientific” approach to characters, while making a profit by using my cherished fellow researchers’ abilities.

In the previous two parts (92 ・ 93), we saw that the younger brother in Natsume Soseki’s Koujin used ..desu ze and …de saa when addressing his older brother. In Sakaguchi Ango’s Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken we saw a famous detective who used …de saa and …masen ze and the maid who said Okusama, ojoosama wa gero haite… (Madam, the young miss puked). The heroine in Tsuboi Sakae’s Nijuushi no Hitomi uses …masu na and her smile is described as “sneering.” Wouldn’t looking at these kinds of unnatural expressions, no matter how authoritative these famous quotes are, muddy the connection between Japanese language and character, and warp their mutual relationship?

That is definitely a possibility. But we needn’t worry about it too much. This is because the problem we are most concerned with is the realm of “modern Japanese,” which, in its own way, we are sufficiently capable of understanding by intuition.

To be sure, the …desu ze, …masen ze, and …de saa of the brother in Koojin and the detective in Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken, and the …masu na in Nijuushi no Hitomi would be unnatural as modern language. However, this is something that we intuitively understand. We needn’t consider these to be examples of modern Japanese. That’s all there is to it.

On the other hand, when the maid in Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken, said Okusama, ojoosama wa gero haite, kurushiminasu tte imasu ga… (Madam, the young miss puked and said she’s in pain), we can sufficiently understand, even from a modern perspective, the obtuseness of her use of refined words, like okusama (madam) and ojoosama (young miss) together with the vulgar gero haite (puke) to be the behavior of a certain type of “country folk” character.

The “sneering” of the heroine in Nijuushi no Hitomi probably also seems normal, even from modern aesthetics, when we consider that it takes place in an opening scene eight years after the previous chapter, and the heroine is being introduced not as a heroine, but as an unidentified woman.

Thus, we cannot dismiss “the young miss puked” or the “sneering” as artifacts of the olden days that do not apply in modern times. We should recognize them as modern Japanese, but as examples of twists on speakers and scene.

These are simple examples because they are things that we understand intuitively. In cases where it is best to use intuition, there is no reason not to.

Unfortunately, our understanding is extremely limited when it comes to the root problem of linguistic communication —that is, the problem of what we are doing with language when we get together in groups. It is still very difficult for us to know even what position a given behavior occupies in the world of linguistic communication at large. Even if we try to find its position, we cannot even plot its longitude and latitude, as we haven’t yet discovered where the poles are on the globe of linguistic communication nor the equator. This is the extent to which we do not understand the world of linguistic communication.

The fact that our understanding of it is so limited indicates that what we call meaning within this world is something created by the people living in it, and not something that can be measured objectively from the “outside.” If we try to observe something in a straightforward manner, this tends to eliminate intuition. However, uniquely in the case of our own linguistic communication, intuition is a crucial tool, apart from objective measurement, when making observations.

In backing up my assertion that the concept of character is necessary in observing the Japanese-speaking community, I have not produced any byzantine formulae or graphs. Rather, I think it is best to use fragments of noted literary works, because these will give readers an intuitive understanding of character.

And also, I admit, because I like such literary works.

In Ango Sakaguchi’s Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken (part 92), besides the number of murders, one other shocking “incident” was the unforgettable sentence uttered by a maid in the story. This was the “Young Miss Puked” incident.

Ayaka held the crying Tamao and led her away. When she returned some time later, the maid came in after her. “Ma’am, the Young Miss puked. She says she’s in pain and asked for Mr. Ebizuka.” Ebizuka raised his head angrily. “Nonsense! She doesn’t need a doctor to take care of her. She’s just drunk. Does she think she’s a queen? Go away.” He glared menacingly.

[Sakaguchi Ango Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken, 1947–48]

Hmm. Is it ever ok to say the words “Young Miss” together with “puked?” If, like verbal characters (part 56), expression characters too normally appear in a consistent form, the words following “the Young Miss” should have been “is feeling unwell.” Even if she had decided to explain the real facts of the matter, she would be more likely to say “the Young Miss was sick” and not “puked.” Conversely, if she absolutely had to use “puked,” wouldn’t it have been more natural to avoid using the expression “Young Miss,” which so particularly evoked “class,” rather say “Tamao,” or “she.”

