/
Text
Linguistic Emotivity:
Centrality of place, the
topic–comment dynamic,
and an ideology of pathos
in Japanese discourse
Senko K. Maynard
John Benjamins Publishing Company
Linguistic Emotivity
Pragmatics & Beyond New Series
Editor
Andreas H. Jucker
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Volume 97
Linguistic Emotivity: Centrality of place, the topic-comment dynamic, and an
ideology of pathos in Japanese discourse
by Senko K. Maynard
Linguistic Emotivity
Centrality of place, the topic–comment dynamic,
and an ideology of pathos in Japanese discourse
Senko K. Maynard
Rutgers University
John Benjamins Publishing Company
Amsterdam/Philadelphia
8
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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American
National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed
Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Linguistic emotivity : centrality of place, the topic-comment dynamic, and an ideology of
pathos in Japanese discourse / Senko K. Maynard.
p. cm. (Pragmatics & Beyond, New Series, issn 0922-842X ; v. 97)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Emotive (Linguistics). 2. Grammar, Comparative and general--Topic and
comment. 3. Japanese language--Discourse analysis. 4. Language and culture--Japan. 5.
Pathos. I. Maynard, Senko K. II. Series.
P325.5.E56 L56 2002
401’.41-dc21
isbn 9027251177 (Eur.) / 1588112020 (US) (Hb; alk. paper)
2002021462
© 2002 – John Benjamins B.V.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any
other means, without written permission from the publisher.
John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands
John Benjamins North America · P.O. Box 27519 · Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 · usa
To Michael
Contents
Preface and ackowledgments
xi
Part 1 Preliminaries
1. Introduction
1. Introductory remarks
2. Types of knowledge and Knowledge of Pathos
3
3
10
2. Background
1. Studies on language and emotion
2. Emotion in the Japanese language
3. Emotion and culture
4. Critical assessment: Toward a negotiative theory
of linguistic emotivity
21
21
32
40
47
Part 2 Theory
3. The Place of Negotiation theory
1. An overview
2. Sign
3. Function
4. Language as bodily experience
5. Presentation of selves
6. Methodology
53
53
59
63
64
66
70
4. The (re-)turn to place
1. Concept of basho ‘place’ in Nishida’s philosophy
2. Place in Japanese language studies
3. Bamen ‘situated place’ in Tokieda’s theory
4. Place and interaction
5. The concept of place in the Place of Negotiation theory
73
73
76
78
81
82
5. Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
1. The location of meaning and topica
2. Negotiation of emotive meaning in conversation
3. Interpreting textual emotivity
85
85
88
92
viii Contents
4. Interpretation and tacit knowledge
5. Between cognition and emotion
6. Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
1. The significance of the topic–comment dynamic
2. Rhetorical figure of futaku
3. Rhetoric of Pathos
94
96
101
101
106
111
Part 3 Emotive topics
On data for analysis
117
7. Vocatives and topics
1. Introduction
2. Vocatives
3. Topics
4. Where vocatives and topics merge
5. Reflections
123
123
124
137
143
147
8. Emotive nominals
1. Introduction
2. Exclamative nominals
3. Nominals and sentential nominals
4. Emotive nominals and text genres
5. Reflections
149
149
150
155
161
163
9. Quotative topics
1. Introduction
2. Background
3. From quotation to topic presentation
4. Quotative topic as an emotive
5. Utterance-final tte: Assertiveness and hesitation
6. Reflections
165
165
166
168
176
182
189
10. Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
1. Introduction
2. Background
3. Nan(i) as an anti-sign
4. Nan(i) and emotive meaning
5. Nan(i) and interactional meaning
6. Between interrogativity and exclamativity
7. Reflections
191
191
194
196
203
207
210
212
Contents
Part 4 Emotive comments
11. Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
1. Introduction
2. Background
3. Stativity and situationality
4. Informational da and emotive da
5. Emotive da and the telling-it-as-is attitude
6. Emotive ja-nai and the telling-it-against-is attitude
7. Reflections
217
217
218
221
226
228
239
245
12. Interrogatives as emotive comments
1. Introduction
2. Background
3. Emotive interrogatives
4. Emotivity of commentary questions
5. Stray interrogative clauses
6. Reflections
247
247
248
251
258
269
274
13. Commenting through stylistic shifts
1. Introduction
2. Da versus Desu/Masu
3. Interactional particles
4. Reflections
277
277
278
292
304
Part 5 Pathos in Japanese discourse
14. Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
1. The drama
2. In the cognitive place
3. In the emotive place
4. In the interactional place
5. Visual images and pathos in mass culture
307
307
308
318
326
333
15. Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
1. Introduction
2. Background
3. The topic–comment dynamic and text organization
4. Commentary sentences
5. The topic–comment sequencing in headline and text
6. Opening with topic and closing with conclusive comment
7. Sequencing of commentary sentences within danraku
8. Reflections: Textual pathos
337
337
338
341
344
346
347
352
354
ix
x
Contents
16. Playing with pathos
1. Introduction: Emotivity and aspects of self
2. Gendered selves and interactional selves in Long Vacation
3. Stylistic choice and Minami’s gendered selves
4. Stylistic shifts and Sena’s interactional selves
5. Presentation of Minami’s playful self
6. Vocatives and person references
7. Playing with pathos: A friend, a lover, or someone between
357
357
358
360
372
379
386
388
Part 6 Reflections
17. Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
1. The topic–comment dynamic and the centrality of place
2. Linguistic emotivity and realization of the feeling self
3. Concept of place and Japanese discourse studies
4. Significance of place/space in Japanese culture
393
393
395
398
403
18. Language, linguistic theory, and ideology
1. Japanese language studies and linguistic ideologies
2. Ideology of pathos and theoretical possibilities
3. Beyond the boundaries of place
409
409
411
414
Appendix: Information on select data
419
Notes
423
References
435
Data references
460
Author index
465
Subject index
469
Preface and acknowledgments
What does language communicate? What does it express? Or, what do humans do
with language? Why do we, by using a system such as language, discover and
locate ourselves in relation to others within cultures and societies? Why do we
identify ourselves by living and experiencing the language, and how do we think
and feel in it? To answer these related questions, I have studied the Japanese
language primarily from the perspectives of discourse and conversation analyses.
In the process I have strived to consistently analyze real-life Japanese language,
part and parcel of contemporary Japanese culture, a dynamic flow that is continuously being produced, consumed, and interpreted.
What has become increasingly clear through these studies is the significance
of meaning associated with emotion. Issues surrounding language and emotion
have often been discussed under the heading of the ‘‘expressive’’ function. Within
this broad functional notion, I concentrate on the emotion-related meanings
expressed in language, that is, ‘‘linguistic emotivity.’’ Linguistic emotivity refers to
human emotions and attitudes specifically expressed by linguistic strategies of
emotives. These include the speaker’s attitude toward the speech act, toward the
content of what is conveyed, feelings toward partners, emotions associated with
interaction, as well as the general mood, feelings, and sentiment the speaker and
the partner experience and share in communication.
Academically, emotion has been treated sometimes seriously, but often in
convenient neglect. And as is widely recognized, the formal linguistics that has
dominated linguistics in the latter half of the 20th century has consistently pushed
aside and marginalized the emotional aspect of communication.
At the same time, the tenet of the postmodern has, for quite some time,
questioned the fundamental legitimacy of the rational thinking subject of cogito,
and the subject has come to be understood as a speaking, talking, narrating, and
feeling self. Given the above, this book opens up a new way of understanding
language, i.e., language as sources of the ‘‘feeling self.’’ In this work, I introduce
linguistics that focuses on expressivity and explores emotive meaning on the
center stage of inquiry.
This volume contains the theory, analysis, and interpretation of Japanese
emotives, originally explored in Jooi no Gengogaku: ‘‘Ba-kooshooron’’ to Nihongo
Hyoogen no Patosu (Kuroshio, 2000). At the end of that book, I expressed my
hope to present my work in English so that my ideas will be made available
xii
Preface and acknowledgments
beyond the particularities of Japan. In the current volume, although the basic
approach has not changed, I organize the content differently, hoping that my ideas
are presented more explicitly. I am adding new chapters and incorporating new
observations in other chapters.
The work to follow is a culmination of my research during the past several
years, and consequently, it is drawn from a number of my earlier publications.
Relevant works are mentioned and listed in the references. In particular, Chapter
10, Chapter 11, and Chatper 15 are similar in content to three of my earlier
papers; ‘‘Speaking for the unspeakable: Expressive functions of nan(i) in Japanese
discourse’’ (Journal of Pragmatics, 32, 1209–39, 2000), ‘‘Grammar, with attitude:
On the expressivity of certain da sentences in Japanese’’ (Linguistics, 37, 215–50,
1999), and ‘‘Rhetorical sequencing and the force of topic-comment relationship in
Japanese discourse: A case of Mini Jihyoo newspaper articles’’ (Japanese Discourse,
2, 43–64, 1997).
The theoretical construct enabling the analysis of linguistic emotivity is what
I call the Place of Negotiation theory. The concept of ‘‘place’’ and related notions
(e.g., situation, context, frame, script, schema, image schema, and so on) have
been explored in various fields such as sociolinguistics, conversation analysis,
anthropological linguistics, pragmatics, as well as cognitive linguistics. Following
this line of thinking, the Place of Negotiation theory establishes a philosophical
rationale for prioritizing place. It requires an appropriate understanding of the
sign system, and establishes principles of interpretation based on the interactional
negotiation among participants. In terms of methods for analysis, the Place of
Negotiation theory draws from practices available primarily in conversation
analysis and discourse studies, and secondarily from other related areas including
sociolinguistics, pragmatics, rhetoric, and anthropological linguistics.
The Place of Negotiation theory enables the analysis of emotives, and forces
a paradigmatic shift from the linguistics of logos to the linguistics of pathos.
Linguistic meanings are no longer interpreted on the basis of propositional
content alone, but rather, the meanings are interactionally negotiated, being
indexically linked to the place of communication. The cotexual and contextual
information become critical within the theory, rather than some constructs
casually mentioned post-theoretically.
In my exploration of linguistic emotivity, I have learned much from previous
works available both inside and outside of Japan. Many of the scholars are no
longer with us, but many others are my contemporaries and friends. Although I
do not list them, I would like to express my deep respect to those scholars whose
works are cited in this book.
In May, 1997 I had the good fortune of meeting Yujiro Nakamura. It was a
chance encounter; we both happened to be in the dining area of the Nassau Inn in
Princeton, NJ, USA. Until that morning, I knew Professor Nakamura only
Preface and acknowledgments xiii
through his writings. Meeting him in person gave me the courage to seriously
construct the kind of linguistics I had only vaguely toiled over for many years. I
thank him for his insight, encouragement, and friendship.
For many years I have enjoyed knowing respected teachers and supportive
colleagues in the field of Japanese linguistics and Japanese studies. My sincere
gratitude goes to Noriko Akatsuka, Yoshihiko Ikegami, Chisato Kitagawa, Takie
Lebra, Naomi McGloin, Suzuko Nishihara, Matsuo Soga, and Paul Takahara, who
have, for so many years, kindly and warmly supported me.
Over the past several years, I have had opportunities to share some of my
earlier thoughts at various universities and institutes. I would like to express my
thanks (in chronological order of my visits) to the National Language Research
Institute in Tokyo, University of Tokyo, Harvard University, Princeton University,
UCLA, Nagoya University of Foreign Studies, Showa Women’s University, Waseda
University, the UCLA Center for Japanese Studies, Aoyama Gakuin University,
and Tokyo Joshi Daigaku (Tokyo Women’s Christian University).
Portions of this work were funded by the Japan Foundation’s Institutional
Support Program for Japanese Studies awarded to Rutgers University (1996–
1998). Some of the research reported in this book was also assisted, in part, by a
grant I received from the Social Science Research Council (1999) with funds
provided by the Japan-U.S. Friendship Commission. I express my appreciation to
these funding agencies, whose grants facilitated the data collection, analysis, as
well as the completion of the manuscript. I also wish to express my gratitude to
Rutgers University for granting me a sabbatical leave for the academic year 2001–
2002.
Last but not least, I express my warm appreciation to my late parents,
Tsutomu and Harue Kumiya of Yamanashi, Japan. It is in their memories that I
find a part of my place.
SKM
Highland Park, NJ, USA
Fall, 2001
Part 1
Preliminaries
Chapter 1
Introduction
Language, emotivity, and pathos
.
Introductory remarks
. Emotivity and expressivity
Traditionally when emotion becomes a research topic in linguistics, it is discussed
in relation to the expressive function of language. Expressivity of language, a
dimension pervasive in human communication, includes all aspects of selfexpression, whether they are dispositions, general mood and feelings, aroused
emotive responses, evaluative attitudes, sense-based judgments, or cultural
sentiments, as long as they are linguistically expressed.
Emotivity is a specific case of expressivity. Emotivity refers to emotional
attitude and response, the feeling of being moved, as well as culture-based feelings
and sentiment expressed through the use of linguistic and related signs. An
emotive is a device expressing emotivity, and I use the term emotivity distinctly
from the term ‘‘emotion(al)’’ which refers to basic and general human emotions
such as anger, love, and happiness. Emotives refer to (1) linguistic devices that
describe emotions, for example, love and hate, (2) linguistic strategies, such as
interjections, that directly enact emotional attitudes, and (3) grammatical and
rhetorical means which foreground the emotive meaning, for example, an
exclamative sentence structure. I also use emotive to refer to any linguistic sign
when its emotive meaning is foregrounded; in this sense all linguistic signs are
potentially emotive.
Every language possesses an array of lexical terms referring to human emotions. Although the categories and the system of these emotion words may differ
across languages and cultures, it is difficult to imagine a language without them.
Obviously, emotion words offer much insight for understanding the emotivity and
expressivity of language. And in recent years, emotion words and metaphors have
become the focus of research among (cognitive) semanticists. Likewise, some
obvious cases of grammatical and rhetorical means for emotivity have been
studied.
In this book, recognizing different types of emotives mentioned above, I focus
on devices that have not been fully investigated so far. Rather than analyzing
emotion words and metaphors, I examine linguistic signs and strategies on varied
Linguistic Emotivity
levels, i.e., lexicon, syntax, and text, including those signs that have not been
traditionally identified as emotives. I take the position that although some
linguistic signs and strategies may seem to carry the propositional meaning alone,
they always express, in varying degrees, emotive meanings as well. By concentrating on seemingly emotionless signs, a stronger case can be made that emotivity is
pervasive in all aspects of language. I identify and analyze a number of emotives in
contemporary Japanese discourse to illustrate how rich and critical linguistic
emotivity is in language and its use.
As I will discuss in the course of this book, emotives are indexical signs
(Peirce 1992 [1868]), and can be said to be indexical in multiple ways. First,
emotives reveal the speaker’s identity indexically associated with the speaker’s
social, cultural, and emotional conditions. Second, emotives are interpreted on the
basis of cotextual and contextual information that are indexically linked to the
place of communication. Moreover, language as a whole is indexically linked to
the culture it embraces (Silverstein 1976).
. From logos to pathos
Many of the formal approaches to language that have dominated the latter half of
the 20th century have concentrated on formal, abstract, and autonomous aspects
of syntax and semantics. This preference for identifying language as an isolated
(or, isolatable) object of analysis has deep roots in the Cartesian view of knowledge. The concept of autonomous syntax, which excludes all possibilities of
explanation and motivation external to itself, successfully limits the analytical
universe. Thus, scholars are able to pursue linguistics with the rigor of logos, as
long as the proposed rules reach an adequate level of internal consistency and
descriptive simplicity. This tradition so convincingly persuades us that we ourselves tend to find mental and psychological security, both peace of mind and
heart, in the formalized rule-governed understanding of language.
Despite this dominant view of language, language has also long been associated with emotion. Throughout this volume, along with nonformalist and
functional approaches to language, I challenge the formalist approach that places
undue emphasis on language’s referential (i.e., informational, or propositional)
dimension. By resurrecting language’s expressive possibilities, I propose a new way
of understanding language as an experience of pathos, as sources of human
emotion, and as a way of realizing our emotional feeling selves.
Language has been known to possess, at its disposal, the devices expressing
human emotions, and this dimension has been traditionally captured by the term
pathos. To elucidate the concept of pathos along with two other complementary
elements, i.e., logos and ethos, it is necessary to turn to Aristotle’s Rhetoric. In the
classical sense, logos refers to rational arguments, and ethos, to the presentation of
Introduction
the speaker’s character and personality, especially the reliability of the person. And
pathos refers to ‘‘the playing upon the feelings of the audience’’ (Wisse 1989: 5).
