I
Apparently many people believe that it is only natural to problematize the notion of “tradition” in an a priori fashion. This is a bit difficult for me to understand, since I don’t feel this way at all. Of course “tradition” exists. But does its presence mean that we must always problematize it, like alpinists who climb mountains simply because they are there? Perhaps not. Why then problematize “tradition”? The notion of “tradition” can be divided into two main categories. The first consists of artworks. These represent “tradition,” those visible traces that appear on the surface of history. In classical performing art, for example, apprentices are taken in and indoctrinated until they are finally initiated into some mysterious secrets. It seems that certain kinds of traditionalists conceive of “tradition” as a finished work to be transferred from writer to writer. The other kind of “tradition” is the history inscribed within us as invisible traces. This is the domain that I would like to consider. I don’t mind if those who feel an urgent need to problematize “tradition” do so by regarding it as a finished work. It seems baseless, however, to problematize “tradition” a priori when there is no need to do so. Apart from village folk art, it was certainly possible to establish a fixed course of “tradition” as passed down from writer to writer and performer to performer in those cases where the transmitter held a clearly determined social position, as in the professional, refined art cultures of the past. But we no longer live in an age where writers (in the broad sense of the term, including performers) occupy such fixed positions. Following modernity, writers have no social rank or position. The course of transmission from writer to writer has thus collapsed. The true medium of transmission is now the general reader or spectator.
Writers are never writers from the beginning. One is a reader before becoming a writer: only after reaching a certain stage of maturity as a reader does one then jump to the level of writer. Letters from literary youths often contain the following: “I simply think up sentences while walking down the street. These sentences instantly take shape, such as ‘The tree is standing there, with white clouds hanging from its upper branches.’ It seems that I have all the makings of a novelist.” Such talk is of course outrageous, but there are many people who think of literature in this way. They regard literature as a kind of amateur performance in which writers and readers are separate from one another. Yet all professional writers have invariably passed through a stage where they were hungry, avid readers. Nevertheless, one finds oneself in the following exchanges: “I am not so interested in conventional literature, for I want to write something uniquely expressive of myself.” “Really? Well, what have you read?” “I have not read so much.” “That’s why I am asking: what have you read?” “Actually, I have not read anything.” Nothing can come of such an attitude. It is utterly impossible to create something when all one has read is one’s primary school Japanese language textbook. If people who enjoy reading typically read eight books, for example, then one should read at least sixteen. In other words, one first makes the leap to being a writer when one feels the need to read materials that are only rarely read.
Of course reading many books is no guarantee that one will become a writer. There are always people who cannot write no matter how many books they read. But reading gives rise to something within one, and writing provokes the desire to share this urgent spontaneous feeling with others. Who is this other? In fact, this other is oneself. Here an internal split first appears between writer and reader. Like a process of cellular division, the writer emerges inside when one feels the need to give something new and original to oneself as other. This of course represents a leap to another level. Yet real writers do not seek to establish readers outside themselves. Only craftsmen who have lost all creativity unwaveringly consider the reader as a pure other. Real writers should understand that the other is simultaneously themselves. It is thus false to say that one writes for oneself or for the masses; one writes for neither. The self is divided between reader and writer, and the true process of literary creation consists of a dialogue between these two.
Regardless of whether one says, “I would be satisfied if ten people read my work” or “I have one hundred thousand readers,” such statements are mere word games. The reader within oneself signifies infinite readers or the concept of mankind in general. One represents the reader oneself, and this fact exposes the writer to a certain danger. In other words, a poor internal reader means that one will become a poor writer. This notion of internal reader—a reader among readers—does not refer to the reader who buys many books, thereby profiting the writer. Rather, it suggests that ideal existence that possesses the most all-encompassing sensitivity vis-à-vis the mode of historically produced fiction and its works. It was from the “tradition” inherited by readers and spectators at this level that modern art, in stark contrast to the classical performing arts, began to freely develop. Even in those cases where we adopted something from the classical arts, that was made possible by the presence of readers and spectators, who prepared the way for the transition to the level of writer. Transmission through indoctrination in the style of the temple schools of the past is now no longer possible. What thus seems to me to be the most contemporary route of inheriting tradition consists of making the work a milestone to be passed down from reader to reader in such a way that writers will necessarily emerge from this flow.