There are still more examples of unnatural passages in authoritative famous quotes. In Tsuboi Sakae’s(1) Nijuushi no Hitomi(2) (1952), three children’s Mother, who is the young heroin of the story, says komarimasu na (this is a problem!). -Masu na?! Even worse, she is described as “sneering,” even though she’s the heroin. Is it acceptable to say the good guy “sneers?”

Lamenting together over the merchandise, the old man nodded his head in agreement. “There’s plenty in dark markets,” he said.
Then he laughed. His mouth, apparently lacking back teeth, looked pitch black inside. The woman averted her eyes, saying “Today we have to buy everything at dark markets. If I cannot help buying my schoolbag at dark market,… that’s a problem (komarimasu na).”
“I guess you can have anything, as long as you have some money. Somewhere there is sweet zenzai and yookan(3) piled up like a mountain.”
While saying this, some actual drool spilled out of the toothless man’s mouth. Wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand embarrassedly, he pointed with his chin. “Let’s wait over there miss. At least a spot in the sun is free.”
He quickly crossed to the boarding area on the other side of the street. Sneering (niyari to shinagara) despite herself at being called “miss,” the woman followed.

[Tsuboi Sakae Nijuushi no Hitomi 1952]

I’ll say it again. As long as I deal with passages in authoritative famous quotes, I find myself having to recognize such unnatural examples in the data. So, do we have any hope of understanding the relationship between the Japanese language and characters?

(To be continued.)

*　*　*

(1) 1899–1967 Japanese Novelist and poet.

(2) English title: Twenty-Four Eyes.

(3) Zenzai means a sweet soup made of red beans. Yookan means a sweetened bean jelly.

In Natsume Soseki’s Koujin(1) , there is a paragraph in which the author (narrator), who is the younger of two siblings, talks about his older brother:

When he was cheerful, he was ridiculously cheerful. But once his mood took a perverse turn, he’d wear a sullen expression for days, and pointedly refused to talk. He was like this not just to me, but to my mother and his wife too. In front of outsiders though, it was like he turned into a different person; his gentlemanly bearing was impeccable under every circumstance, and he was a most agreeable companion. Thus, his friends believed him to be an entirely pleasant and good fellow. When mother and father heard him thus praised, they always looked surprised. However, they seemed happy nonetheless —he was their son after all. Whenever I heard people praising my older brother this way I’d become furious if we weren’t getting along at the time. I wanted to go to each one of their homes and correct their misconceptions.

[NATSUME Soseki Koojin 1912–13]

The narrator’s brother acts extremely “docile” in front of others, but this is actually a front. Every now and then the narrator, who sees what’s happening behind the scenes, wants to destroy this front. This front is, of course, the elder brother’s “gentleman (agreeable companion)” character —right, this is all well and good. As I said in the previous column, in this series I want to look at authoritative famous quotes that are a little bit old, but can still generally be called “modern Japanese.”

But wait! The narrator of Koojin says the following to his older brother. His psychotic brother tells him:“I want to test my wife’s fidelity. Go to Wakayama with her, and stay the night.”

“But this is my sister-in-law (aniyome-san desu ze). Not only a married woman, but my sister in law.”

“Being asked by someone to put another person to the test… I don’t like it (iya de saa). Besides… I’m not a detective.”

Even if he’s speaking as an “inferior,” from the perspective of modern sensibilities, isn’t it odd that the younger brother uses desu ze and de saa(2) when talking to his older brother?

Speaking of detectives, in Ango Sakaguchi’s(3) Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken (“The Non-serial Killer”), a young detective named Kose uses de saa and …masen ze when speaking to the narrator, whom he looks up to. This too is a little strange from the perspective of modern sensibilities.

“If we know that, we’ll know who the killer is. But this was a phenomenally well-planned crime. Every last detail was thought out (keisan sarete iru no de sa). This was probably the most intelligent, largest crime ever committed in Japan. This killer is a genius (tensai de saa ne). The complete discretion of the plan’s intelligent efficiency is sheer brilliance. The way the doorknob, tied with thread, closed the door naturally, and the way the sealed room disguised the murder, each ploy itself was another of the murder’s footprints all along. They told us from the beginning about the criminal’s mentality. More than anything, this criminal was worried about telling us anything about their state of mind. (…) The murder had probably already been completed.”