Critical to the Aristotelian understanding of pathos are the partner’s feelings.
Pathos involves the reaction of the message receiver.
However, as pointed out by Wisse (1989), there seem to be some contradictions in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, particularly regarding pathos, in the sense of emotional appeal. In Book 1 of Rhetoric, Aristotle seems to deny the validity of pathos
in his approach to rhetoric, as reflected in the quotation below.
Now those who in these days compose handbooks of rhetoric have spent their
efforts on only a small part of this art. For proofs [pisteis] are the only things
falling under the scope of art; everything else is merely accessory. And yet they say
nothing about enthymemes, which is the most essential part of persuasion, but
devote most of their attention to things outside the matter itself: for the arousing
of prejudice, pity, anger and similar emotions has nothing to do with the matter,
but is directed at the judge only. (Wisse 1989: 17–18)
However, Aristotle does not totally ‘‘deny’’ pathos as an effective means of
persuasion; he excludes it from the art of rhetoric, but he advocates it in practice.
In fact, in Book 2, Aristotle analyzes fifteen emotions as a means for pathos, i.e, for
the arousal of emotions in the audience. The fifteen emotions include anger,
mildness, love/friendship, enmity/hate, fear, lack of fear, shame, shamelessness,
favor, goodwill, lack of goodwill, pity, indignation, envy, emulation, and lastly,
contempt. In other words, Aristotle’s earlier denial of pathos seems to be a
‘‘rhetorical’’ reaction to the then lacking enthymemes; he does not deny, but in
fact advocates, pathos.
According to Wisse (1989), Aristotle understands emotion (with anger as an
example) in the following way.
It is necessary to divide the material about each of the emotions under three
heads; for instance, when talking about anger, (1) what state of mind makes
people inclined to anger, (2) with whom they usually get angry, (3) and on
account of what. For if we knew one or two of these heads, but not all three, it
would be impossible to arouse anger; and the same applies to the other emotions. (Wisse 1989: 65)
Aristotle’s conceptualization of emotion is situational in that emotion requires a
target and a partner to share it with. This point is further elucidated by Cooper
(1996) in his explanation of Aristotle’s pathos. Cooper states:
Aristotle seems to recognize three central elements as constituting the emotions
— they are agitated, affected states of mind, arising from the ways events or
conditions strike the one affected, which are at the same time desires for a specific
range of reactive behaviors or other changes in the situation as it appears to her or
him to be. (Cooper 1996: 251)
Linguistic Emotivity
Significant to the understanding of pathos, then, is that human emotions are not
simply experienced internal to the person, but rather, are experienced through
interaction with other factors, including how the context influences the person,
and how the interacting partner may emotionally react. The social dimension of
emotion suggested here, which is in agreement with contemporary views of
emotion (e.g., the social constructivist view of emotion), is particularly significant
for developing the theory of linguistic emotivity explored in this book.
Perhaps a more serious point regarding the concept of pathos is spelled out in
Aristotle’s following statement, as given in Wisse (1989):
Emotions are all those (feelings) that so change men as to make their judgments
different, and that are accompanied by pleasure and pain; such are anger, pity,
fear, and the like, as well as their opposites. (Wisse 1989: 67)
Here, one cannot ignore Aristotle’s words, ‘‘emotions are all those (feelings) that so
change men as to make their judgments different.’’ If one’s judgment is changed by
one’s feelings, in order to persuade someone, one must take into account the
partner’s personality (ethos), and more importantly, how the partner feels (pathos).
Since Aristotle takes the position that a person’s judgment is influenced by emotion, his perspective comes close to espousing that the elements of pathos are
fundamentally more influential in judgment than the elements of logos.
Following the Aristotelian rhetoric, when investigating language, one cannot
ignore elements of pathos, for those elements are likely to alter the logos-based
semantic content. More fundamentally, is it even possible to separate the semantics of logos and the meanings of pathos in the first place? At minimum, I must
conclude that linguistics of strictly formal semantics is not sufficient to account
for the full meaning of language. A linguistic theory must embrace not only the
proposition-based meaning but also the emotive meaning, the latter of which is
the focus of the present volume.
Regarding the Aristotelian conceptualization of the relationship between
judgment and emotion, Lighton (1996) elaborates further. Aristotle viewed
emotion’s ability to alter judgment in terms of two principles, i.e., (1) change of
judgment as a consequence of emotion, and (2) change of judgment as a constituent of emotion. And the former comes in the following kinds; (1) ‘‘connivance,’’
(2) ‘‘alteration through favor and disfavor,’’ (3) ‘‘alteration through perception,’’
and (4) ‘‘alteration through pleasure and pain’’ (Lighton 1996: 217). These
judgmental changes seem intuitively correct; we have personal experiences such as
intentionally ignoring truth, being more lenient toward those we like, severely
punishing those from whom we expect more, compromising one’s integrity for
the fear of consequent psychological pain, and so on. There is no doubt that our
‘‘rational’’ thinking is influenced, regardless of whether or not we admit it, by our
personal and interpersonal emotions.
Introduction
In this book, I use the term pathos similarly to the Arostotelian notion of
pathos, with all the possibilities of influencing logos and ethos. Pathos emphasizes
interaction-based psychological and emotional aspects, while logos emphasizes the
logical and informational aspects of language. Pathos is usually associated with
femininity, and logos, with masculinity. The former is often discussed as being
evident in Eastern culture, and the latter, as a philosophical foundation of the West.
Although logos and pathos seem polar opposites, they are, nonetheless, connected at their foundation. Emotion often requires conceptualization through
language which requires aspects of logos, and logical rationality is often influenced
by emotion. In reality it is perhaps more accurate to view them as complementary.
And this view is the one I hold. Furthermore, differences between logos and pathos
are a matter of degree or preference, and they do not constitute a mutual exclusivity. In the course of this book it will be revealed that depending on the purpose of
communication, pathos may be chosen over the principles of logos under certain
circumstances in certain genres. In this study I also use the term pathos to identify
a type of knowledge. Pathos as a theoretical concept encompasses the emotionrelated principles and preferences of a culture, as well as the philosophical position
of prioritizing what will be referred to as the Knowledge of Pathos.
Although logos and pathos are complementary, it is also true that mainstream
linguistics has prioritized logos at the expense of pathos. This logos-centeredness
has influenced linguistics at least in two significant ways. First, investigation of
language as logos has necessitated the theory of abstract and autonomous language, and consequently, has led to the denial of language as an event enacted by
participants in a particular place. Under the influence of logos, propositional
meanings are selected as objects of analysis, and the subject–predicate relationship
becomes the center of syntactic analysis. Second, data of linguistic analysis are
logos-centered, and actual usage of expression remains a non-issue. At the same
time, linguists discard emotive aspects of meaning because these aspects are
viewed as epiphenomenal, and are unexplainable within formal theories. Formal
linguistics is a product of the logos-centered view toward knowledge, and its
theories are built on select logos-supporting samples.
I am not claiming that formal linguistics is useless. I am saying, however,
that if we conceive language from a pathos-centered view, our theoretical
conceptualization of linguistics must also change. So, too, must change what
constitute relevant data. Consequently, what constitutes an appropriate linguistic
research design must be seriously questioned. By shifting our focus to a pathos-centered view, perhaps we are able to reach dimensions of language heretofore not having received full attention, or simply having been pushed aside too
long for convenience’s sake.
Language conveys more than information. More accurately, under certain
circumstances, language prioritizes emotion over information. In the current
Linguistic Emotivity
work, I explore, with as much vigorousness and precision as possible, how
emotion is expressed through emotives, and how such emotive meaning is interpreted through a negotiating process. After proposing the Place of Negotiation
theory of language, based on this theoretical standpoint, along with methodologies
adopted primarily from conversation and discourse analyses, I explore the nature
of emotivity and forms of emotives in contemporary Japanese discourse.
. Organization of the book
Part 1, Preliminaries, presents background in which the current work is presented.
Chapter 1 introduces basic concepts, emotivity, expressivity, and pathos, all of
which, with slight differences in focus, serve the thread of discourse for this book.
Furthermore, to philosophically locate the type of knowledge to be pursued in this
work, Chapter 1 provides a brief history of knowledge, with a particular focus on
the Knowledge of Pathos.
Linguistic emotivity and surrounding topics have become sites of analysis in
linguistics and related fields, and tracing this historicity is the aim of Chapter 2.
Particularly important in Chapter 2 is the review of traditional Japanese language
studies whose fascination of emotivity is symbolized by the expression kokoro no
koe ‘voices from the heart’. Closely associated with the issue of emotion is the
sociocultural dimension. Chapter 2 reviews ‘‘affect’’ and ‘‘involvement,’’ the two
theoretical concepts available in the field, and expands on their potential
sociocultural consequences. In the last section of Chapter 2, assessing previous
studies, I offer the rationale for my approach.
Part 2 introduces, in four separate chapters, the Place of Negotiation theory,
on the basis of which I conduct my analysis of linguistic emotivity. I introduce the
overall picture of the theory in Chapter 3, along with the explanation on how the
concept of selves is realized through negotiation. In Chapter 4 I discuss, in detail,
how the concept of place has occupied a center stage in Japanese philosophy and
language theories. Chapter 5 turns to a more concrete issue of how emotive
meaning is interpreted, negotiated, and approximated. Related principles of
interpretation, such as 〈empathetic conformity〉, 〈perspectivized appearance〉,
〈perspective of becoming〉, and 〈emotive focus〉, are discussed as interpretive
processes required in the Place of Negotiation theory.
Chapter 6 expands the horizon to overall characteristics of contemporary
Japanese cultural discourse. I emphasize the significance of the topic–comment
dynamic on all levels of the Japanese language, and connect this to the traditional
rhetorical figure of futaku. It is for this indirect, round-about way of expressing
and negotiating one’s emotion through the rhetoric of futaku that the topic–
comment dynamic becomes especially functional. Included in Chapter 6 is the
general characterization of the Rhetoric of Pathos, a rhetorical preference I
Introduction
recognize in Japanese discourse. All features analyzed in this book function to
realize, in one way or another, the Rhetoric of Pathos.
The realization of the topic–comment dynamic is captured by ‘‘emotive
topics’’ on one hand, and ‘‘emotive comments’’ on the other. Part 3 discusses four
related but different ways Japanese discourse creates emotive topics; (1) vocatives
and topic-marking expressions in Chapter 7, (2) exclamative and emotive
nominals in Chapter 8, (3) quotative topics in Chapter 9, and (4) emotive nan(i)
‘what’ in Chapter 10. These strategies are chosen as representative means to
present topics and topic-like elements with varied shades of emotivity. Vocatives,
exclamative/emotive nominals, quotative topics, and emotive nan(i) all appear as
nominal elements, and they typically appear in the utterance-initial position where
topic is most expected. Their function as a propositional element is minimal;
instead they present the target of futaku, potentially rich in linguistic emotivity.
Three strategies of emotive comments are discussed in Part 4; (1) the so-called
copulative da (and ja-nai), (2) emotive interrogatives, and (3) stylistic shifts.
These strategies are chosen because of their potential for expressing linguistic
emotivity in the form of a comment. All of these strategies appear toward the end
of the utterance, closely associated with a comment. Da (and ja-nai) and interrogatives have been viewed as a part of the predicate, critical to the construction
of proposition. If these strategies turn out to function as emotives as well, the case
I am making for linguistic emotivity is that much stronger. In addition, stylistic
shifts are known to be linked to the speaker’s personal and interactional attitudes,
and therefore, significant expressive functions are expected.
Despite the commonly held view that da and ja-nai are copulative verbs, in
Chapter 11, I argue that these are indexical signs with undeniable emotive
implications. Chapter 12 discusses three different kinds of interrogatives that
present emotive comments; (1) interrogatives seeking no answers, (2) commentary questions, and (3) stray interrogative clauses. In Chapter 13, based on the
analysis of a television drama series and works of fiction, I argue that stylistic
shifts indexically signal the speaker’s desire for expressing multiple aspects of
emotivity. In this chapter, da versus desu/masu styles as well as use and non-use of
interactional particles are discussed in relation to intimacy, power, and identity.
Also discussed is emotivity associated with narrative voice in fiction, stylistic shift,
and particle use.
Part 5 illustrates how linguistic emotivity comes to life in cultural discourse by
analyzing it from the perspective of a Rhetoric of Pathos, and within the framework of the Place of Negotiation theory. Chapter 14 discusses linguistic emotivity
observed in Oda Nobunaga, a one-episode television drama. The Rhetoric of
Pathos in written text is explored in newspaper articles in Chapter 15. And
Chapter 16 investigates how linguistic emotivity is associated with the presentation
of different aspects of self. Based on examples taken from a television drama
Linguistic Emotivity
series, Long Vacation, I discuss how gendered selves and interactional selves are
expressed, negotiated, and legitimatized through emotives.
In the final part, in Chapter 17, I reflect on linguistic emotivity and how it
relates to the Japanese language’s preferred strategies and how it helps to realize
the 〈feeling self 〉. Chapter 17 also broadens the scope and discusses the Japanese
culture that embraces the concept of place and the aesthetics of pathos. Chapter 18
questions the significance of the current work in the context of linguistic ideologies. And lastly, I ponder upon how the spacial boundedness inherent in the
concept of place can be overcome, especially in light of the potential contribution
a researcher is able to make (by constructing a theory through a specific language)
toward the knowledge on language in general.
.
Types of knowledge and Knowledge of Pathos
Formal approaches to linguistics have dominated the theoretical landscape
throughout the latter half of the 20th century. This hegemonic force of formal
approaches in linguistics has spread beyond Western academia, and indeed, has
profoundly impacted Japanese language studies as well. In this book, I attempt to
come to terms with this historicity, and propose a kind of linguistics capable of
accounting for the linguistic phenomena so far not fully accounted for.
I use the Japanese language as a site for this exploration, but obviously, my
interest is not to proclaim the ‘‘uniqueness’’ or the ‘‘particularity’’ of Japaneseness.
Rather, the Japanese language serves only as a starting point for a broader
rethinking of language, as it provides a means for linguistic theory-building. As an
initial step, to locate the present work in context, I must begin by reviewing the
type of knowledge I find inadequate for the purpose of fully understanding
language, i.e., an ideology of logos.
. An ideology of logos
The tenet of modern Western science is, in a word, a pursuit of rationality. It is
not that all Western scholarship prescribes to it. However, in general, there has
been a received understanding that science requires the observer’s objective and
rational analysis, and that scientific findings add to the body of coherently
accumulating universal knowledge.
This Cartesian view of rational (clear and distinct) thinking has tended to push
aside humanistic knowledge, e.g., memory, psychological processes, feelings,
imagination, emotion, myth, and so on. And as symbolized by the expression,
cogito ergo sum, one’s inner thinking leads to the logos, the ultimate ‘‘clear and
distinct ideas.’’ As a result, one’s self is understood to be a 〈thinking self〉, un-
Introduction
scathed by the sway of emotion. In humanities, emotion is inevitable, but emotionrelated knowledge has been considered unreliable. Humanistic knowledge, supported by the interpersonal relationship between ‘‘I’’ and ‘‘you’’ as characterized by
Buber (1970), was considered less trustworthy. Instead, rational thinking based on
observation (i.e., the 〈I–it〉 relationship) was prioritized and praised.
Following this line of thought, a human being is divided into mind and body,
with prestige given to the former. Mind is capable of creating rational thought,
and therefore, the ultimate authority is given to the subject of cogito, the initiator
of human thought. But obviously, there is an irony in this thesis of cogito. When
Descartes uttered cogito ergo sum, it was realized through a language (although a
‘‘dead’’ language), a specific language with inherent ideology associated with it.
Thinking is not totally free nor absolutely clear. This is because thinking must be
achieved through a particular, not universal, language, which inherently is
shrouded in its ideologized sociocultural mist.
In this sense, linguistic theories, from whomever they originate, can not be
totally ‘‘free’’ of ideology. Formal linguistics was conceived primarily in English
within the English-based universe. Given this, it is not overly presumptuous to
assume that the English language (or more cautiously, English, German, and
French) influenced the construction of the logos-based theories. Consider that the
theory built in English for English is, in turn, legitimatized in English academic
discourse. Through this process, a particular view of the universe is reinforced,
while other possibilities are precluded. In what follows, I offer an alternative to
this hegemony of logos.
. Vico’s warning
Although, in retrospect, the Cartesian view has dominated modern Western
sciences, there is also a tradition in the West to prioritize humanistic knowledge.