As such, the reader’s simple appreciation for the finished work has become more important than the criterion of value employed by the critic. Here, however, the reader refers not to the average reader but rather to the chosen reader whose maturity is one step away from transformation into a writer. Far more significant than “tradition” in the sense of those traces that lie exposed on the surface of history is the invisible image of “tradition” that flows among readers. As soon as one says this, however, people immediately appear who attempt to revitalize tradition with a contemporary sheen by dramatizing folktales with moral lessons culled from the present day. Many people appear to be delighted by such plays. Those who quickly say, “After all, tradition is important!” possess a mentality that is similar to those juvenile delinquents who wear badges in the hope of maintaining their pseudo form of solidarity. They might be lonely. Those who speak so frivolously about “tradition” seem to be psychologically desolate. Why can’t we look inside ourselves and honestly ask, “Why do we lack the task of tradition?”
Yet it is possible that such people authoritatively possess this task. I don’t have this—although I must say that this absence has never bothered me. I have gone hungry several times in my life. That bothered me quite a lot. But my own lack of “tradition” has never compelled me to go out and borrow it somewhere or made me so dizzy that I could no longer walk. In any case, this is what culture means. Regardless of whether or not we problematize “tradition,” it is impossible to escape from it. “Tradition” is precisely that from which one can never escape. No matter how much I might claim to lack “tradition,” I am nevertheless forced, for example, to think within the linguistic structure of the Japanese language. Even if I say to myself, “Today I am going to speak such and such language” and then use a private language that no one else understands, that could no longer be called language. For language presupposes a universality based on commonality with others. The same is true in the case of money. Even if someone begins printing their own money by declaring, “I don’t like yen, for yen don’t really seem to come my way. I have thus decided as of today to use a different monetary unit,” such money will never become valid. Even if we secretly print money at home, there will still remain something too late in the context of our thinking and daily life. It is this aspect that I would like to problematize. And I would like to do so not because it is important. Rather, I want to problematize it as a borderline case, for my desire to crush this thing that fetters me would, if realized, likely result in my own negation. One can thus begin to understand that the “tradition” that flows from reader to reader can become a major issue even for us today. This issue differs from that of folktales and famous classical texts.
II
I understand the tactical meaning why “tradition” must be problematized. In such expressions as “ethnic-national feeling” or “national character,” the concept of ethnos or nation is very weakly constructed. These expressions are similar to the topic of sex in that they represent a kind of taboo that one hesitates to speak about frankly. Taking advantage of such flinching, conservative thought has introduced these terms by transforming them into catchwords. These terms could weaken anyone. Many people feel weakness, cowardice, fear, and anxiety when faced with such expressions as “ethnos” and “national character.” And this situation is in no way resolved by an intellectual pronouncement of these expressions as “Rubbish!” There are those interested in raising ethnic-national questions who insist on the need to take advantage of this popular fear. Such tendency can also be seen to some degree in the Communist Party. The Communist Party uses the term “ethnos” to initially frighten people, and upon sensing this fear, it then introduces the word “class.” To begin with the word “class” would not be frightening, and it would quickly be defeated by powerful conservatives. The term “anti–ethnic-national” contains something menacing about it and resembles in nuance the wartime expression “unpatriotic.” This term evokes a sense of psychological fear, making people feel as if they have done something terribly wrong. Tactically, such expressions are certainly effective, but it seems to me that they pose a great danger.
For example, one hears talk these days about the “corruption of the Japanese language.” Such a statement comes not only from conservatives but even from those who are considered progressive. Upon hearing this expression, one somehow believes it to be true. However, the question of whether the Japanese language has really been corrupted must be considered academically. What exactly does it mean to speak about language as corrupt? Some people point to the heavy influx of abbreviated words from English: “Just visit the ladies’ wear section in department stores, for it’s impossible to know what’s what there!” But language is structure, not words and vocabulary. Words are just a small part of language. Thus even if one tries to destroy language, it cannot be broken so easily. Of course young people today use a strange language, but even that is grammatically consistent. They are merely making slight alterations in language as based on their knowledge of grammatical rules. This is similar to the case of juvenile delinquents and their badges, for all these young people are doing is creating a kind of solidarity through their knowledge of the nuances produced by such changes. Artisans also have their own particular way of speaking among themselves, while farmers use a mountain language—one perhaps laced with superstitions—when going off to work in the winter mountains. In speaking about these linguistic changes, however, it is important to note that only words change, not grammar. This involves the appearance of minor differences in the small links between words.