“This killer isn’t the kind of fool who would announce the murder for August 9th, then, like a literal-minded idiot, actually commit the crime on August 9th (girigatai donma ja arimasen ze).”

[SAKAGUCHI Ango Furenzoku Satsujin Jiken, 1947–48]

No matter how authoritative these famous quotes are, does looking at these kinds of unnatural passages cloud over the connection between Japanese language and character, and warp their mutual relationship?

(To be continued.)

*　*　*

(1) English title: The Wayfarer.

(2) Both “saa” and “ze” are interjectory particles that add emphasis. Both are considered pretty rough and ready, and normally wouldn’t be used when addressing someone more senior than oneself.

(3) 1906–1955 Novelist

There are abundant examples of phenomena that probably cannot be explained without using the idea of “character,” in very recent video and literature. Previously, we looked at the examples of Sho Sakurai from the band Arashi, and Naoko Asada’s series Osakana Saijiki, but an old guy like myself can’t use such examples often in this series.

No way. It’s not that I dislike these examples. I am a member of the Arashi Fan Club, after all. Just kidding. Naoko Asada’s Osakana Saijiki is another story though. Did you know that Episode 68 is missing? And the Asada Suisan fish shop is on the first floor of a certain building… It’s true. (Am I an Osakana Saijiki geek?)

Why don’t I use recent media in this series? If I did use it often, people would mistakenly assume that I was writing a “theory of modern youth.” “I see. In his current group, young Sakurai’s ‘self’ is not fully formed. Today’s youth, like Asada, use jumbled language and thus cannot write consistently as ‘themselves’.” No matter how much I said, “No! I am not just talking about today’s youth. This sort of thing has been going on forever,” nobody would listen to me. I just know it.

However, I don’t really want to use examples like this one either:

I despise it when people who are not so very old, or men, purposefully put on rustic airs. The same words heard by different ears. The words of a priest. The words of a man. The words of a woman. In the language of the vulgar, words are always overabundant.

[See Shonagon(1) Makura no Soshi Revised by Ikeda Kikan, Iwanami Shoten, Publishers]

“It’s irritating when people who aren’t even that old or men use rural mannerisms.” “The same words leave a different impression depending on whether they’re spoken by a priest, a man, or a woman. People of humble station are always the most long-winded.” These examples are related to character, but they’re too old. If I used them, people would say: “I see. In the Heian period…” or “I see, I see. See Shonagon…” They would quite possibly interpret my writing in the light of theories about the era, or the author. Besides, most of my audience would be repelled by such ancient examples. I just know it.

Therefore, in this series, in order to call to mind the “deep connections that character has with our Japanese-speaking society,” I rely on Tanizaki’s novels, or Dazai’s scripts. In other words I mainly use authoritative famous quotes from “modern” but somewhat old writers. Do you understand? My own personal taste actually veers more towards Arashi. Am I being long-winded?

*　*　*

(1) 966-1017 Heian era author, best known in the West for her Makura Soshi (Pillow Book).

An exchange student from Thailand told me that Arashi, an all-male pop group, held a press conference on April 20 for their new television show, Arashi ni Shiyagare (thanks to Mz. Chonwattana Chawanrat for this information). It appears that the members of Arashi will not be informed of which guests will appear on their show until the day of the program. When asked, “Who would make you the most nervous if they appeared as a guest?” Sho Sakurai, one of the group’s members, answered as follows.

For me, it would be Mr. Murao. I’ve only ever met him in press situations, so it’d be kind of awkward for him to see me yelling “Aha!!” on this show.

The Murao he refers to is a professor at Kwansei Gakuin University and the main newscaster for the program News Zero. On Mondays Sakurai also appears as a newscaster on News Zero, and always interacts with Murao in a serious manner. On the program Arashi ni Shiyagare, Sakurai is not his usual, serious self. He clowns around and yells “Aha!!” Faced with Matsuo, he would not be comfortable just saying: “Ah, hello. Thanks for all you’ve done for me on News Zero. On that show, we do news, so I always adopt a serious style, but as this is a variety show, I use a boisterous style and sometime yell ‘Aha!!’ Please do the same, Mr. Matsuo. Aha――!!” Sakurai says it would be “kind of awkward” to have Matsuo as a guest.