Giambattista Vico (1668–1744), an Italian philosopher, was placed in the historical
time when Cartesian philosophy was beginning to invade the humanities. For
fifteen years beginning from 1710, Vico continued to criticize the Cartesian world
of the 〈I-it〉 relationship. He doubted the possibility that the essence of humanity is
objectifiable, and that it is describable by assembling empirical data alone. Instead,
Vico believed that for a human being to truly understand oneself, one must
appreciate the meaning of history, that is, one must understand oneself in history.
According to Paparella (1993), in Vico’s view ‘‘truth is a dimension of the
subject and it is a basic fallacy to think with Descartes that it can be conceived as
a property of objects themselves’’ (1993: 31). Therefore, Vico insisted that beyond
the three recognized kinds of knowledge, i.e., metaphysics (rational intuition),
mathematics (deductive knowledge), and natural science (empirical knowledge),
there is a fourth kind of knowledge, that is, self-knowledge. In order to gain self-
Linguistic Emotivity
knowledge, one must not remain a simple passive onlooker. We are participants
within our history, and through participation, we understand our existence from
the inside. Believing that Cartesian ‘‘clear and distinct ideas’’ constitute the highest
form of knowledge, one may engage in introspection. But this does not lead to
understanding. For there is no such thing as ‘‘objective’’ history.
Thus, we confront the idea of Vico’s hermeneutical circle. When human beings
create history, and above all, language, we build internal structures based on our
experience. But that experience itself is interpretable only through those interpretive structures. In other words, one’s method of interpretation organizes the world,
which in turn nourishes one’s method of interpretation. Thus, the study of history
becomes an ongoing reinterpretation of these interpretive structures which human
beings have created. But, because one cannot interpret history without language,
one’s knowledge is intrinsically tied to that language. Consequently, knowledge
gained through re-interpretation is only relative to that language. This position of
Vico is summarized by Caponigri (1976) as ‘‘(T)he concrete processes of culture
alone provide the context for the idea of man because only in that context are the
conditions of total presence realized’’ (1976:310).
Now, gaining self-knowledge requires self-experience. But self-experience does
not materialize by way of introspection. Self-experience results when a person
meets others and shares one’s world with theirs. Thus, by means of empathy
toward others, we reach an understanding of history, through which we understand ourselves. Vico believed that we make history, while, at the same time,
history makes us.
Vico’s hermeneutics is a reminder against the sheer arrogance of the Cartesian
mind-set. Objectivists tend to insist that such and such theory is the only valid
‘‘objective’’ view of what constitutes reality, while other views or paradigms are
the products of ignorance and, therefore, are of little, if any, intellectual value.
This arrogance of the learned still pervades our present-day academies where
much production of truth is achieved in specialized, exclusive academic corners.
In linguistics, unless one reaches for the ordinary language realized through
participation among ordinary people, one’s mere abstract thinking may only add
to the Cartesian introspection-based rationality, which may or may not reflect
what people do with and in language.
Vico’s professed academic discipline was rhetoric, the study of creative
aspects of language. For Vico, it is language, rather than ‘‘clear and distinct
ideas,’’ that offers the most important source for understanding the relationship
between human beings and the world of which we are a part. More significant to
the discussion of linguistic emotivity, Vico viewed the relationship between
language and meaning as that of interdependence. For Vico, contrary to what
Descartes thought, content and form can be distinguished but cannot be separated from one another.
Introduction
For Vico, the principle of complementarity sustains. Just like the relationship
between form and meaning, the relationship between language and mind is
synergistic. Minds are fashioned by languages just as languages are fashioned by
minds. The two are inseparable. Following this line of thinking, it is absurd to
think, as Descartes thought, that there are ‘‘clear and distinct ideas’’ standing
behind language, and then language strains to express such ideas. Rather, the
meaning of language arises with the language that testifies to it. According to
Paparella (1993: 67), Vico was ‘‘the first linguist to point out that language is
performatory in nature.’’ Paparella emphasizes Vico’s insistence that our relationship to language and history cannot be one of ‘‘using’’ them but rather, one of
‘‘participating’’ in them (1993: 74).
Overall, Vico issued a warning against the Cartesian rationality, and being
concerned with science’s assumed authority, stated:
Since, in our time, the only target of our intellectual endeavors is truth, we devote
all our efforts to the investigation of physical phenomena, because their nature
seems unambiguous: but we fail to inquire into human nature which, because of
the freedom of man’s will, is difficult to determine. A serious drawback arises
from the uncontrasted preponderance of our interest in the natural sciences.
(Vico 1965 [1709]: 33)
Perhaps I am not the only one to recognize that Vico’s warnings were consistently
ignored and often vigorously denied in many of the mainstream formal approaches in linguistics. The analysis and interpretation of language I pursue in this
volume are in basic agreement with Vico’s view toward language. I take Vico’s
view seriously, especially the following points. First, when constructing a linguistic
theory, one needs to take into consideration the hermeneutic self-knowledge.
Second, one needs to understand that we participate in history through language
which carries within it its culture and history. Third, one must appreciate that
language constructs the way we evaluate the very manner in which we understand
ourselves. And lastly, the meaning of language comes into being where language
and thought meet, and where speaker and partner interact.
In this place where language and thought encounter, there must be a 〈feeling
self〉 who simultaneously understands the language of logos, and who experiences
the personal, interpersonal, and social empathy of pathos. If language and thought
are in synergistic relationship supporting and realizing each other, both are fused
with logos and pathos. And if such is the case, linguistic theory must also be able to
shed light on both logos and pathos.
. Knowledge of Pathos
The humanistic aspiration Vico held is clearly captured by Nakamura’s term
‘‘Knowledge of Pathos’’ (patosu no chi). Knowledge of Pathos refers to a type of
Linguistic Emotivity
knowledge that Nakamura, a contemporary Japanese philosopher, has developed
over the past 25 years, as documented in many of his writings (1975, 1982, 1992,
1993c, 1996). Nakamura sometimes refers to the Knowledge of Pathos as the
Knowledge of Dramatic Model (engeki no chi), and the Knowledge of Clinical
Model (rinshoo no chi). Here I refer to the idea represented by all three terms
simply as the Knowledge of Pathos.
In strictly formal linguistics, Cartesian logos had taken root, and has spread in
all directions. In the process, rationality has gained ascendency over memory,
imagination, emotion, and the human body. More pointedly, rationality has all
but obliterated the primacy of locality-based particularities as key to understanding humanity and culture. Nakamura, repeatedly acknowledging the importance
of Vico’s humanistic approach, characterizes the Knowledge of Pathos with
renewed interest, particularly as a potential heuristic for a host of issues associated
with contemporary thought.
In Nakamura’s view, Knowledge of Pathos is passive and responsive, while the
Cartesian knowledge of logos is active and proactive. As opposed to a mechanized
scientific knowledge, the Knowledge of Pathos appreciates the dynamic energy
which a place itself exerts on whatever emerges there. We receive our energy from
a place, and so does our knowledge. Knowledge, like experience, is born through
intimate association and interaction with others and objects located in a place,
resultant of which is the appreciation of multiple layers of relationships. In
Nakamura’s words:
The Knowledge of Pathos is based on three structural principles, i.e., cosmology,
symbolism, and performance, in its process of appreciating the meaning of other
elements that act upon us such as other persons, worlds, and environments. To
put it differently, the Knowledge of Pathos does not understand human beings
merely as active existence, i.e., in the abstract. Rather, it starts with the idea that it
is a passive-suffering existence receiving the action from others in a semantically
rich place. And it refers to the kind of knowledge that understands the self-other
relationship as mutual interaction.1 (Nakamura 1996: 306, my translation)
Nakamura’s three principles for the Knowledge of Pathos (cosmology, symbolism,
and performance) are polar opposites of three elements basic to the knowledge of
logos. Cosmology contrasts with universalism, symbolism with logicality, and
performance with objectivism. Nakamura’s pathos is predicated upon cosmological thinking, symbolism, and the significance of bodily action.
According to Nakamura (1996), the cosmological way of thinking views place
(or space) differently from universalism. In the latter case, place is understood to be
monolithic and universal. In the cosmological view, each place possesses an organic
order, constructing a meaning-existing territory. In such a place, locality-based
particularities and topica (as a location of problematics) become meaningful.
Introduction
Symbolism refers to the principle that linguistic and related signs are understood to
realize multiple meanings. The polysemous nature of things is accepted as a norm,
and meanings are customarily interpreted from multiple viewpoints, and not from
a single, autonomous perspective. Performance refers to more than the body that
performs. Nakamura states that ‘‘performance requires, more than anything else,
the interaction among the person who acts, the partner who views the actor, as well
as partners situated in the same place’’ (1992:135, my translation).2
Nakamura’s three pillars associated with the Knowledge of Pathos are closely
associated with Vico’s humanism. I read in Nakamura’s conceptualization of
knowledge the following tenet as it relates to language in particular. First, language
and place are inherently connected and they always interact. Second, meanings are
multiple, that is, polysemy is the norm, and third, linguistic action occurs in
interaction, always enacted together with someone else. Although the Knowledge of
Pathos may be applied to various disciplines, the points listed above are particularly
significant to the kind of linguistics advanced in this book. In my construction of
the Place of Negotiation theory, I incorporate Nakamura’s conceptualization of
knowledge. Of particular importance, the theory (1) must incorporate the recipient’s passive point of view, (2) must be sensitive to the interactional nature of
language, and (3) must perceive the meaning to be multiple.
As made evident by Nakamura’s use of the term, the Knowledge of Dramatic
Model, Nakamura integrates Burke’s (1969) work on dramatism into the Knowledge of Pathos. In A Grammar of Motives, Burke conceptualizes five terms (i.e.,
Act, Scene, Agent, Agency, and Purpose), and based on how these elements
interact, he characterizes different types of drama. What interests Nakamura is the
thesis Burke develops surrounding the Greek proverb ta pathemata mathemata,
i.e., one learns by experience. In a section titled Dialectic of Tragedy, Burke (1969)
explains in the following way. Mathemata refers to things learned in general, and
the mathematical sciences in particular. A pathema refers variously to a suffering,
misfortune, passive condition, situation, and state of mind. But another element
is required for tragedy, namely, an action. Thus, Burke’s version of the complete
proverb is poiemata, pathemata, mathemata.
Poiemata, pathemata, mathemata refers to the motive that the act organizes
the opposition, that the ‘‘agent’’ thus ‘‘suffers’’ this opposition, and as the agent
learns to take the oppositional motives into account, the agent has ‘‘arrived at a
higher order of understanding’’ (Burke 1969: 40–1). If one reaches a deeper
understanding by acting on opposition, it implies a dialectic paradox. Burke
himself phrases:
Grammatically, if a construction is active, it is not passive; and if it is passive, it is
not active. But to consider an act in terms of its grounds is to consider it in terms
of what it is not, namely, in terms of motives that, in acting upon the active,
Linguistic Emotivity
would make it a passive. We could state the paradox another way by saying that
the concept of activation implies a kind of passive-behind-the-passive; for an
agent who is ‘‘motivated by his passions’’ would be ‘‘moved by his beingmovedness,’’ or ‘‘acted upon by his state of being acted upon.’’ (Burke 1969: 40,
original emphasis)
To understand dramatism, and, more relevantly, to understand human interaction
crystalized in drama, one needs to take into account the active-passive relationship
itself. This position challenges strictly formal linguistic theories in that they account
for the language in abstract, while giving little regard toward the passive recipient
side of the interaction. To fully understand that action implies being passivebehind-passive, a Knowledge of Pathos is necessary. Here lies the motivation for
Nakamura to incorporate, in his understanding of pathos, Burke’s grammar of
dramatic motives. Both Nakamura’s and Burke’s works are reminders that linguistic theories must be able to account for the principle of poiemata, pathemata,
mathemata. Effective linguistic theories must not only capture the emotivity within
language, but also must be pursued as a part of the Knowledge of Pathos.
. Sensus communis
I now turn to the philosophical concept of sensus communis that lies at the very
foundation of the Knowlege of Pathos. Following the understanding of Vico’s sensus
communis, Nakamura, in his series of writings (1975, 1982, 1992, 1993b, 1996),
resurrects and renews this concept. The concept of sensus communis, though not
developed specifically in relation to a linguistic theory, can be applied to linguistics
as well. And as will be explored in the course of this book, sensus communis is of
particular significance to the Place of Negotiation theory. Sensus communis offers
the philosophical foundation for the Knowledge of Pathos, which in turn
legitimatizes the analysis of linguistic emotivity. It also offers insight to psychological and social understanding of language both on the individual and societal levels.
As will be explained, in the Place of Negotiation theory, meaning is interpreted through interpersonal negotiation. Meaning is negotiated between speaker
and partner, to the extent the potential meaning of linguistic signs allows. To
integrate the meaning in the negotiation process, however, some operational motivation is necessary. Sensus communis offers a means and motivation for the integration of various semantic elements inherent in interaction. This motivation
operates internal to the person, as it evaluates multiple semantic elements, ranks
them, and integrates them. At the same time, sensus communis facilitates the
integration of meanings expected in a given society. This sensus communis as
intuitive social knowledge makes it possible to integrate and interpret meaning
appropriate to the cultural occasion, by selecting, weighing, connecting, and
combining multiple factors. Sensus communis may also take the form of social
Introduction
sentiment commonly acknowledged among a group of people sharing the same
culture. This aspect of sensus communis enables the interpretation of emotives in
socioculturally meaningful ways.
To elucidate on the concept of sensus communis, I follow the way Vico
understood it, under the guidance of Nakamura’s (1975) further elaboration.
Nakamura (1975: 91) summarizes the basic meaning of sensus communis as a
process where ‘‘many senses within the body (i.e., what is sensed in the body) by
themselves meet each other, are tied together, are arranged in an orderly manner,
are clustered together, and are formed into a system’’ (1975: 91, my translation).3
Unlike the case of ‘‘common sense’’ which was eventually censored from
philosophy and other academic disciplines, historically, sensus communis has
functioned in terms of psychological, physiological, as well as, social factors. For
example, according to Nakamura (1975), Aristotle understood sensus communis as
the human ability to distinguish the senses, the ability to identify the very process
of sensing. Aristotle also identified sensus communis as an operation that human
imagination requires when re-enacting the passive side of experience. On the other
hand, for Descartes, although he clearly separated thought from sense, and mind
from body, sensus communis was something that could bridge the two.
Sensus communis is a sense-based intuition, i.e., unreflected judgment, but it
also functions to organize and integrate senses, whose process requires rational
function. In short, sensus communis is predicated upon the rational. This sense-toconcept process is experienced not only by an individual, but also by a group of
people sharing similar cultural values. In this way sensus communis presses forward
the patterning of sentiment shared by a group of people. More relevantly to the
current study, sensus communis operates as a motivational force for the socioculturally endorsed way of interpreting meaning in the Place of Negotiation theory.
Vico, in Naples of the early 18th century, was witnessing Cartesian rationalism
challenge the three-hundred-year ascendancy of the humanist rhetoric. Faced with
this crisis, Vico found in sensus communis the necessary epistemology. According
to Schaeffer (1990), by the 18th century, sensus communis had become the locus of
a whole cluster of meanings, including the following; an organizing sense, an
unreflective opinion shared by most people, manners or social values of a community, the first principle of reflection, an innate capacity for simple, and even logical
reasoning. In the context of this intellectual landscape, Vico advanced his concept
of sensus communis. In his 1709 work, Vico emphasizes the importance of sensus
communis in the education of the young by saying that ‘‘young people are to be
educated in common sense, we should be careful to avoid that the growth of
common sense be stifled in them by a habit of advanced speculative criticism’’
(1965 [1709]: 13). In fact for Vico, sensus communis is ‘‘besides being the criterion
of practical judgment,’’ ‘‘the guiding standard of eloquence,’’ and he warned us by
saying that ‘‘(T)here is a danger that instruction in advanced philosophical
Linguistic Emotivity
criticism may lead to an abnormal growth of abstract intellectualism, and render
young people unfit for the practice of eloquence’’ (1965 [1709]: 13).
More concretely, given the importance of sensus communis, Vico incorporates
it into his rhetoric. Lamenting that the art of ‘‘topics’’ (topoi) has been ignored,
Vico advocates it by pointing out that topica allows one to find where arguments
are. In other words, one can find the line of reasoning along which the discussion
of the subject is to be conducted. Therefore, those who know the loci, i.e., the
lines of argument to be used, are able ‘‘to grasp extemporaneously the elements of
persuasion inherent in any question or case,’’ and ‘‘(I)ndividuals who have not
achieved this ability hardly deserve the name of orators’’ (1965 [1709]: 15).