When language is thus understood as a total structure required for communication, it becomes impossible to speak so easily about linguistic corruption. Hence criticism of such corruption on the part of traditionalists is truly comical, revealing nothing so much as their own ignorance of language. In terms of the issue regarding old and new kana orthography, for example, it is hardly possible for someone to speak in one or another of these ways. There is only one way to speak. In other words, regardless of whether we proceed with the new kana or adopt the old kana, their basic structure remains identical. Of course those who support the old kana system have some grounds for their argument. They say, for instance, “This is a matter of structure and so there should be rules. Take inflections, for example. One uses tsu without the voiced sound and zu when voiced: because there is no rule here, isn’t it actually more troublesome? People speak about how orthography now follows pronunciation, but this really involves a neglect of structure.” Such an argument is correct in its focus on this single aspect. When considering the question of language, however, we must not begin with writing. Rather, we must begin by understanding the structure of language as a whole, prior to writing or even spoken language. To repeat: there is nothing more traditional or harder to change and corrupt than language. Debates about language must be informed by a scientific grasp of its structure.
One often hears people speak of “Japanese modes of thinking.” Of course different modes of thinking do exist in reality. In primitive societies, linguistic structure is itself different. For example, one finds in such societies many nouns but few particles or auxiliary verbs. We have the common noun “bird,” which seems obvious. Yet this noun is very rare among hunting peoples. To use an extreme example, two completely different nouns are used to describe a bird that is resting upon a tree branch and one that is flying in the sky. We are able to understand these two birds structurally, thereby universalizing them. Hunting peoples, however, cannot do this. In such cases, one would have to admit that there are modes of thinking specific to certain peoples. Let’s say, for example, that a Frenchman lived among the Eskimos and gradually learned their language. He would nevertheless be unable to translate that language. Eskimos do not have myths, for they grasp time in strictly spatial terms. Rather than myths or heroic epics, therefore, the stories that they tell are limited to such quotidian matters as hunting methods. In other words, Eskimos possess a different mode of thinking; their linguistic structure is completely different.
Despite grammatical differences, however, it is possible to conduct a circuit of translation from Japanese to English, English to French, French to Russian, and then Russian back to Japanese. Through the mediation of an intermediary language, it is even possible to make computers translate. Yet even with such an intermediary language, the computer would likely be unable to translate Eskimo.
Now how have our languages evolved to the level of translatability? With their separate departure points, how did they arrive at shared characteristics? It seems likely that these languages became fixed during the transition from hunting to agriculture. Hunting peoples prioritize space over time, and so our sense of history, linguistic structure, and methods of abstraction and universalization came into being only after we had embarked upon an agricultural lifestyle dominated by time. In other words, despite differences in the shapes of plows, the very system of using plows to till soil is identical, and it was on this basis that man’s language first reached the state of translatability. Even if there does exist something like “Japanese sensibility,” therefore, its existence can be explained grammatically, despite differences in individual words. As such, it is less important for us to consider any uniquely Japanese ways of thinking than it is to grasp that we stand on the side of universality. Man has now reached the stage where economic principles go beyond the framework of state or ethnic-nation and demand to be conceived internationally. We live in an age where frameworks are increasingly being eliminated, thereby privileging an internationally shared problem consciousness.
In thus considering in its total structure not only language but also tradition in general, it becomes apparent that we can no longer regard tradition merely as those branches that appear on the surface. Failure to heed this point would result in the dominance of the following logic: “Currently the struggle for ethnic-national liberation has become part of the mainstream of world politics. It is thus imperative that we rediscover the ethnos, for otherwise we risk becoming a stateless people.” Such talk leads to the popularization of folk theater. The ethnic-national fear that resides within our unconscious is in fact a fear of being forced out of the solidarity of the ethnos. It is thus extremely frightening to become aphasic. The punishment of “banishment” also existed in the past; “banishment from Edo,” for example, meant that one was exiled from Tokyo to the Izu region. This is the fear of being forced out of a frame or border. Such latent fear is reawakened within us when we are referred to as “anti–ethnic-national.” Within this fear, we become attentive to “tradition” in its visible form, understood as something that flows from writer to writer as opposed to from reader to reader. Such “tradition” is a pardon: people are forgiven if they speak about “tradition.” In its reliance upon a structure in which the mediation of the ethnos functions as a pardon, the Communist Party, for example, raises an ethnic-national question in its attempt to become the party of the masses. Yet we must turn a cold eye to this structure itself.