This indicates that his intentional switching between the serious demeanor for News Zero, and the Aha!! demeanor does not occur on the level of “style.” If it did, it would be no problem. The thing he is changing doesn’t, ostensibly mustn’t, change, but in fact he changes it frequently. If this change is detected, he feels uncomfortable. In short, the change is happening on the level of “character.”

Tsukiji Komachi no Osakana Saijiki is a long-running serial, having over 200 episodes, that is carried in the weekly magazine Sunday Mainichi. In the series, Asada Naoko, who works at the Asada Suisan fish shop in Tsukiji(1), explains the ecology and ways of preparing various seasonal fish. If one reads this series, which has earned the nickname “Tukiji Komachi” (over the vigorous protestations of the author), one has trouble reconciling the fact that it is written by a young, beautiful woman.

(…) It was a gymnast, you see, who did it! (Datte, taisoo senshu ga yatte tan da mooon.) Alright! (Osshaaa!) Today slime flounder is on the menu. Its plump lips are kind of sexy (sekushii desu na). The front of its body is covered with a lot of slime. Because of its dirty, filthy appearance, it’s sometimes called babakarei (granny flounder). How rude (shitsuree desu na). Compared with other kinds of flounder, it’s moister and smoother (kime ga komakai no desu zo).

When cooking it, the hardest part is getting the slime off. It would take a long time to do it with a knife, so I use metal scrub brush (kanatawashi o tsukau no da). You can steam slime flounder, but it’s probably best boiled (niru no ga ichiban ii deshoo). It will make you realize how delicious boiled fish can be!

[Episode 48, “Karei” Sunday Mainichi, Feb. 11, 2007: No. 86, Vol. 6, Mainichi Newspapers p.37.]

She goes through a dizzying, range of characters, from a spoiled “young lady” (yatte tan da mooon), to a fired up “sports competition” mood (Osshaaa!), to a humorous “refined” “superior” “elderly” “male” character (“sekushii desu na,” “shitsuree desu na” and “kime ga komakai no desu zo”), and then sometimes goes to a more conversational tone (“tsukau no da” and “ii deshoo”).

This sort of example, which probably cannot be explained without using the idea of “character,” can be seen in very recent video and literature too. However, I can’t use those very often in this series.

(To be continued)

*　*　*

(1) An area of Tokyo which is famous for its fish market.

The behavior of talking about “class” is the specialty of “adults” (“elderly” and “senior citizen” characters) living in the mundane world, but it is not typical for “children” (“baby” and “youth” characters). Besides “class,” “children” are not very good at expressing judgments on things in general.

In the Japanese-speaking community, the behavior of “expressing a judgment” is basically the purview of people of high “status.”

For example, a higher ranked employee might say “Tanaka, you work fast,” thus expressing a judgment about his/her underling’s (Tanaka’s) abilities. However, in Japan it would be considered rude for underlings to express a judgment about their superior’s abilities ――“Boss, you work fast”―― even if this judgment is positive. (Take heed, all you newly employed corporate drones.) Similarly, Japanese professors are not comforted when a foreign student says to them, “Your class was very good, professor,” because they aren’t accustomed to students, whose “status” is presumed to be low, offering a judgment.

On the other hand, things are completely different if these same things are said out of an emotional response: “Boss, you work fast!” “Your class was very good, professor!” “Emotional responses” from people of low “status” are not a problem. While characters with high status, such as “God” or Golgo 13(1), do not have “emotional responses,” such responses are the specialty of the low “status” character. An “emotional response” is not merely a strongly positive “judgment,” as “judgments” and “emotional responses” are separate verbal behaviors.

Let us imagine that in judo, there are technically two, not one, components to a throw――grabbing the opponent’s arm, and flipping the opponent over your back. Are these two actions components of a single technique, or are they separate techniques? Making a judgment on this would provide us a hint on what makes a “good judoka” or “poor judoka.” Insofar as there are many judoka who are good at one component of throwing down an opponent, but not at the other, these appear to be two separate techniques. “Judgments” and “emotional responses” are similar in that they are verbal behaviors that are considered to be separate. The acts of thinking about verbal characters and thinking about verbal behaviors have a close relationship.