Now how exactly does sensus communis work in oral speech? Vico’s answer is
the following. Equipped with sensus communis, the person speaks in a language the
audience knows, with meanings they share, and with images, rhythms, and emotions
that support those meanings. This commonality supported by the sensus communis
keeps the individual rooted in the community both culturally and historically. An
individual experiences the sensus communis, when language provides him or her the
imagination and aesthetic power pertinent to that particular language.
It is significant that when Vico thinks of rhetoric, he refers to oral ability. Vico
found in the art of oratory the importance of the relationship between speaker and
listener. In fact as Schaeffer (1990) wrote, ‘‘(I)n Vico’s account, language begins,
not with men speaking, but with men listening. Their first linguistic act is not
speech but hermeneutic, the interpretation of the thunder’s meaning’’ (1990:87).
This view of linguistic interaction will be shown to be of particular interest to the
Place of Negotiation theory.
It should be added that Vico’s insistence on the importance of orality was
motivated, in part, by the political situation in which Vico found himself. Oral
performance dominated the culture of Vico’s Naples, but that culture was under
attack from the intellectual forces of the Enlightenment. He was thrown into the
controversies over reform of the university and the legal system which suggested
the shift of importance from orality to written text.
In New Science, his 1725 work, Vico’s idea of sensus communis develops into
an epistemological principle that relates language to cultural development. In New
Science, sensus communis is not predicated upon an individual; rather, it refers to
judgments (including unreflected judgments) shared by community. As Schaeffer
(1990) puts it, sensus communis in New Science is ‘‘simply a practical judgment
concerning needs and utilities around which a community has formed a consensus’’ (1990: 84).
In opposition to the Cartesian desire for reaching truth, Vico’s idea of truth is
expressed in his concept of verum-certum. According to Vico, what is verum, true,
is that which the human mind can know by itself, because the human mind can
construct the truth by itself. But the world out there, what is outside the mind,
Introduction
can only be known as being certain (certum). This is because the mind can only
know an object as an object. Thus, physical nature can never be grasped as ‘‘true’’
because its structure and origin lie outside of the human mind. As for the world
outside of one’s mind, in Vico’s view, only God, who created nature, can know it
truly. Understanding language in use, then, requires the concept of certum.
To recognize the differences between certitude and truth is compatible with
the interpretation of emotive meanings. Because flexibility is recognized in the
concept of certitude, one can construct a theory of meaning accountable for the
fluctuating polysemous nature of language. Meanings expressed by language are
abundant, multiple, and sometimes even contradictory. Interpretive theories of
meaning also follow the concept of certum. It is the certitude reached between
speaker and partner, and not the truth, that is key to coming to terms with
semantic interpretation.
The concept of certitude also allows for the approximation of meaning
negotiated between partners. Obviously as in the case of metaphor and metonymy, but in many other linguistic signs as well, literal interpretation is hardly
enough for accounting for the totality of meaning. Meaning of language is not
monolithic; it is manifold and changing. The meaning exists only to the extent
that it is negotiatively interpreted, within the boundaries of potential meanings of
linguistic signs, to reach the possible level of approximation. Sensus communis
allows multiple interpretations of meaning including logos and pathos; it legitimatizes and is legitimatized by the Knowledge of Pathos.
Overall, Vico’s sensus communis offers a humanistic holistic model. In his
view, the speaker and partner are placed in a particular place and time, while
language keeps them rooted in cultural heritage and in social community. Self,
other, and language are placed in balance within this world. Note also that in oral
speech, as advocated by Vico, sensus communis simultaneously provides invention,
organization, and expressivity required for performance. This process involves the
totality of self, of both mind and body. In terms of comprehension as well, the
unreflected judgment of sensus communis involves more than decontextualized
autonomous logos. It is a judgment involving all senses.
Although sensus communis is likely to be criticized by many, I, for one, agree
with Schaeffer (1990) who recognizes its significance.
Vico reminds us that our civilization is built upon a sensus communis that is
essentially oral, communal, and practical, and he challenges us to redraw the
cultural history of the West from within its rhetorical tradition rather than from
within the traditions of Greek philosophy or Enlightenment rationalism. (1990:160)
The concept of sensus communis offers a foundation for understanding linguistic
emotivity. Sensus communis provides psychological motivation for integrating
meanings associated with the place of communication, both on individual and social
Linguistic Emotivity
levels. Vico’s prioritization of certitude over truth offers support for the interpretation of meanings based on negotiation. Vico’s oral rhetoric supported by sensus
communis also bears testimony to the prioritization of orality to writing. It reminds
us that language is an action, an event, rather than an abstract static system.
Of particular significance of sensus communis is the recognition of the
intuition of the speech community. Language is endorsed by the community and
its culture, and this leads to the understanding of emotives as being endorsed in a
community according to its cultural heritage. This relationship between sensus
communis and culture suggests the hermeneutic potentials, but it also suffers from
limitations. For, sensus communis, as a source of cultural identity, is likely to
influence the process of the linguistic theory-building itself. I will discuss this issue
under the term ‘‘linguistic ideologies’’ in Chapter 18. For now it is perhaps
sufficient to mention that, despite expected criticism, the current work is designed
to pursue the Knowledge of Pathos, with sensus communis at its foundation, for
reaching the certitude of linguistic emotivity.
Chapter 2
Background
Emotion, expressive function, and culture
.
Studies on language and emotion
Although historically, dominant linguistic theories have followed an ideology of
logos, this historicity has not completely precluded an ideology of pathos. In fact
studies addressing emotion and language, and those that touch upon pathos, have
been published within linguistics and surrounding areas in the West and elsewhere. This chapter reviews some of these previous studies, with the intention of
locating the concept of linguistic emotivity, the Place of Negotiation theory, and
the Knowledge of Pathos in a historical perspective.
First, I review the relationship between language and emotion as conceived by
Rousseau, by scholars of the Prague Linguistic Circle, by Bally in his exploration
into linguistic stylistics, and by researchers in pragmatics. I also review studies on
metaphor from the cognitive semantics perspective. Although the kind of study I
pursue in this book is not in complete theoretical agreement with the cognitive
approach, their view of linguistic meaning is something to be noted, and therefore, I briefly touch upon some representative works in and association with
cognitive studies. Additionally, the relationship between emotivity and grammaticalization is briefly mentioned.
In Section 2.1, I review traditional Japanese studies. More than 200 years ago,
Japanese language scholars of the Edo period (1603–1868 ad) approached
language in a way radically different from modern Western linguists. In fact, to
view language as emotion was rather common among Japanese language scholars,
and aspects expressing linguistic pathos have consistently been considered precious
and central to Japanese language studies. Through this review, we realize that steps
toward the analysis of linguistic emotivity had been taken long ago by some Edo
scholars. In addition, in Section 2.2, I briefly review representative works of contemporary Japanese linguistics. Scholars I review in this section, based on insight
gained from syntactic and semantic studies of the Japanese language, have
challenged linguistics of logos from within.
Section 3 expands the horizon to emotion discussed in the cultural context.
Included are discussion on sociocultural dimensions of emotion, concepts of
‘‘affect,’’ and ‘‘involvement.’’ Finally in Section 4, a critical assessment of past
studies is presented.
Linguistic Emotivity
. Rousseau and the origin of language
Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778) is an important writer on the relationship
between emotion and language. In On the Origin of Language (1966), Rousseau
argues that language does not derive from people’s primary needs (such as hunger
and thirst), but derives from people’s needs motivated by morality and passion. It
was love, hatred, pity, and anger that drew the first words from human beings,
Rousseau insists. It was the language of human passion, and not the language of
instinctive desire, that human beings initially voiced.
Rousseau’s example is illustrative. Imagine a situation where someone is in
pain. This is fully known. But as one watches this afflicted person, one may not
weep. Yet, Rousseau says, ‘‘give him time to tell you what he feels and soon you
will burst into tears. It is solely in this way that the scenes of a tragedy produce
their effect’’ (1966: 8). As made clear in this statement, emotions are profoundly
experienced when they are expressed in and through language. Language is
essential for feeling.
Naturally, not all linguistic expressions express the speaker’s emotion straightforwardly. This is evident when one considers that linguistic emotivity often
involves strategies specifically used to persuade the partner. But, Rousseau was
convinced that passion was inherent, and indeed fundamental, to language. He
intuitively sensed the significance of emotion in language. Thus, as controversial
as Rousseau’s treatise on the origin of language was, well before the development
of modern Western linguistics, language was conceived as an emotional experience, rather than as a system of logos.
In Rousseau’s view, language of desire is used in social conflict, but language of passion is used for interpersonal empathy, and it encourages the
commonality of passion among its people. Language that pursues emotional
involvement with others is expressive, figurative, as well as poetic, and it
contrasts with the language of logos. Moreover, Rousseau takes the position that
the language of logos has derived from the language of passion. This point is
emphasized particularly in Chapter 2 of On the Origin of Language when
Rousseau states that ‘‘(O)ne does not begin by reasoning, but by feeling’’
(1966: 11). Against another theory of the origin of language (which advocates
that human beings invented speech to express their primary needs), he insists
that such a view remains untenable. Rousseau viewed the origin of language as
being, in essence, emotive expressivity. The ordinary language is a figurative
language based on this language of passion, and language of logos has emerged
as a result of its expansion. In retrospect, despite the dominance of rationality
in academia, language’s emotivity has been recognized within the Western
scholarship, one of the most powerful (if not controversial) being the position
taken by Rousseau in the 18th century.
Background
. The Prague Linguistic Circle
Turning to linguistics per se, perhaps linguists most keenly aware of the linguistic
emotivity were scholars associated with the Prague Linguistic Circle. Among them
are Jakobson (1960) and Bühler (Innis 1982), who introduced poetic and expressive functions of language. Limiting our discussion to the central tenet of the
Prague Linguistic Circle, let me start with the view of its founder, Mathesius.
The philosophical foundation of the Prague Linguistic Circle is stated in the
lecture Mathesius gave in 1929. Significant to our discussion is Mathesius’
emphasis on the functional principle which prioritizes function over form. In his
words:
Whereas earlier linguistics, which primarily relied on the interpretation of texts,
started from ready-made language structures and inquired about their meaning,
thus proceeding from form to function, the new linguistics, relying on its experience with present-day language, starts from the needs of expression and inquires
what means serve to satisfy these communication needs in the language being
studied. It thus proceeds from function to form. (Mathesius 1983 [1929]: 123)
The idea that language responds to needs is significant in that the language user is
brought to the fore. Language does not consist of ready-made forms; rather, our
linguistic experience involves experiencing language as ‘‘languaging.’’ The motive
of the speaker is critical for understanding the form itself. For Mathesius, language
is ‘‘something living’’ (1983 [1929]: 122) and underneath the words, lies the
speaker or writer whose communicative intentions are expressed in language. In
addition, Mathesius reminds us that in most cases ‘‘words are aimed at a hearer or
reader’’ (1983 [1929]: 123), advocating the importance of the recipient side of
language in communicative interaction.
As indicative of the phrase ‘‘needs of expression’’ appearing in the citation
above, the Prague School functionalism does not ignore the speaker (or the
partner) in its theory-building. This is because language per se does not possess
function, but rather, function arises because the language users (or, more accurately, communication participants) have functional needs. This paradigmatic shift,
from language-as-form to language-as-function, presupposes a speaker and partner,
and their expressive intentions. And in this understanding, linguistic emotivity is
naturally understood as a part of the communicative needs. Within this paradigm,
the speaker is no longer the thinking subject of cogito, but rather, a person who
speaks, talks, participates, interacts, and above all, feels, in communication.
Following Mathesius, Trnka (1983 [1948]) advocates the view that language
is best understood as ‘‘language experience.’’ Citing Bally’s work which is in basic
agreement with the tenet of ‘‘language experience,’’ Trnka laments that Bally
concentrated on the emotional aspect of language only. In the Prague School,
Linguistic Emotivity
Trnka insists, the concept of language experience has a broader meaning, ‘‘because
it includes the experiencing not only of affective but also of intellectual elements
of language’’ (1983 [1948]: 226).
Trnka (1983 [1948]) continues. For Prague School scholars, it is important to
combine both the system of language and the language experience. Because these
are mutually related, ‘‘language lacking experience would be no more than an
unchanging system of relations with no possibilities of development’’ and, on the
other hand, ‘‘without the values of logical order, language would only be equal to
an accumulation of unanalyzable phonic utterances’’ (1983 [1948]: 227).
Trnka’s position indeed resonates with the theses of the Prague Linguistic
Circle presented to the First Congress of Slavists held in Prague in 1929. Under
the section titled ‘‘problems of research into languages of different functions,
especially Slavic,’’ we find the following statement.
Features important for the characterization of language are the intellectuality and
the emotionality of language manifestations. Both these features either interpenetrate each other or one of them prevails over the other. (Vachek and Dušková
1983: 88)
As if predicting the formal linguistics that was to prosper in North America in the
latter half of the 20th century, Trnka, along with Prague School linguists, insisted
on the kind of linguistics that incorporates both logos and pathos. Such a creative
desire, however, has not materialized so far, and extensive analyses of broad-based
data from the Praguean perspective remain unavailable.
As a representative of the contemporary Prague Linguistics Circle, Daneš
brings to the fore the issue of language and emotion. Daneš (1987) advocates the
interactive approach to emotion expressed in discourse, and states that the study
of emotion in communication must include the speaker and the hearer as well as
the situation. And at least initially, the researcher must take into account all the
various means by which emotions are manifested. Most significantly, Daneš
maintains that we must ‘‘abandon the traditional notion of ‘emotional neutrality’
and assume that any utterance and higher discourse unit has an emotional value’’
(1987: 169).
Inheriting Trnka’s and the Prague School’s idea of language experience, or
more explicitly, the concept of living in one’s language, Daneš points out that
emotion is the most typical and natural manifestation of people’s involvement
with language. For Daneš, emotion (including feeling and affect) is something
constantly experienced. And ‘‘the essential character of human experience is
affective involvement with the object being experienced’’ (1994: 256, original
emphasis). Daneš emphasizes that we are constantly experiencing affective
involvement toward the object of our cognitive intentionality. This is because
feelings provide information about the things we are confronted with.
Background
Following Daneš’ view on language and emotion, I take the position that
language and emotion are inseparable. Although one may associate linguistic
emotivity directly with intonation and other emphatic features, in reality, language
in general is imbued with emotion. Indeed, no expression in language is totally
void of emotive meaning. Let me borrow Daneš’ words:
Emotion, however, does not constitute a level or layer (. . .), but an aspect — and
a substantial and omnipresent one — of the message conveyed by an utterance. It
is a specific aspect of the overall linguistic behavior of speech participants, that
permeates the whole discourse, which is thus ‘imbued’ with it. And it belongs to
the specificity of emotion that it is experiential and ‘interactional’, rather than
‘communicative’. (Daneš 1994: 262)
Because of this understanding of the emotive meaning, Daneš (1987, 1994)
opposes attributing emotion to markedness only. If we associate emotion with
marked expressions only, then we must conclude that expressions without
markedness bear no emotive meaning. And this, Daneš opposes. All expressions
are emotive in one way or another. Pointing out that our brain functions as a
hybrid mechanism with both digital and analog coding, Daneš (1994: 257) insists
that emotion is a matter of degree. Emotion is omnipresent, although in different
shades and colors, sometimes spontaneous, and at other times, strategic.
Theoretical positions taken by the Prague Linguistic Circle remind us that
language is something that responds to the needs of its users, including the
emotional need. Language realizes the need of the person who thinks, talks,
participates, interacts, and always experiences emotion and feelings. I find in the
works of the Prague Linguistic Circle one of the earliest theoretical elucidations
concerning linguistic emotivity. Their theoretical position is in agreement with that
of the Knowledge of Pathos. As a specific study of linguistic emotivity, I will later
examine Volek’s (1987) work, which falls into the Prague School functionalism.
. Stylistics
One of the disciplines that has contributed to the understanding of the emotive
aspect of language is stylistics, or linguistic stylistics. Bally, known as one of the
editors of de Saussure’s Course in General Linguistics, singlehandedly developed
this field. Although Bally was a student of de Saussure, his theoretical position was
not in total agreement with his teacher, as made evident below.