III
In response to my novel Enomoto Buyō, people commented that “Abe Kōbō has now converted to historical fiction.” Of course such comments were made from the perspective of a negation of tradition, but the very notion of posing the traditional and nontraditional in oppositional terms is still non-sense, for this represents a mere reversal of traditionalism. Enomoto Buyō spent the turbulent years of the Meiji Restoration in Europe, which was then experiencing its own turbulence, and there he witnessed the final stages of the defeat of feudalism at the hands of the bourgeoisie. In Meiji Japan, Enomoto saw no opposition between the forces loyal to the Tokugawa and those who wished to restore power to the imperial court. The very notion that these forces were oppositional would likely have been incomprehensible to him. Enomoto had witnessed the process in which the collapse of the feudal system in Europe had given way to the formation and achievement of the modern state. He thus recognized the need to return to Japan and destroy the notion of loyalty, which is akin to the desire to climb a mountain simply because it is there. Such was my hypothesis when writing this novel. I tried to show through this hypothesis that the notion of loyalty is extremely relative, and that it might be possible for us to form organizations even without the mediation of loyalty. In other words, I sought to criticize the notion of loyalty that is brought forth as the all-purpose adhesive required for solidarity. I wondered if it were possible for organizations to exist that could incorporate antiloyalty, betrayal, and even ideological conversion—or even that negated and incapacitated the notion of ideological conversion itself.
As I wrote in my novel Tanin no kao [The Face of Another], the notions of “other” and “neighbor” coexist within us. We regard those people within the community as “neighbors” and those outside as “others.” The “other” is the enemy and the “neighbor” an ally. In declaring that “the other is also a neighbor,” Christianity allows the notion of the “neighbor” to impact the “other,” destroying its barriers. This is quite similar to the techniques employed by the Meiji emperor and government following the upheaval. In other words, what one sees here is the attitude of “Well done, my enemy. I’ve got to congratulate you.” The notion of loyalty to emperor and state came into being during the Meiji period, for until that time loyalty was restricted to one’s feudal lord. In the journal Shisō no kagaku [The Science of Thought], I found a fascinating account of something that had been over-heard. Apparently there were still people in the Kyushu countryside who not only had never heard of the emperor but even could not imagine the existence of anyone in Japan more illustrious than the feudal lord of Shimazu. According to this view, “The great lord of Tokugawa also exists, but he rules over an area that is quite far away. Around here, of course, the lord of Shimazu is still the most illustrious.” From within these circumstances, the Meiji government was forced to create the notion of the state in a single stroke. The government had to artificially produce an image of the Meiji emperor, since nobody knew anything about him. What was then required for this project? Previously men pledged loyalty to their respective feudal lords, but particularly when such loyalty came to be divided between the Tokugawa forces and those who wished to restore power to the imperial court, these same men became sworn enemies who violently hated one another. In order to unite them, there needed to be forgiveness through the pledging of loyalty, even if this object of loyalty was the enemy feudal lord. In other words, what was required was the attitude of “Well done, my enemy. I’ve got to congratulate you.” It was in this sprit that Fukuzawa Yukichi wrote Yasegaman no setsu [Spirit of Manly Defiance]. Crucial here is the principle of fidelity as found in the maxim of “not serving two masters,” for a buffer zone was created in which all would be forgiven if one practiced such fidelity. To this end, the Meiji emperor began issuing all sorts of medals and decorations. The insurgent Saigō Takamori even received one, despite the fact that he had attempted a coup d’état. Saigō had clearly planned treason. According to the policy of these imperial decorations, however, such treason was acceptable since it was conducted with a great deal of sincerity.
A labor union delegation visited a certain socialist country. I traveled to this country soon thereafter and heard the following story. Apparently the members of this delegation began drinking in the morning, declaring boisterously, “Japan is a capitalist country. It’s a wretched situation. In comparison, your country is just wonderful. We must turn Japan into a socialist country as soon as possible.” Becoming increasingly drunk, they shouted, “Off to our next stop!” And with that the group filed into the street and set off walking. “Please wait a moment, since we’ll prepare car service.” “Who needs cars? We shall walk!” “But it’s much too far.” “No! We said we will walk!” “That is ridiculous!” “We are the sons of Kyushu! When the sons of Kyushu say something, there is no turning back!” The hosts were quite upset by this behavior but followed behind in their cars, picking these men up one by one as they collapsed. Having finished telling me this story, these hosts then asked about the meaning of this term “Kyushu sons.” I was at a loss to explain. They were members of the Japan Coal Miners Union, and so I suspect that they felt quite a bit of class consciousness. When they got drunk, however, they suddenly turned into the sons of Kyushu. This incident reveals how widely the aims of the Meiji government have spread. The image of the Kyushu sons has come to be directly tied to the image of the Yamato people. This structure is not necessarily unique to the Japanese, for it can be found in all countries. The invisible traces of certain eras are more deeply rooted within us than one thinks.