The inability of a character whose “status” is low to pronounce judgments can be seen in not just the verbal characters discussed above, but also in expression characters. Consider:

“The participants smacked their lips as they ate the chef’s vaunted dessert.”

“The audience listened to the singer’s transparent voice with half-closed eyes.”

These sentences are not particularly unnatural, but what if we replaced “participants” and “audience” with “children” and “grade-schoolers?”

“The children smacked their lips as they ate the chef’s vaunted dessert.”

“The grade-schoolers listened to the singer’s transparent voice with half-closed eyes.”

Whoa! Are you kids a bunch of old men? The sentences sound unnatural. It is impossible to explain this unnaturalness on the level of “reality,” for example, by claiming that unlike adults, children do not smack their lips, or listen to music with their eyes half closed. In fact, very few adults make an audible smacking sound when eating a delicious food, and not many but some children probably half-close their eyes while listening to music.

It’s fairly common. In rather low priority press coverage of certain events, journalists use various conventions to say “everyone enjoyed themselves a lot.” At an exhibition of Heian furnishings, they might say “the sightseers nostalgically thought about the distant Heian era.” At the public opening of some ancient ruins, they might say “the visitors were intoxicated by the romance of the past.” These are conventional embellishments. They are the kind of sentence we want to address though. Thus, we cannot explain on the level of “reality” the naturalness or unnaturalness of these sentences, but rather on the level of “convention.” Adults smack their lips or half-close their eyes. Children normally have low status, and by convention do not do these things. These “conventions” have been embellished by the mass media, and in essence have become a part of our consciousness.

So, smacking one’s lips or half-closing one’s eyes are “judgmental” behaviors, in which something is being calmly experienced, while more “emotional responses,” such as “jumping for joy” are completely fine for elementary school students.

“The grade-schoolers jumped for joy at the chef’s vaunted dessert.”

So long as everyone was visibly happy, it is fine to say this even if nobody actually physically jumped. This is a conventional expression, you see.

*　*　*

(1) See parts 34 and 48 for more on Golgo 13.

Previously, I said that the “baby” and “youth” often become “runt” characters who are oblivious to hierarchy, and that this is expected by the people around them. “Status” is not the only thing about which adult characters (“elderly” and “senior citizen”) are aware, but child characters (“baby” and “youth”) are not. We can make a similar observation about “class.”

For example, a child might say “a woman came walking slowly (yukkuri)…” But a child (at least a “baby”) wouldn’t say “a woman came walking languidly (shizushizu to)…”

Languidly (shizushizu to) does not just mean to walk quietly and slowly. It is used for the quiet and slow walk of a “refined” person, normally a “woman.” It is different from the “tottering” (yota yota) gait of a “senior citizen” character. It is also different from the “toddling” (yochi yochi) walk of a “baby.”

But I do not want to get into the issue of how “baby” characters walk here. The problem is not the baby as a walker (expression character), but rather as a speaker (verbal character). If the “baby” sees the behavior of a “refined” “woman,” that “baby” will not say “she walks languidly.” That is to say, “babies” cannot speak about “class.” Of course, in reality, babies can sense a range of refinement and vulgarity. We need only look back on our own childhoods to see this. However, “baby” characters are not conscious of “class,” and do not speak about “class.”

Maybe they just haven’t been taught the word “languidly” at school yet? Hmm… maybe. Isn’t it easier to imagine adults (“elderly” and “senior citizen”) as the kind of speakers who would use the expression “languidly” to describe the gait of a “refined” “woman” character? It’s hard to imagine not only a “baby,” but also a “youth” character, who one would expect to know the word, to use “languidly.”

On another note, the “God” character might announce, “The queen will walk quietly to her throne,” but would not say “The queen will walk languidly to her throne.” (Or at least, any God that did say this would not be a majestic “God,” but rather a fairly anthropomorphic god.)

If “God” does not use the expression “languidly” to describe the gait of a “refined” “woman,” it is not because he doesn’t know the word (of course he knows… he is “God” after all), but rather because of a problem with character. That is, because “God’s” “status” is “highest of the high,” he does not speak of mundane matters such as “class” or lack thereof.

Only humans living in the real world speak of “class,” especially “adults” (“elderly” and “senior citizen” characters) who are thoroughly submerged in the mundane. But it is not suitable for “children” (“baby” and “youth” characters).