Bally was unsatisfied with the Prague School functionalism which advocated
the linguistic sign’s multi-functions. Instead, he proposed dictum and modus, the
two levels of functions, the latter of which is his (and my) primary concern.
Modus expresses the speaker’s attitude toward dictum, and Bally was drawn to it,
as evidenced by Bally’s characterization of modus as l’âme de la phrase.
Linguistic Emotivity
Simply put, Bally insisted that language and life are mutually dependent, and
both require more than logos. Bally phrases this as ‘‘(I)f language is not a logical
creation, it is due to the fact that life, whose expression it represents, does not
simply produce pure thoughts’’ (1965 [1925]:15, based on Hübler [1998]:5). Bally
continues:
Those thoughts which sprout in the fullness of life are never of an essentially
intellectual make-up: they are movements accompanied by emotions which
sometimes lead me to and sometimes detain me from actions: they are releases or
contractions of desires, volitions, vital impulses. Admittedly, it is only through my
intellect that I become aware of these multifarious movements, yet it does not
represent the essence but is only the vehicle, the stage director, and the mechanic.
(Bally 1965 [1925]: 15–16, based on Hübler [1998]: 6)
Accordingly, Bally makes the distinction between mode vécu (the affective mode)
and mode pur (the intellectual mode). Mode vécu refers to the performative mode
involving the whole person with all his or her senses and feelings, while mode pur
refers to the analytic mode of description. In expressing the speaker’s emotional
attitude, mode pur offers its description, producing a report of one’s inner
sensations, as in I am getting mad. Mode vécu, on the other hand, enacts a live
performance of the sensation, as in Damn it! In the mode vécu performance, one
senses personal authenticity. Bally treated mode vécu and mode pur as complementary. This is because the emotivity of mode vécu is foregrounded in the context of
mode pur, and vice versa. Consequently, it is critical to understand that language
provides both means.
Bally was also concerned with individual versus social aspects of language.
Unlike de Saussure who separated langue and parole, Bally took the position that
real-life language involves both langue and parole simultaneously. In communication, one desires to express individual subjective feelings, and yet the communication must be achieved by socially accepted means. Language functions as a sort of
go-between, adjusting the two contradicting forces, i.e., one toward individualization, and the other, toward socialization. Bally could not rest easy by analyzing
langue only, and conducted textual analysis focusing primarily on various affective
functions. For Bally, linguistic stylistics is the discipline concerned with ‘‘the
expressive facts of language from the viewpoint of their affective content, in other
words, the expression of feelings through language and the action of language on
feelings’’ (based on Caffi and Janney 1994b: 333).
According to Caffi and Janney (1994b), Bally distinguishes between two types
of expressive processes, i.e., direct and indirect. Direct processes involve lexical
choices, and indirect processes involve prosodic and syntactic choices that go
beyond single words. It is significant that Bally recognizes emotivity in grammar
and beyond. In fact, Bally’s stylistics includes different types of dislocation,
Background
including that of the thematic progression of texts often analyzed in the Prague
School functionalism (Functional Sentence Perspective, in particular).
. Pragmatics
Pragmatics is another area of language studies that has demonstrated interest in
the elucidation of linguistic emotivity. No established pragmatics theory for
emotivity, however, is available at this point. It is fair to say that linguistic
emotivity is yet to be established as the main area of pragmatics research. This is
evident in Verschueren’s (1999) overview of pragmatics which lists expressive
function along with other functions of language. Emotion is mentioned only in
passing, and no substantial discussion is offered. Let me follow Caffi and Janney
(1994a, 1994b) for an overview of pragmatics of emotive communication, while
paying attention to the problems and themes they suggest for future research.
The first issue is theoretical. How is emotive meaning identified? What is the
basis for emotivity? If we consider markedness as a feature of emotivity, what
happens in the case of unmarked, neutral form (if such a form exists)? Assuming
that the recognition of emotive markedness involves certain norms and expected
schemata, Caffi and Janney (1994b) list the following anticipatory schema that
potentially involves the marking of emotive contrasts.
Linguistic anticipatory schemata offer guidelines as to what are normally expected in language behavior. For example, if we assume that a syntactic question
requires a rising intonation, a question with a falling intonation represents a divergence, with implications for emotive meaning. Contextual anticipatory schemata
refer to expected global and situational assumptions. For example, if parents
usually call their children by their first name (e.g., Johny, stop that!), when a
parent does not (John James Smith, stop that!), this generates notice. In such a
case, some emotional motivations are presumed. Cotextual anticipatory schemata
handle cases where there are expectations about types or successions of verbal
and/or nonverbal activities that are likely to occur in particular stretches of
discourse. For example, against a background of formal speech, informal speech
demonstrates a contrast, and therefore an emotive reading is expected.
Also to be noted is that emotivity-based contrasts are analogic phenomena,
characterized in terms of more or less, and require the appreciation of gradation.
Caffi and Janney (1994b: 354) take the position that it is possible to conceive of
potential ranges of emotive choices as existing on the more/less scale. In concrete
terms, Caffi and Janney (1994b) list a variety of devices that are expected to carry
emotive meaning. They include devices of evaluation, proximity, specificity,
evidentiality, volitionality, and quantity.
Additional fundamental problematics in the pragmatics of emotive interaction
involve analytical approaches. For example, one may view emotive communica-
Linguistic Emotivity
tion as a process, while another may view it as an interactive achievement. Caffi
and Janney (1994b) seem to advocate the latter view. To view emotive communication as an interactional achievement is consistent with theoretical positions
advocated by scholars in interactional sociolinguistics, and this has been and is my
position as well. Particularly noteworthy is Caffi and Janney’s characterization of
the interactional view when they state that this latter view is dialogical, and the
‘‘significance of emotive signals is regarded as a matter of negotiation between the
participants’’ (1994b: 358). This language-as-interactional-achievement position
takes a dynamic view, in contrast with the language-as-product position which
maintains a static view. If a researcher views emotive communication essentially as
a product, then he or she observes the product in the 〈I-it〉 relationship. Discourse, text, and interaction are viewed as static product available for analysis.
Recall that linguistic stylistics, in principle, assumes this theoretical position, and
analyzes written texts exclusively. If a researcher views emotive communication
essentially as an interactional achievement, he or she must pay attention to the
intersubjective 〈I-you〉 relationship, which necessitates a philosophical position
such as the Place of Negotiation theory.
Other problematics raised by Caffi and Janney (1994b) regarding pragmatics
of emotive communication include the issue of identifying and prioritizing certain
units of analysis (e.g., utterance, speech-act, turn, stretch of discourse, text, and so
forth) as well as certain loci of analysis (i.e., speaker, addressee, content, discourse
management). As pointed out earlier, although these problematics are presented,
no overall theoretical solution is offered. In the course of this book, through
introduction of the Place of Negotiation theory, and in the process of analyses, I
address some of the issues raised by Caffi and Janney (1994a, 1994b).
. Cognitive semantics
The approach to linguistic emotivity in cognitive linguistics, with special regard to
the study on metaphor, is best characterized as a study of mode pur. Among works
in cognitive semantics (e.g., Kövecses 1990, 1995; Lakoff 1987; Lakoff and Johnson
1980; Lakoff and Kövecses 1987), let me focus on Kövecses (1995) because it
includes the discussion of the anger metaphor in Japanese. Kövecses (1995) focuses
on the ‘‘hot fluid in a container’’ metaphor of anger, and tests its applicability to
Chinese, Japanese, and Hungarian. As for Japanese data and interpretation, he
mainly relies on Matsuki’s (1989) analysis of ikari. Citing examples such as Ikari ga
karadajuu ni juuman shita ‘My body was filled with anger’, Kare wa ikari o
buchimaketa ‘He exposed/expressed/showed his anger’, and Ikari o uchi ni himeru
‘I contained my anger’ (Kövecses 1995:119), Kövecses argues that indeed the
‘‘container’’ metaphor is not only useful for conceptualizing Japanese anger but
also it captures a great number of aspects and properties associated with anger.
Background
For example, the container metaphor allows us to conceptualize intensity
(filled with), control (contain), loss of control (could not keep inside), dangerousness (brim with), and its expression (express/show) associated with anger. Kövecses
proposes to understand anger in four cultures (English, Chinese, Japanese, and
Hungarian) as a process of five stages: cause → anger → attempt at control →
loss of control → expression (1995: 132). Cultural differences seem to exist, however, in the kinds of causes and different expression stages. In Japanese, the
metaphor also takes on an added characteristic that a (hot) fluid is located
primarily in the stomach/bowels area (hara), and this ‘‘hara as container’’
metaphor only marginally implies a pressurized container. The hara metaphor has
an elaborate control aspect. For example, an increase in the intensity of anger is
indicated by hara rising, the chest (mune) getting filled with anger, and eventually
anger reaching the head (atama). Kövecses (1995) also mentions that in the
discussion of Japanese ikari, a suggestion is made that the Japanese model
(possibly the more traditional kind) gives the angry person more chance to
exercise control over anger than the Western model does.
All these observations add to our understanding of Japanese emotivity.
However, cognitivists’ approach to emotivity aims to understand human cognitive
processes by way of descriptive linguistic signs. It does not directly address the
theme of this volume, that is, an inquiry into how one expresses and interprets
linguistic emotivity. The significance of cognitive semantics to the current work
lies in the expansion of the semantic possibility, specifically to the emotive
richness of metaphor and metonymy. However, I must point out that their
approach to expressivity fails to take into full account the interactionality and the
situationality of communication. Language is analyzed as being apart from the
partner, and their approach essentially sustains the 〈I-it〉 relationship. And as a
result, although different from formal linguistics per se, in many cases language is
analyzed as object, giving the impression that their approaches generally fall into
the linguistics of logos.
Another approach to Japanese emotive vocabulary should be mentioned here.
Wierzbicka’s work does not directly fall into cognitive semantics, but, among her
works (e.g., 1991, 1997), study on (Japanese) key words, in particular, shows some
methodological resemblance to the cognitivist approach. For example, Wierzbicka
(1997) uses semantic primitives to account for semantic similarities and differences among cultural key words across languages, including Japanese.
One of the key concepts within Japanese culture is amae ‘dependence,
indulgence’. Amae, since its inception by Doi (1971), has been known to pose
problems in its translation into other languages, into English, in particular. Faced
with this notoriously problematic task, Wierzbicka defines amae in the following
terms.
Linguistic Emotivity
(a) X thinks something like this about someone (Y):
I know:
(b) when Y thinks about me, Y feels something good
(c) Y wants to do good things for me
(d) Y can do good things for me
(e) when I am with Y nothing bad can happen to me
(f) I don’t have to do anything because of this
(g) I want to be with Y
(h) X feels something good because of this (Wierzbicka 1997: 241)
It is true that circular definitions found in ordinary dictionaries fail to truly
‘‘define’’ words. Failing to explicate complex and obscure meanings in terms of
simple and self-explanatory ways, too often dictionary definitions are more obscure
than the word being defined. As Wierzbicka (1997) advocates, semantic primes can
avoid this circularity. However, again, as in the case of cognitive semantics,
Wierzbicka’s study is that of mode pur (words describing emotions), and not of
mode vécu (direct performatory expression of emotions).
Other studies on expressive functions of language associated with cognitive
semantics include Drescher (1997), Foolen (1997), Günthner (1997), and Werth
(1998). Studies discussing Japanese data are also available, for example, Hasada
(1998), McVeigh (1996), and Travis (1998). Approaches mentioned above are
encouraging, particularly because they go beyond a proposition-based semantic
interpretation, and thus, open up possibilities of interpreting different dimensions
of grammatical meanings on a broader spectrum.
. Grammaticalization
The issue of language and emotion has emerged in the context of another theoretical development in linguistics, that is, in association with the theory of
grammaticalization as advanced by Traugott (1982, 1989). The grammaticalization
theory attempts to establish a diachronic process that grammatical elements often
evolve from lexical sources, and semantically shift from propositional to textual,
and then to attitudinal meanings. Linguistic devices become more personal; in
theoretical terms, the language change goes through the process of subjectification.
The study that substantiates this view, for example, is Hübler’s (1998) study on
English expressivity. Hübler (1998) examines six grammatical phenomena in
English (possessive dative, ethic dative, expanded form, present perfect, periphrastic
do, and the get-passive) through Old, Middle, and Modern English, and concludes
that the indexicalness of a single grammatical device could be shown to undergo
the grammaticalization process identified by Traugott. Although the unidirectionality of the development cannot account for every case, and therefore, a more
Background
flexible view is required, Hübler (1998) reports that generally the development
from propositional meaning to attitudinal/emotive meaning is recognized.
As for the Japanese grammaticalization phenomenon, Onodera’s study (1993)
substantiates Traugott’s grammaticalization process. Onodera (1993), based on
the analysis of the Japanese language spanning over 1,200 years, explores the
pragmatic change that conjunctions (demo and dakedo) and interjections (ne and
its variants) underwent. Onodera observes that functional and semantic changes
in these forms roughly follow the direction from ideational, to textual, and to
more expressive. This confirms Traugott’s (1982, 1989) hypothesis on semantic
change, i.e., less to more personal. Onodera (2000) states that demo type connectives (including dakedo, dakara, datte, dewa, and de) underwent both grammaticalization and pragmatization, while na-elements (a group of interjections)
underwent pragmatization (independent of grammaticalization). In both cases,
contemporary use of these markers has taken on increased varieties of expressive
functions. For example, demo as a conjunction functions for (1) point-making, (2)
claiming the floor, (3) opening the conversation, and (4) changing the topic/
subtopic. The historical shift toward increased varieties of expressive functions
provides support to the argument that linguistic emotivity is an important
element for understanding language and its change.
The historical shift Onodera (1993, 1995, 2000) observes does not imply that
language as a whole is shifting from less to more personal or expressive. In fact,
the decline of Japanese kakarimusubi ‘particle/adverb-predicate correspondence’
after the Heian period (794–1192 ad) bears testimony to the fact that emotivity,
at least the kind expressed by kakarimusubi, has severely declined. Kakarimusubi
which prospered during the Heian period, and gradually declined since the
Kamakura period (1192–1333 ad), are practically extinct today. One may interpret
this phenomenon as a shift toward the less expressive. Furthermore, the opposite
direction of language shift, i.e., from attitudinal to propositional meanings, has
been suggested for Japanese. For example, Yamaguchi (1990: 129) points out that
Japanese interrogatives have gradually shifted from more emotional to less
emotional. Yamaguchi’s position is based on the advancement of certain emotive
interrogative particles and the consequent rise of the less emotive question marker
ka. Yamaguchi’s point does not directly address the semantic or pragmatic shift of
an identical device, but rather, use and disuse of related devices.
These observations do not necessarily contradict Onodera’s findings, which
are based on the grammaticalization and pragmatization processes of a set
category of Japanese words. The above observations only illustrate that emotivity
in language undergoes multidirectional changes. Different devices and strategies
may fill the void, and those devices themselves may undergo shifts from less
personal to more personal. My speculation is that different aspects and levels of
language may shift toward different, or even opposing, directions, so that they
Linguistic Emotivity
compensate among themselves. Through time, different needs are met in different
ways. Although the current study does not address the issue of grammaticalization
or pragmatization, its significance to the understanding of emotivity is noted.
.
Emotion in the Japanese language
. Traditional Japanese studies: Language as emotion
So far we have concentrated on Western theories and views on language and
emotion. We now shift our attention to Japanese language studies. Partly because
traditional Japanese language studies are mostly available only in Japanese, the
significance of their studies has been consistently slighted in linguistics and related
fields outside Japan.
It is fair to say that serious Japanese language studies started during the Edo
period (1603–1868 ad). Edo scholars, however, were not directly interested in
constructing a theory of language, nor offering a systematic analysis of the
Japanese language structure. Their concerns were more immediate, i.e., how to
compose and how to appreciate great waka (a 31-mora poem). In short, they
approached language studies from expressive and interpretive perspectives, and
not necessarily on the basis of theoretical interest. Two scholars should be
mentioned in relation to linguistic emotivity, Nariakira Fujitani (1738–1779) and
Akira Suzuki (1764–1837).
Fujitani is known for his Kazashi-shoo (1934 [1767]) and Ayui-shoo (1960
[1778]). In the oomune ‘summation’ section of Ayui-shoo, Fujitani divides
Japanese words into four basic categories, na, kazashi, yosoi, and ayui, which he
defines as the following.
1. na ‘nouns’ identify objects;
2. kazashi ‘pronouns, adverbs, conjunctions, exclamations, affixes’ assist other
parts of speech;
3. yosoi ‘verbs’ and ‘adjectives’ describe objects;
4. ayui ‘auxiliary verbs, particles, suffixes’ assist other parts of speech.