Unlike Christianity, we shall not expand the notion of the neighbor to the point where it impacts the other. On the contrary, we must attempt to communicate directly with the other by effacing the idea of the neighbor that exists within us. This might throw people into a state of extreme solitude. One often hears people speak these days of the “solitude of crowded trains.” In truth, no neighbors are to be found on such trains: everyone is an other. Yet the unavoidable skin contact between strangers is in no way limited to crowded trains. There are still many people who believe that cities are to be rejected given the richness of village communities where one is surrounded by neighbors. In ten or twenty years’ time, however, even villages will become like cities. How can we overcome this image of the neighbor—that is, the sense of solitude we feel when surrounded by others? Solitude is not so important, for it is merely a sentiment. Indeed, nothing can be done if one doesn’t accept the solitude of this situation while seeking to restore direct communication with the other. We are already at a stage in which nothing can be resolved by mediation through a kind of national interest, in which one attempts to engender good relations between neighbors within the framework of the neighbor. Even labor unions in Japan still operate on the basis of the neighbor. Despite the fact that American pacifists and warmongers are neighbors, they cannot collaborate with one another. Moreover, conflicts between neighbors in the same country will quickly and inevitably spill over to others. Internal adjustments among neighbors are impossible.
The great popularity of gangster films in Japan is a manifestation of the crisis this country is facing, a situation that can no longer be dealt with through the framework of the neighbor. Those who have been forced out of neighbor-based relations create these same relations with others who have been similarly forced out. These are gangsters. It is the yearning for such antineighbor and yet neighbor-based associations that generates the great interest in gangster films. Those people who have moved to the suburbs and become integrated within neighbor-based networks typically stop watching films. Those who watch films most frequently are people who have moved from the countryside and find themselves unemployed or in a position where they could be fired at any time; they are without neighbors and feel extremely alienated, living in cheap apartments in the center of the city. What attracts such people are the antineighbor and yet neighbor-based associations that one finds in gangster films. It is for this reason that gangster films have become so popular. However, there is no point in turning to such negative phenomena. Even the student movement will be torn apart by regarding people as either neighbors or enemies. Ours is a period in which everything will be torn apart. There seems to be no way to go beyond the notion of the neighbor. Yet the objective world outside us forcefully demands that we overcome this notion. It is this gap, I believe, that drives us to solitude. Precisely because of this, the situation can change only if we strike back by welcoming solitude and effacing the notion of the neighbor.
IV
Insofar as labor unions and the peace movement continue to remain organized on the basis of a neighbor consciousness, they will become similar to today’s Communist Party in Yoyogi. If these are to be modern organizations as opposed to neighborhood associations, they must directly organize the other. As I have mentioned, an organization centered on the other is one in which no loyalty is required. As we have seen, loyalty and ideological conversion have come to be used relative to each other in the context of real politics. Thus insofar as we use the notion of loyalty as an adhesive, there will invariably come a time when it is strangely torn off.
As was the case with fascism, most of the courageous supporters of the Tokugawa forces originally came from farming backgrounds, as for example Hijikata Toshizō. If this era had been dominated by a rigid social class system, these farmers could never have become warriors. At a certain point in the Edo period, however, merchants began saving money and buying shares of samurai stock for their children—in other words, it became common among merchants to adopt one’s children out to samurai households in exchange for economic assistance. Yet with the decisive defeat of the Tokugawa shogunate during the war over restoration, poor farmers who could not afford this arrangement suddenly seized their chance to destroy the framework of the social class system. Real samurai, disguising their identity, turned tail and fled, thereby depleting samurai registration. Into this gap leaped the second and third sons of farmers. Hijikata Toshizō may have been homosexual. He seemed to possess the same pathological energy as the Nazis, who reversed their sense of humiliation by arming themselves and gaining control over the state. The Shinsengumi itself was first led by men from samurai backgrounds. Yet Hijikata soon created the first rule that “One must not violate the samurai code,” and this led to the assassination of all leaders with samurai origins. Thus only two men from farming backgrounds remained: Kondō Isami and Hijikata himself.