As is widely known, a literal translation of the last three terms reveals Fujitani’s
intention to associate his categorization with the linear order of Japanese expressions; kazashi means head decoration (appearing at the beginning), yosoi, clothing
(often the middle part of the sentence), and ayui, the footwear (appearing at the
end of the sentence).
According to Nakada and Takeoka (1960), Fujitani essentially understood
language as follows. When viewing language from expressive and interpretive
perspectives, the most important aspect is how socially conventionalized words
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and grammar are creatively used by each individual. This is because conventionalized patterns of language restrict individual expressivity. In fact language exists
at a precarious balance between this conventionalized restrictive force and
individual creative desire. Fujitani identified the abstract level of language as yuu
‘ghost/phantom’ and the actual individually-enacted expressive level as arawashi
‘appearance/manifestation’, and found the relationship between the two critically
important.
The language realized by an individual involves a number of aspects; (1)
speaker’s intention, (2) speaker’s interaction with a partner, (3) situation where
the interaction takes place, (4) materials related to expression, and (5) individual
particularities. Just as the patterns of classic Noh performances and Kabuki plays
thrive on individual creativity by mastering and transcending rigid traditional
patterns, language consists of yuu as a convention, and arawashi as creation.
Fujitani was keenly aware of the language’s creative possibility, which inevitably
expresses personal emotivity.
Perhaps I should cite some examples here. On the abstract level, an event may
be referred to as Hana ga saku ‘Flowers bloom’, but when it is actually used as a
part of an interaction, the expression becomes individualized, situated, and
particularlized, resulting in expressions such as A, hana! ‘Oh, flowers’, Saita!
‘Bloomed!’, Saita yo, hana ga ‘In bloom, aren’t they, those flowers’. The variability
observed here results from sociolinguistic factors, individual intention and style,
as well as genre distinction, and most significantly, in association with different
types and intensities of linguistic emotivity. Variability also results from different
kinds and degrees of human emotions. These differences are expressed in Japanese
by kazashi, yosoi, and ayui, as well as the lexical correspondence within sentence
(which Fujitani called uchiai ‘echoing’).
With this fundamental view toward language, Fujitani concentrated on the
study of kazashi and ayui. Of importance is that Fujitani knew the poetic significance of ayui and kazashi. Given that waka is imbued with deep emotion and
sentiment, it seems natural that Fujitani finds ayui and kazashi most critical. Ayuishoo lists 164 particles, auxiliary verbs, and suffixes, which are divided into 50
types. These 50 types are further categorized into five, and then finally into two
basic groups. For example, one of the basic groups, ayui that immediately follows
nouns, is the zo-family. Within this zo-family, particles so, koso, and koso wa are
included. These categories are differentiated not by concrete words but by abstract
semantic and emotive meanings. Notably, Fujitani has little to say about the
informational meaning the language conveys. Instead, he chose poetics of pathos
as his central concern. We witness here that the study of linguistic emotivity had
existed in Japan at the early dawn of Japanese language studies.
Prominent among emotive devices Fujitani paid attention to is uchiai ‘echoing’.
Uchiai refers to the echo effect among different words within a sentence. When
Linguistic Emotivity
interpreting waka, a mere understanding of each word is insufficient. One must
grasp the larger framework within which one word echoes with another, creating a
resonance that reverberates throughout the waka. This echo effect is achieved as a
result of two or more corresponding words functioning in combination.
Curiously, Fujitani (Nakada and Takeoka 1960) mentions cases where the
rules of uchiai are violated. In such cases, there are two recognizable types, i.e.,
nabikizume and kakusu uchiai. Nabikizume refers to cases where the zo corresponding predicate is absent. When this occurs, the poet ‘‘cast one’s exclamation
out there with one’s heart along with it’’ (kokoro o fukumete nagame-sutsuru)
(Nakada and Takeoka 1960: 97). In such cases, often, koto yo, koto kana, or mono
o (all of these are combinations of nominalization and particle) follow. Fujitani’s
above explanation, i.e., cast one’s exclamation out there with one’s heart along
with it, is of particular significance to Japanese emotivity, but for now it suffices to
say that Fujitani did not ignore the emotivity of language; in fact, he treasured it.
To cite Fujitani:
As I will explain in each chapter of this book, uchiai is regulated by a particular type
of corresponding ayui. However, two additional types of uchiai exist that should be
explained separately. First is nabikizume, and the second, kakusu uchiai. Nabikizume
refers to the use of pre-nominal forms of adjectives and ayui when they are not
accompanied by corresponding particles or other corresponding kazashi and ayui.
This happens when one admiringly exclaims with pre-nominal forms (rather than
ending the sentence with usual verb endings). Such a case should be interpreted by
adding phrases that express exclamation such as ‘‘how . . .’’ ‘‘what a . . .’’ and ‘‘I
wish . . .’’ (. . .) Kakusu uchiai occurs when one avoids using corresponding
sentence-final particles. In this case the uchiai is suggested by the accompanying
original poem or poetry citation, or by the kakekotoba ‘punning phrase’ which hides
the corresponding ayui.1 (Nakada and Takeoka 1960:97–8, my translation)
The concept of uchiai is similar to kakarimusubi ‘particle/adverb-predicate
correspondence’. Uchiai, however, covers a broader spectrum of phenomena than
kakarimusubi. In essence, uchiai is an expression of personal feelings and emotion
that cannot be fully explained by a mere compilation of word meanings.
Fujitani’s work was further advanced by students of Norinaga Motoori, such
as Haruniwa Motoori and Akira Suzuki. And it was Akira Suzuki who immortalized the emotional aspect of the Japanese language by the phrase kokoro no koe
‘voices from the heart’. In his Gengyo Shishuron (1979 [1824]), Suzuki introduces
the classification of four word categories; tai no shi ‘nominals,’ arikata no shi
‘adjectivals,’ shiwaza no shi ‘verbals,’ and te-ni-o-ha ‘te-ni-o-ha particles’. Suzuki
groups the first three into one large category, i.e., shi ‘referential words,’ and
deems te-ni-o-ha to be an opposing category.
One may rightfully criticize Suzuki for being overly zealous about the concept
of ‘‘voices from the heart.’’ For, Suzuki’s characterization in Gengyo Shishuron
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includes the alleged superiority of the Japanese language, in comparison to
languages of other countries (particularly China which has served as the Other to
many Edo period scholars). He glorified the Japanese language’s refined features,
particularly, the voices from the heart, and one cannot escape from the impression
that Suzuki seems to have engaged in celebrating the ‘‘uniqueness’’ of the Japanese
language.
Suzuki delineates the contrasting characteristics between shi versus te-ni-o-ha
as follows:
Sanshu no shi ‘three types of referential words’:
1. They have referential function;
2. These are referential words;
3. They refer to objects and thus become referential words;
4. They are like precious beads;
5. They are like containers;
6. They fail to operate (function) without te-ni-o-ha.
Te-ni-o-ha:
1. They have no referential function;
2. They represent voice;
3. They are voices from the heart and are attached to shi;
4. They are like strings that connect precious beads;
5. They are like hands that use or operate the containers;
6. Without shi, they have nothing to be attached to.
Suzuki (1979 [1824]: 23–4) summarizes that the voices of te-ni-o-ha distinguish
and express states of one’s heart, and nominals and other words distinguish
objects and describe them.
There is no other term in the history of Japanese language studies that
proclaims the importance of emotivity as strongly as Suzuki’s ‘‘voices from the
heart.’’ This expression implies many things; orality, speakerhood, particularity,
linguistic action, situatedness, and above all, expressivity and emotivity. It is true
that the phrase ‘‘voices from the heart’’ is metaphorical and somewhat unclear,
and, as I point out shortly, has indeed been criticized for this reason (e.g., Yamada
1908). However, together with Fujitani, Suzuki recognizes the importance of
language’s emotivity, the emotive voices from the heart. ‘‘Voices from the heart’’
resonates with Bally’s (1965 [1925]) term l’âme de la phrase, with which he
captured the essence of modus.
Another interesting point found in Gengyo Shishuron is Suzuki’s treatment of
the origin of language. Toward the end of Gengyo Shishuron, we find a section
titled ‘‘the origin of language or how four types of words were created.’’ He
explains as follows. We hear voices in the heart that express human emotion, and
Linguistic Emotivity
these voices are the origin of te-ni-o-ha. Te-ni-o-ha is the essential spirit of shi,
and by using this shi, people named things, which resulted in the creation of
nouns. When nouns were connected like a strand of beads, two types of words
were created, and this resulted in adjectives and verbs. If one traces the history of
all words, one reaches two kinds of voices, that of te-ni-o-ha and that of nouns.
The voice of te-ni-o-ha expresses ‘‘by dividing and presenting the states of one’s
heart’’ (waga kokoro no sama o wakachi arawashi), and the voice of nouns
expresses ‘‘by dividing and presenting things and events’’ (banbutsu no monogoto
o wakachi arawasu) (1979 [1824]: 23–4). Similar to Rousseau, Suzuki thought that
at the origin of language were the voices one hears from the heart, that is, the deep
feelings (including passion). Similar to Rousseau who found language of passion
as the origin of language, Suzuki understood emotional voices of pathos as the
source for parts of speech. Indeed, Suzuki found the essence of the Japanese
language in the voices from the heart, that is, the Japanese pathos.
When discussing language and emotion in Japanese, one cannot ignore
Yoshio Yamada (1873–1958), a prominent Japanese language scholar of the Meiji
(1868–1912 ad), Taishoo (1912–1926 ad), and Shoowa (1926–1989 ad) periods.
His commitment to emotivity is symbolized by the term he introduces, i.e., kantai
no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’. Yamada states that what he calls bunpoogaku
‘study of grammar’ is ‘‘a study of methods in which one expresses one’s thought
and emotion’’ (bunpoogaku wa ningen no shisoo kanjoo o gengo nite arawasu
hoohoo no kenkyuu) (1936: 888). Note that he explicitly includes emotion as
something that language expresses, and considers emotion as a part of research
concern. Interestingly, Yamada was attempting to distinguish linguistics from
logic, and specifically states that ‘‘studies of grammar (i.e., linguistics) examines
any and every phenonemon as long as it is expressed by language; it includes not
only logical operation, but also emotion, desire, and imagination’’ (1936: 890, my
translation).2 For Yamada, the thoughts expressed through language include
knowledge/information as well as emotion and desire. For example, Hana uruwashi ‘The flower is beautiful’ expresses knowledge/information, Hana uruwashiki
kana ‘The flower is indeed beautiful’ expresses emotion, and Hana yo, uruwashikare ‘Oh, the flower, be beautiful!’, the desire. It was this view of language
which led Yamada to the recognition of the concept of kantai no ku ‘vocative–
emotive phrase’.
Yamada divides his linguistics into a theory of words (go) and theory of
phrases (ku). Phrases involve combination of elements, and therefore, they
represent structural, central, and organizational phenomena. One fragment of
thought hangs together by one base point, and this structural point is necessary
for every thought. This is what Yamada calls tookaku sayoo ‘(lit.) operation of
integrated senses’. The sentence is, according to Yamada, ‘‘the expression, via the
linguistic form, of the thought organized through the operation of integrated
Background
senses’’ (tookaku sayoo ni yorite toogooseraretaru shisoo ga, gengo to yuu keishiki ni
yorite hyoogenseraretaru mono) (1936: 902). Yamada adds that, under normal
circumstances, sentences possess subject and predicate. The difference between ku
‘phrases’ and bun ‘sentences’ are that ku offers sources for sentences, and bun are
those that come into existence bearing the form when ‘‘ku are used (for communication)’’ (ku ga un’yooserarete) (1936: 904). This resonates with the distinction
Fujitani (as explained in Nakada and Takeoka [1960]) made between yuu, the
abstract language, and arawashi, the actual creative linguistic expression.
After following some of the Western typology of ku, Yamada concludes that
the Japanese language possesses a type of expression fundamentally different from
sentences usually recognized in Western grammars (such as descriptive, interrogative, imperative, and exclamative sentences). This expression is what Yamada calls
kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’. Yamada (1936) places kantai no ku on the
equal level with his juttai no ku ‘descriptive phrase’ and characterizes it as follows.
Kantai no ku always builds upon one nominal which becomes a vocative phrase,
and it is constructed with that nominal as the core element of thought. Kantai no
ku fundamentally and categorically opposes juttai no ku in its character and
structure; kantai no ku is a direct presentation of emotion with one-element
structure, and accordingly, its form shows characteristics of emotive expression,
while juttai no ku is a presentation of rational thought with a two-element
structure.3 (Yamada 1936: 936, my translation)
According to Yamada (1936: 947), kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’ takes the
nominal as central element with pre-nominal phrase/clause. For example, in an
expression
(1) Uruwashiki hana kana.
beautiful flower ip
‘(What) a beautiful flower!’
uruwashiki ‘beautiful’ is the prenominal phrase, and hana ‘flower’ is the core
element. Yamada (1936: 947) states that kantai no ku does not take the structure
of the subject–predicate, but rather, it represents ‘‘one nominal and calls out for
it’’ (ikko no taigen o taishoo toshite kore o yobikakuru ni tomareri). The important
point here is that kantai no ku captures the event through its nominal expression,
as if the event were summarized within a picture frame, providing a vocative–emotive target.
Taking the above mentioned position toward language and emotion, Yamada
(1936) remarks on the linguistic theory itself. Yamada (1936) laments that
Japanese linguists tend to slight the Japanese language phenomena, and instead,
they easily accept Western theories. Kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’ does
not appear in Western linguistics literature, and following this view, Japanese
Linguistic Emotivity
scholars by and large ignored the phenomenon. This only results in an incomplete
analysis of the Japanese language. Yamada, in the 1930s sensed the danger of
distorting facts about language primarily due to inadequacies of theories.
Naturally, emotives are abundant in languages other than Japanese, and as I
have already reviewed, Western scholarship has its own scholarly tradition on
emotivity. In retrospect, it was simply the case that emotives were often pushed
aside from the main stream formal linguistics. As a result, linguists analyzing
Western languages have tended to ignore them, which resulted in many of the
Japanese language scholars’ lukewarm commitment to the study of linguistic
emotivity as well.
Yamada (1936) divides kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’ into kiboo
kantai, i.e., kantai expressing hope/desire, and kandoo kantai, i.e., kantai expressing deeply moved emotion. Kiboo kantai expresses the speaker’s hope, wish, and
desire; it takes the core nominal accompanied by particles expressing hope.
Kandoo kantai expresses deep and surging emotion; it takes a core nominal or a
nominalized clause. Critically, Yamada (1922) warns us that kantai no ku occurs
primarily in written Japanese; in spoken Japanese the use of kandoo kantai
(vocative–emotive phrase expressing deep and surging emotion) is limited and
kiboo kantai (vocative–emotive phrase expressing desire) is not used at all.
Yamada consistently advocated the emotional aspect of language, but he was
rather critical of the traditional Japanese language studies, works of Fujitani and
Suzuki, in particular. In fact, Yamada (1908) criticizes the very term ‘‘voices from
the heart’’ for being too metaphorical. In Yamada’s words:
Since Suzuki distinguishes te-ni-o-ha from shi by metaphor alone, it is impossible
to fully understand its essence. According to the metaphorical definition, it is
defined as ‘‘voices from the heart attached to shi.’’ What are voices from the
heart? Are they sounds that express thoughts? If so, what words are voices from
the heart? It is impossible for me to understand the description, ‘‘voices from the
heart attached to shi.’’ It could be that I am simply incapable of understanding a
difficult concept, but I think it (Suzuki’s concept of te-ni-o-ha) remains a mere
riddle.4 (Yamada 1908: 24, my translation)
. Sense, empathy, perspective, and desirability in Japanese grammar
In this section I briefly review some representative works of contemporary
Japanese linguistics relevant to the current work. Scholars I review here, based on
their insight gained from syntactic and semantic studies of the Japanese language,
have challenged linguistics of logos from within. Although their studies do not
directly address the language and emotion issue, their theoretical significance
should not be ignored. They have encouraged, in broad terms, the directional shift
from a linguistics of logos to a linguistics of pathos.
Background
Kuroda (1973, 1976) sheds light on the relationship between grammar and
style, reportive and nonreportive narrative style, in particular. He uses a number
of Japanese grammatical phenomena to reveal epistemological differences involved
in linguistic and narrative expressions. For example, the Japanese sensation
adjective atsui ‘hot’ is used only with first person, and cannot be used with second
or third person. For second and third person, the verbal counterpart, i.e.,
atsugatteiru, is used, instead. This epistemological restriction in Japanese grammar
guides Kuroda to offer foundations for the kind of general narrative theory that
incorporates the narrator’s sense and performance.
The empathy perspective presented by Kuno and Kaburaki (1975) and
further theorized in Kuno (1987) also contributes to an understanding of
functional syntax beyond Japanese. Empathy, according to Kuno, is ‘‘the
speaker’s identification, which may vary in degree, with a person/thing that
participates in the event or state that he describes in a sentence.’’ (1987: 206). By
using the consideration of camera angles or points of view in sentence production, Kuno accounts for the marginality of English sentences such as Then John’s
brother was hit by him. To make the concept of empathy more explicit, Kuno
introduces a degree of empathy that ranges between 0 and 1. According to Kuno,
‘‘(T)he degree of the speaker’s empathy with x, E(x), ranges from 0 to 1, with
E(x)=1 signifying his total identification with x, and E(x)=0 signifying a total
lack of identification.’’ (1987: 206).
Then different levels of empathy hierarchy are proposed, e.g., surface structure
empathy hierarchy, and speech act empathy hierarchy, the latter of which states:
‘‘The speaker cannot empathize with someone else more than with himself.’’
(Kuno 1987: 212). In addition, empathy hierarchy principles (word order empathy
hierarchy, syntactic prominence principle, the modesty principle, and so on)
explain how certain grammatical structures are acceptable or not. Japanese
grammatical phenomena Kuno explains through empathy hierarchy include giving
verbs (yaru, kureru, and their variants) and the reflexive pronoun jibun. The
concept of empathy theorized in his functional approach to syntax has broad
application possibilities as shown by Kuno’s extensive analysis of English empathy
phenomena. On the intuitive level, empathy is a psychological notion, but Kuno
incorporates it in syntactic analysis, thus challenging the formal syntactic approach from within.
Expanding the general notion of perspective to clause chaining, Iwasaki
(1993) appeals to the concept of ‘‘speaker subjectivity’’ in discourse, and introduces the ‘‘perspective principle’’ which distinguishes two types of speaker
subjectivity, S-perspective (speaker describes his own experience) and
O-perspective (the speaker describes the other person’s experience). After statistically examining te- and tara- sentence chaining devices appearing in 16 personal
narratives, Iwasaki concludes that te is used when the first person continues to be
Linguistic Emotivity
the subject in the next clause. Tara is used when the subject changes in the next
clause, i.e., tara marks the shift from S- to O-perspective (this also involves change
from a higher to a lower degree of information accessibility). Iwasaki (1988, 1993)
finds the perspective principle to be relevant for the selection of internal state
predicate forms and tense forms. Iwasaki foregrounds the importance of subjectivity in analyzing the relationship between grammar and discourse in Japanese, and
goes beyond the linguistics of logos.
Perhaps it is a series of Akatsuka’s work on Japanese conditionals that most
clearly illustrates a challenge against strictly formal linguistics of logos from a
Japanese linguistics perspective. Akatsuka (1983, 1985, 1991, 1997a, 1997b)
challenges the traditional Western understanding of conditional sentences by
suggesting an alternative way of accounting for conditionals through semanticsand pragmatics-oriented concept of the speaker’s attitude of ‘‘desirability.’’
Akatsuka’s position is that natural language conditionals are an important device
for encoding the speaker’s attitude of desirability.
For example, Akatsuka’s (1997a) work is a study of conditionals in Genji,
while Akatsuka’s (1997b) research examines counterfactual reasoning (i.e., P
[desirable], because if not P, not Q [undesirable]) that is co-constructed across
speakers. By expanding the target of analyses to classical text and to contemporary
conversational interaction, Akatsuka successfully incorporates into linguistics an
emotional concept such as desirability. The concept of desirability, an idea that
had escaped the attention of previous researchers, provides insight into how
people express desirable/undesirable feelings in ordinary life, and it sheds light on
the function of conditionals in the way that had not been possible within traditional Western linguistics.
Studies briefly mentioned above find their analytical origins in the grammar
of Japanese language. Following this line of inspiration and aspiration, in the
current work I attempt to straightforwardly explore linguistic emotivity in
Japanese discourse.
.
Emotion and culture
When discussing language and emotion, one cannot ignore the related issue of
society and culture. Particularly relevant is the question of how language and
emotion are related to the notions of universality and relativity. Although the
question of whether emotion is universal or relative remains unresolved, scholars
at least seem to agree that emotion, like language, possesses both universal and
relative features.
In this section, I review Solomon’s (1995) contextual behaviorist view, and
Nakamura’s (1975) position on society-influenced personal emotion. In addition,
Background
two American research traditions on language and emotion, i.e., ‘‘affect’’ and
‘‘involvement’’ are discussed.
. Sociocultural and personal nature of emotion
Obviously, an extreme universalism regarding language and emotion is untenable.
Thus, the extent to which culture and society play their roles in the construction
of emotion becomes the debatable point. Among many positions on emotion, I
find Solomon’s view most reasonable, particularly in light of his cross-cultural
comparison of emotion.
Solomon (1995: 253) takes the position that ‘‘the distinction between reason
and the passion is as suspect and ultimately as misleading as the dichotomy
between East and West,’’ and that the most reasonable position should understand
emotions as being an experience based on some reasoned judgment. Given that
such judgment is dependent on the context, Solomon (1995) refers to this
position as the contextual behaviorist view. Faced with the false dichotomy
between emotion-as-nature versus emotion-as-nurture, Solomon takes the
position that there is little justification for simply assuming that emotions are
natural, just as little justification exists for assuming that emotions are nothing but
the product of society. He takes the middle road between these two extremes.
Solomon (1995) starts his discussion by referring to the social construction
theory of emotions. In this view, emotions are locally, culturally, and contextually
constituted, and therefore, no supposition is made that emotions are the same the
world over. There is some truth to this position. Consider the concept of romantic
love. Understanding romantic love requires not only the language but the narrative of romance. Solomon continues: ‘‘My dogs may adore me, but they do not,
cannot, alas, love me. No loss to them. Only to me, for only I, not they, know the
language and the concept of love’’ (1995: 265). Indeed, most human emotions
presuppose participation in society where cultural and contextual values are
practiced through human relationships.
Although the social constructionist view provides many of the tools we need
for understanding how we come to have emotions, its underlying social-contingency-based approach obviates focus on self, consciousness, and accordingly, the
particular experience of emotion. Solomon argues that an emotion consists of
ways of consciously being in the world, that is, in Solomon’s word, ‘‘judgments’’
(1995: 263). To understand emotion as an experience based on judgment, Solomon proposes the position he calls ‘‘contextual behaviorism.’’ The tenet of
contextual behaviorism is that one needs to know, or be sensitive toward, the
context, and in particular, the cultural context. ‘‘One has to know the rules, the
roles, the folk ways, including the knowledge of when to be (or not to be)
solicitous or offended or defensive or affectionate or prideful’’ (1995: 269). Thus,
Linguistic Emotivity
according to the contextual behaviorist, one needs to understand the patterns of
behavior and the facts of the matter ‘‘in context’’ and needs to appreciate them ‘‘as
understood by the participants’’ (1995: 270, original emphasis). The contextual
behaviorist view of emotion is considerably weaker than the full-blown social
constructionist view, but much richer than the standard behaviorist view. This is
because it foregrounds the significance of the cultural context and culturally
defined experiences. And since emotions are, Solomon concludes, first of all,
experiences, ‘‘emotions are a species of judgment’’ (1995: 275).
When Solomon (1995) uses the term ‘‘judgment,’’ he is careful to point out
that judgment is not the same as belief, and it is not overly intellectualistic.
Emotional judgments are always evoked from a perspective, and are defined, in
part, by one’s cultural context, by one’s status and role within that cultural
context, and by personal situation. Judgments are not necessarily propositional,
although beliefs always are. Solomon explains:
To say that emotions are judgments is to say that they are modes of construal,
ways of viewing and engaging in the world, including, sometimes, ways of
construing the self. Like most judgments (. . .), they are culturally taught,
cognitively framed, but implemented by the individual. They are not opposed to
but intrinsic to experience. They are not just descriptive but constitutive of the
world, our world, as fearsome, offensive, appealing, hopeful, painful, devastating,
or devastated. (Solomon 1995: 276, original emphasis)
Following Solomon (1995), I take the position in the middle ground; emotion is
both universal and relative, suspended somewhere between the two extremes of
‘‘nature’’ and ‘‘nurture.’’
Debate over the language and emotion raises a related issue, i.e., the individual versus public aspects of human emotion. It is true that emotions are often
thought spontaneous, whimsical, shifting, and, most of all, particular to an
individual. Emotions may swell in a person instantaneously, briefly, and in a
particular way. While there are private, personal, and spontaneous sides to
emotion, emotion does not derive entirely from the individual.
Nakamura (1975) states that experiencing emotions requires a kind of
systematization, that is, it requires the process of logos which is further incorporated into pathos. According to Nakamura, emotion, in its foundation, exists as
something that is organized. Emotion, and in broader terms pathos, is passively
nurtured within a culture and society, and only when it is organized inside one’s
mind, becomes a true feeling. Yet of course, this organization is not achieved on
an individual basis alone. Each individual’s emotion undergoes an organizing
process shared with other members of the community. Thus the sociocultural coexperience provides the basis of personal emotionality.
Nakamura (1975) elaborates on the relationship between an individual’s
emotion and the society’s emotion as follows. In a group within which members
Background
share a strong sense of community, ‘‘behind the aspects of changing and moving
emotions, there arises an unchanging and sustaining organization or consistency’’
(kanjoo no henkashi ugoku bubun no haigo ni, kawara-nai jizokutekina chitsujo
aruiwa matomari ga ukabi agattekuru) (1975: 159). This unchanging and sustaining organization, which constitutes a kind of sensus communis, nurtures the
emotion common among people. Nakamura (1975) continues. In fact, a person
belonging to a group does not experience emotion in total freedom; rather, one’s
emotion is already directed by the group one belongs to. Even when an individual
rebels against such common emotion, and attempts to free oneself from it, the
very manner in which the individual rebels reveals that the individual cannot be
totally free from the community’s emotion. Nakamura emphasizes: ‘‘Individual’s
emotion, however unique to that person, has been nurtured within the common
emotion’’ (motomoto kojin no kanjoo wa, donnani dokujisei o motta mono demo,
sonoyoona kyoodoo kanjoo no naka de hagukumaretekita mono) (1975: 160).
Another related issue comes to mind, that is, the relationship between
emotion and conceptualization. When we discuss linguistic emotivity, we understand that emotion is communicated through emotive expressions. As Nakamura
states, ‘‘chaotic ideas, passion, a violent emotion and imagination; all of these are
formed and organized by being expressed by words’’ (Futeikeina, konranshita
chakusoo, joonen, soozooryoku nado wa, gengokasare, hyoogensareru koto ni yotte,
katachi o ataerare, totonoerareru) (1975: 33). When we utter words, the process
involves much more than a simplistic assignment of words on to ready-made
prior-existing feelings. Emotive expressions, in addition to its body- and sensebased experience these expressions arouse, orient themselves toward the process of
logos. As long as an individual’s emotion is segmented, organized, and systematized through language, it supports and is supported by logos. Since logos involves
the process of segmentation, organization, and systematization of human and
social relationships within that community, emotion requires more than intuition.
Emotion necessitates a process of conceptualization, and that process itself
reinforces and is reinforced by the linguistic and cultural co-experience shared
among its group members.
. Affect and involvement
When discussing language, emotion, and culture, particularly in American
academia, two terms, ‘‘affect’’ and ‘‘involvement,’’ have gained significance.
Originally, ‘‘affect’’ was considered synonymous with the ‘‘expressive’’ function of
language. For example, Lyons (1977) closely connects emotive meaning with
expressive function. More specifically, Lyons (1977: 50–1) broke down linguistic
functions into three kinds; (1) descriptive (referential, propositional, ideational, or
designative), (2) social, and (3) expressive. Lyons notes that the distinction
Linguistic Emotivity
between the last two, social and expressive, is far from clear-cut, and often
difficult to specify. And he lists emotive, attitudinal, and interpersonal meanings
as being associated with both social and expressive functions.
The term ‘‘affect,’’ when contrasted with Lyon’s social and expressive functions, reflects a particular theoretical orientation. In general, affect is preferred by
anthropologists and anthropological linguists. Recall that semantic research within
formal linguistics has concentrated on the descriptive meaning, leaving the
expressive meaning virtually unexplored. A study of emotivity and expressive
function in general has been brushed aside, neglected, and relegated to something
of a residual wasteland. This tendency to overlook pathos as being constitutive of
a dynamic ‘‘living’’ language has been largely fueled by the hegemonic Western
philosophy of logos, the view that cognition and emotion (i.e., descriptive meaning
and expressive meaning) are not only separated but virtually unrelated.
As reviewed in Besnier (1990), scholars in anthropology and anthropological
linguistics, especially American scholars, have always challenged this assumption,
and ‘‘affect’’ became a preferred term symbolizing this theoretical challenge. The
work most clearly making the case for linguistic affect is Ochs and Schieffelin
(1989). Ochs and Schieffelin (1989), pointing out that linguists have underestimated the extent to which grammatical and discourse structures serve affective
ends, propose a guideline for the study of affect.
According to Ochs and Schieffelin (1989), ‘‘affect’’ is a broader term than
emotion, and it includes ‘‘feelings, moods, dispositions, and attitudes associated
with persons and/or situations’’ (1989: 7). First, they review linguistic research on
the expression of affect and list four major research orientations. The first is
rooted in the Prague School functionalism, particularly Jakobson (1960) and
Stankiewicz (1964). The second orientation derives from the intonation studies,
such as Halliday’s (1975). Researchers following this orientation study the
relationship between pitch and attitudes/feelings. The third research orientation
focuses on narrative and other performance genres, and lists Bakhtin (1981) and
Burke (1962) as representative works. Added to this category are sociolinguistic
approaches to the narrative structure as explored in Labov (1984). Labov (1984)
is of special significance because he focuses on linguistic features that index
emotional intensity in narrative contexts. The fourth direction of affect research is
child language development. Studies under this orientation (including Ochs
[1986] and Schieffelin [1986]) indicate that at the earliest stages of language
development, children display competence in using affect devices.
Second, in analytical terms, Ochs and Schieffelin (1989) concentrate on the
conventional displaying of affect through linguistic means. By concentrating on
linguistic resources for expressing affect, they propose an array of ‘‘affect features.’’ These features include; pronouns, determiners, tense/aspect, verb voice,
case marking, number/gender/animacy marking, other particles/affixes, reduplica-
Background
tion, intonation, voice quality, sound repetition, sound symbolism, verb variants,
graded sets, word order, code-switching, and affective speech acts/activities. These
features span over different levels of language, i.e., lexical, phonological, grammatical, and discourse levels.
Ochs and Schieffelin (1989) also introduce the concept ‘‘affect keys,’’ those
‘‘linguistic features that intensify or specify affect’’ (1989: 15). They contend that
‘‘(A)ffect keys index that an affective frame or a process of affective intensification
is in play’’ (1989: 15). Thus, affect keys may index various emotions such as anger,
sarcasm, disappointment, sadness, pleasure, humor, surprise, or coarseness,
among others. In short, in their view, affect features, operating as affect keys,
provide affective frames for semantic interpretation. These frames function as
affective comments, and along with other cues, provide the partners with affectrelated information on which they base subsequent social actions.
Overall, they emphasize that affect permeates the entire linguistic system,
concluding that ‘‘(A)lmost any aspect of the linguistic system that is variable is a
candidate for expressing affect’’ (1989: 22). This resonates with the Prague School
view of linguistic expressivity. The concept of affect, particularly as conceived by
Ochs and Schieffelin (1989), is in basic agreement with my concept of linguistic
emotivity. However, my work goes beyond those features of language customarily
considered affective. I argue that all linguistic devices express affect, and such a
point can be made most effectively by extending the analysis to devices that have
been considered purely or primarily propositional.