The Communist Party in Yoyogi hates revisionism even more than America does. For it also uses the notion of loyalty as an adhesive. In the context of the party’s thought system, there is no greater evil than ideological conversion, since converts are even worse than imperialists. Such distortion, which also led to the emergence of Stalinism, appeared in such a way as to link our notion of loyalty with unconscious (in a negative sense) community traditions, taboos, and security instincts. It is the same in America, where despite its liberalism it is considered taboo to violate the principle of “loyalty to America.” Sex has been made into a taboo, but it too continues to exist regardless of whether it is considered a taboo or not. In those places requiring loyalty to the state, everyone feels unhappy with the high taxes but considers this issue to be an impossible taboo. Lucian of Samosata tells the following story in his work A True Story. A man travels to a shrine construction site and asks, “Why are you building a shrine when we Greeks no longer believe in the gods?” The reply came, “Savage tribes from the provinces come here as tourists, and shrines make the best tourist attractions.” “I see,” said the man. In ancient Greece, apparently, shrine construction had already become part of the tourist industry. Lucian clearly composed this dialogue as a form of resistance. Here we can see just how long we have been constrained by such taboos.
One speaks about the tradition of revolution. What is required, however, is not tradition but methods. Our need to introduce the notion of tradition even in the context of revolution reveals just how firmly we are gripped by this disease of tradition. We must revolt regardless of whether or not such tradition exists, and so methods are what are required. From long ago in Japan, there were no methods in those things that were overtly referred to as “tradition.” It is from this absence of methods that the idea of inherited tradition emerges. Once methods appear, therefore, the notion of tradition becomes redundant. In the jungle fighting of the Vietcong, for example, no one uses bamboo spears despite the presence of such a tradition. This is of course a question of method, not tradition. Methods can also be transmitted in different ways than tradition. Existing traditions had no system of transmission, and their value was generated in this fashion. Such value would disappear with the emergence of these systems. This is why traditionalists despise modernity and become conservative. According to Mishima Yukio, there can be no tradition in the natural sciences because facts change and errors disappear when they are discovered. I disagree with this point. Methods remain even when techniques are rejected. Tradition in the natural sciences can be described as independent from the consciousness of tradition, which makes it unlike cultural tradition.
Lu Xun writes that soldiers stand at the forefront of revolution while writers arrive at the end. It is easy to feel that writers must stand at the forefront, since they are so cowardly. This, however, would represent a misunderstanding of the relation between a writer’s life and work. In this view, the function of life comes to be replaced by the transformation of life into a work. To imagine that a revolutionary life produces revolutionary works points to a confusion in this relation, for what appears here is the extremely direct idea that those writers who do not write revolutionary fiction thus reveal their inability to participate in revolutions.
Such a notion is incorrect. For example, one must write incisively even about how harmful and false neighbor-based relations are. It is thus perfectly fine for writers to pursue what can only be achieved by literature.
Katsu Kaishū believed that men must erase their own traces upon completing their work. He said that all vestiges of one’s name and past must be erased. This attitude is very rare. Upon completing work A, most people wish to leave behind their own name and traces in the form of A′, for they consider this to be their just reward. For Katsu Kaishū, however, a great man is defined by the understanding that his footprints cannot be traced back through his work, that nothing of him will remain to be commemorated. It is this spirit that is needed. Such was also the gist of Katsu’s criticism of Enomoto Buyō.
The I-novel represents the transformation of the writer’s own life into his work. The I-novel writer generally appears in his work as a character. This very much resembles the situation of so-called “leftist writers.” Although these two contexts might appear to be opposed, commonalities can be seen in the creative attitude that seeks to render the life in the work. If one leaves behind a work, it is more difficult and yet more necessary to efface oneself and one’s life within it, in the manner of Katsu Kaishū.
The words I just quoted from Lu Xun are quite significant. No doubt their sarcasm was directed to China’s leftist literary establishment at the time.
Nevertheless, my point is not that all classical texts are worthless. Of course there is much that is fascinating here. Yet this fascinating quality does not derive from the fact that these works represent tradition. They are fascinating because they are fascinating, and nothing more needs to be added to this. Otherwise our efforts to focus on the premodern in order to negate the various contradictions of modernity and its unclear, oppositional relations between surface and interior might soon become bound up with a straightforward problematization of “tradition.” I believe that the most contemporary and effective way for us to view “tradition” is as a trap, something dangerous and likely to drag us inside it.