Studies of affect, largely conducted by anthropologists and anthropological
linguists, have examined affect features in unfamiliar communities away from
their own native language and culture. Often such studies result in discovery of
affect features in the language and culture of the Other. The analysis is conducted
primarily from an external point of view, and the more distant the culture being
investigated is from their own, the more interest seems to be aroused. Researchers
of affect, more often than not, fail to sufficiently acknowledge the scholarly
tradition of the community under investigation. It is precisely this perspective that
I find problematic. There is something to be desired in the approach that investigates the Other only from theoretical and ideological perspectives of one’s own
culture. The concept of affect, however, has much to offer in that it reminds us
that language is imbued with emotivity, and one cannot avoid it, even when it
may defy available analysis.
Another concept associated with linguistic emotivity is that of ‘‘involvement’’
(Chafe 1982; Tannen 1982, 1984, 1985, 1989). Obviously, involvement is a kind of
human emotion, which immediately suggests interpersonal and relational dimensions of emotion. Although involvement is considered a folk-psychological notion,
it is the linguistically supported concept of ‘‘involvement’’ that needs to be
reviewed here in relation to linguistic emotivity. Chafe (1982), having compared
Linguistic Emotivity
spoken discourse (informal dinner conversation, formal lectures) and written
discourse (letters and published academic papers), reports that the spoken genre
is characterized by fragmentation and involvement, whereas the written genre is
characterized by integration and detachment. According to Chafe (1982), a
speaker’s involvement is manifested by (1) frequent first person reference, (2)
frequent reference to a speaker’s own mental processes, (3) use of devices monitoring information flow, (4) use of emphatic particles, (5) use of vagueness
expressions and hedges, and (6) frequent use of direct quotation.
Similarly, Tannen (1984) characterizes the high-involvement style of New York
Jewish Americans by various features related to topic, pacing, narrative strategies,
and expressive paralinguistics. For topic presentation, for example, the following
features indicate high involvement; participants (1) prefer personal topics, (2) shift
topics abruptly, (3) introduce topics without hesitance, (4) maintain persistence (if
a new topic is not immediately picked up, it is reintroduced, repeatedly if necessary). Tannen states that these high-involvement devices used by certain speakers
can be seen ‘‘as conventionalized ways of establishing rapport by honoring the
needs for involvement and for considerateness’’ (1984:30).
After reviewing various definitions of involvement, Tannen (1989) states that
her sense of involvement is close to Chafe’s, and defines it as ‘‘an internal, even
emotional connection individuals feel which binds them to other people as well as
to places, things, activities, ideas, memories, and words’’ (1989: 12). Tannen
quickly adds, however, that her understanding of involvement is also close to that
of Gumperz (1982) in that she also sees involvement not as a given but as an
achievement in conversational interaction.
Tannen (1989) lists extensive involvement strategies common in conversational and literary discourse. These include; (1) rhythm, (2) patterns based on
repetition and variation of phonemes, morphemes, words, collocations of words,
and longer sequences of discourse, (3) figures of speech, (4) indirectness, (5)
ellipsis, (6) tropes, (7) dialogue, (8) imagery and detail, and (9) narrative. Overall,
although linguistic notions of involvement are multiple and flexible, there seems
to be an agreement that the meaning of involvement is shifting from psychological
orientation toward social practice. This is supported by the observation that
increasingly more scholars are giving direct attention to discourse, rhetoric, and
stylistics.
As Besnier (1994) as well as Caffi and Janney (1994b) point out, however,
involvement tends to remain ‘‘a pre-theoretical, intuitive, rather vague, unfocused
notion’’ (Caffi and Janney 1994b: 345), and the concept, as is, is not fully effective
as a technical and consistent analytical tool. Immediate problems center on issues
as to who is directly involved with involvement. Does involvement refer to the
speaker’s inner psychological state, or the speaker’s involvement with his or her
utterance? Or, does involvement refer to the meanings of linguistic expressions
Background
and conversational strategies, or does it refer to the rapport that participants feel
when their conversational experience is emotionally rewarding?
The distinction between detachment and attachment has also become the
target of criticism. Hübler (1987) argues that if the concept of involvement is to
become analytically useful, it must be regarded as a continuum. We must regard
both detachment and attachment as modes of involvement. In Hübler’s words:
Either mode can be said to represent the speaker’s involvement equally. (. . .)
They just represent different solutions to the methodological question of how to
externalize one’s involvement in terms of linguistic behaviour. The mode of
attachment represents the mode of ‘living’ one’s involvement. The mode of
detachment is a mode of suppressing it, (. . .) the attempt not to appear involved
is too obvious not to be communicatively relevant. (Hübler 1987: 373)
Although involvement is not a totally operative theoretical construct, it captures
certain aspects of linguistic emotivity. What is needed is a systematic analysis of all
linguistic devices and strategies, with an eye toward certain kinds and degrees of
involvement. Devices must include all of those functioning on lexical, grammatical, rhetorical, and discourse levels. Examining selected devices simply because
they appear to be effective for involvement is insufficient. To understand linguistic
emotivity, it becomes necessary to examine broader phenomena across different
styles and genres.
. Critical assessment: Toward a negotiative theory of linguistic emotivity
The brief overview of previous studies on language and emotion discussed in this
chapter illustrates that my work on linguistic emotivity is situated in and with
certain traditions of linguistics and related fields. Although much has been
revealed, much more awaits further investigation. Following, and going beyond,
the studies reviewed above, I approach linguistic emotivity in a different way. But,
before continuing, an assessment is in order.
First, regarding Rousseau’s view on the origin of language, although he
emphasizes the language of passion, his conclusions are not empirically supported.
Even when one accepts the theory that language is essentially emotive, some
convincing linguistic evidence remains to be seen. The Prague Linguistic Circle
contributed to the field by firmly establishing the expressive function of language.
These scholars’ conviction that emotion is expressed in every possible linguistic
means is instructive, indeed. Theoretically as well, their view of language as
experience offers insight to the current work. However, their vision of linguistics
remains largely just that, a vision, and overall, the data actually analyzed are rather
limited. Although the Prague Linguistic Circle insists that emotivity is expressed
Linguistic Emotivity
on all levels of language, I must point out that analyses of actual discourse and
texts are rare.
Stylistics contributed much by establishing the emotive expression as mode
vécu, and by making a case for the social nature of human emotion. However, the
analysis has been largely limited to Western literary text, and language as human
interaction has remained unexplored. In pragmatics, many theoretical and
methodological issues have been put on the table, but neither a comprehensive
theory nor an analysis of emotivity has been advanced.
Cognitive semantics most frequently analyzes language about emotion, and
only limited numbers of studies analyze language as emotion. Thus, the mode vécu
of language remains largely untouched. Japanese traditional language studies offer
insight to the emotivity of language, but, too often, the theories remain metaphorical, and lack the necessary analytical rigor and actual analysis. More critically, due
to Japanese traditional language studies’ concentration on classical literary text,
ordinary, everyday Japanese language remains largely unexamined. Contemporary
scholars in Japanese linguistics have made considerable progress in the exploration
of the expressive function of language. Although some scholars use notions that
touch upon psychological and emotional aspects of speaker and partner, emotives
in Japanese discourse are yet to be directly and fully explored. And as I already
mentioned, concepts such as ‘‘affect’’ and ‘‘involvement,’’ by themselves, do not
provide sufficient tools for analysis. It is necessary to follow and incorporate, but
to go beyond, these concepts.
Given this background, I study linguistic emotivity from the perspective of the
Place of Negotiation theory. As I explain in Part 2, I take the position that emotive
meanings are negotiated in a place, and are mutually interpreted by participants,
to the extent that language allows. Although lexical and grammatical information
is critical for interpreting meaning, by establishing a negotiative theory of linguistic emotivity, the current study attempts to understand emotive meaning
instantiated by the very interaction in the place of communication.
Recall Aristotle when he mentioned three elements involved in pathos.
Experience of pathos requires (1) state of mind, (2) the person with whom the
emotion is shared, and (3) the target of emotion. And we understand that pathos
influences ‘‘rational’’ judgment. Emotion is not autonomous; it requires interaction with others. How one experiences emotion interactionally makes a difference
in how one feels it. How one expects others to respond to one’s emotion also
makes a difference in how one experiences emotion. If emotion is interactionally
realized, the language that enacts it must also be interactionally understood.
Recall Rousseau when he illustrated that emotion is experienced through
linguistic expression to be shared by others. Given that language is socioculturally
based, language that sustains emotion must also be understood within
sociocultural dimensions. Emotivity is experienced, felt, interpreted, and negoti-
Background
ated in a sociocultural place, and the society and culture in turn embrace feelings,
emotional attitude, and cultural sentiment.
Thus, significant to my approach in this book is the understanding that
emotion involves both logos and pathos. And, when discussing emotion and emotivity, it is important to consider them from the contextual behaviorist perspective. Like language, emotion and, as a consequence, emotivity are both sociocultural and personal, and both universal and relative. To view language this way,
as a human experience filled with emotion (both personally motivated feelings
and socially conventionalized sentiment) is compatible with the pursuit of the
Knowledge of Pathos.
If a researcher believes in the universality of emotion on all levels, he or she is
likely to proceed with the investigation by setting up universal categories, and by
examining how they fare in different cultures. On the other hand, if a researcher
leans toward relativity more than universality, the researcher would start by
investigating emotivity in a specific language with the hope of reaching some level
of universal understanding.
My research design begins with the analysis of Japanese discourse, a particular
linguistic phenomenon. This is because I start from a position closer to the
relativistic view of language. However, what I pursue should not be regarded as a
mere particularity associated with a single language. By starting from a specific
language, yet with a hope for reaching universality, one can, I believe, reach
deeper understanding of linguistic emotivity. Although my starting point focuses
on Japanese, this should not be viewed as a rejection of linguistic emotivity’s
universality. Without some assumption for universality, one cannot even begin to
contrast the findings across languages. Without some hope for universal knowledge, theory building itself must be considered a futile exercise. That is certainly
not my intention.
Emotivity cries out everywhere, in word, sentence, text, discourse, and in
interaction itself. To understand emotivity, one must investigate a variety of
potential emotives in real-life discourse data, and advance the kind of interpretation answerable to the data. As I discuss in Part 2, I find in the concept of place an
energy-filled enabling space where such negotiative interpretation of meaning
becomes possible.
Part 2
Theory
Chapter 3
The Place of Negotiation theory
This chapter presents an overview of the theory of the Place of Negotiation. I
introduce three dimensions of place, i.e., 〈cognitive〉, 〈emotive〉, and 〈interactional〉,
and six related linguistic functions; (1) recognition of objects, (2) construction of
proposition, (3) expression of emotional attitude, (4) communication of attitudes
toward others, (5) management of participatory action, and (6) coordination of
joint utterances. Five kinds of meanings, i.e., 〈potential〉, 〈informational〉, 〈emotive〉,
〈interactional〉 and 〈negotiative〉 are discussed. In addition, in the latter three
sections, I discuss three constitutive concepts of the theory; (1) function, (2) sign,
and (3) body, i.e., language as bodily experience. In this chapter I also address the
issue of multiple aspects of selves represented through Japanese emotives. Corresponding to the three different places, linguistic expression may foreground
〈thinking self〉, 〈feeling self〉, or 〈interactional self〉. Other aspects of the speaker are
also discussed within the framework of the Place of Negotiation theory.
.
An overview
. Three dimensions of place
In the Place of Negotiation theory, the meaning is approximately interpreted as a
result of negotiation. This place is bounded and defined as a meaning-negotiating
space. Upon this space, three different dimensions of place are projected, i.e.,
cognitive, emotive, and interactional. Different angles, shades, and strengths of
these projections define the three spatial dimensions differently. The place where
these projections gather together and overlap is the locus of the 〈topica〉, i.e., the
〈negotiative place〉, the place where ultimate semantic negotiation occurs.
In other words, participants of communication interpret meanings within this
locus of 〈topica〉, and do so in such a way that the 〈topica〉 allows. The dimensions
and quality of 〈topica〉, however, constantly change, since the projections differ
according to different linguistic strategies.
The first of the three projections defines the 〈cognitive place〉, where, lyrically
speaking, objects glow in a phenomenological light. Cognitive place enables
participants to recognize objects and to construct propositions accordingly. In the
〈cognitive place〉, how the speaker observes, i.e., the speaker’s perspective, assumes
significance. Primary concern focuses on how to convey information so as to be
Linguistic Emotivity
comprehended by the partner. The realm of the 〈cognitive place〉 focuses on
choice of proposition and determines which lexical items are selected.
The second projection defines the 〈emotive place〉, where the speaker comes
into focus. Emotive place foregrounds the speaker’s broad emotional attitudes.
This is the space primarily concerned with the psychological and emotional
aspects of communication. What is relatively important is the speaker who
expresses emotional attitude and feelings as he or she incorporates social as well as
personal emotions. That is to say, issues in the 〈emotive place〉 include emotional
attitudes toward objects and persons, aroused emotional responses, a broad range
of one’s general feelings, as well as cultural sentiment. These attitudes and feelings
are often expressed through the topic–comment dynamic, self- and other-quotation, rhetorical interrogatives, and so on.
The third projection defines the 〈interactional place〉, where the partner comes
into sharp focus. Within this 〈interactional place〉, an interactional social atmosphere is created, coordinated, and managed while incorporating personal interests.
In the 〈interactional place〉, special attention is paid toward the partners as well as
participants of speech events. Here the main concern lies with how speaker,
partner, and other participants (if any) express, understand, and manage interpersonal relations among themselves. Such relations are critical for the negotiation of
meaning. For example, depending on how turn-taking strategies is enacted, and
depending on how co-construction of utterances is achieved, the negotiation of
meaning changes, and consequently, the overall interpretation of emotives change.
Projections on to places are associated with different types of meaning. These
include; (1) 〈potential meaning〉 assigned for each sign, (2) 〈informational meaning〉, (3) 〈emotive meaning〉, and (4) 〈interactional meaning〉, all of which are in
the process of instantiating (5) 〈negotiative meaning〉. The 〈potential meaning〉
refers to the conventionalized meaning (de Saussure’s ‘‘signified’’), and it typically
appears in a dictionary definition. The 〈potential meaning〉 fails to communicate
as it is; it needs to be instantiated in actual interaction. The 〈informational meaning〉, presented in the 〈cognitive place〉, is synonymous with referential meaning
and propositional meaning. It primarily describes the [agent-does] proposition
with little significance to modality and aspect. The 〈emotive meaning〉, enacted in
the 〈emotive place〉, refers to the speaker’s emotional attitudes, aroused emotional
responses, and the broad range of general feelings associated with the linguistic
expression. The 〈interactional meaning〉, instantiated in the 〈interactional place〉,
refers to the socially motivated feelings and attitudes primarily associated with
how speaker, partner, and other participants (if any) express, understand, and
manage interpersonal relations among themselves.
The 〈negotiative meaning〉 is reached through negotiation in the 〈topica〉. It is
a result of a combination, competition, and integration of 〈potential meaning〉,
〈informational meaning〉, 〈emotive meaning〉 and 〈interactional meaning〉. In
The Place of Negotiation theory
addition, this negotiation process also brings into focus all relevant cotextual as
well as contextual information, and broader cultural and social factors.
I must hasten to add that by ‘‘negotiation’’ I mean a back-and-forth interaction of gauging each other’s actions and responses, but only to the extent that the
〈potential meaning〉 of linguistic signs allow. I use the term ‘‘negotiation’’ not in
the sense of anything-goes-as-far-as-negotiably-possible, but in the sense of being
negotiable to the extent that it does not contradict the speaker’s intention. The
speaker’s intention is conveyed through linguistic signs that define 〈potential
meaning〉 with their semantic boundary serving as the overall guideline. The
speaker’s intention also controls emotive and interactional meanings that help
instantiate the 〈negotiative meaning〉. At the same time, the speaker’s intentions
and places are in reciprocal relationship; intentions are influenced by places, and
intentions also specify places further. Despite well-intended negotiation between
speaker and partner, the 〈negotiative meaning〉 may differ between them since the
meaning itself constantly fluctuates as it is endorsed, rejected, or revised. And
ultimately, the meaning is approximated in the locus of the 〈topica〉.
In sum, through the negotiative process, 〈negotiative meaning〉 emerges as a
result of an integration of the three places, i.e., in the locus of the 〈topica〉.
Depending on which of the three projections dominates, the weight of communication shifts. Certain genres may be dominated by 〈cognitive place〉, resulting in a
kind of discourse where information assumes primacy. Legal text, for example, is
a case in point. In conversational language, however, emotive and interpersonal
dimensions are highly instantiated in emotive and interactional places.
This variability applies to linguistic theories as well. Depending on which
dimensions of place are being focused, linguistic theories are constructed with
informational meanings as a core, or personal emotive meanings or social
interactional meanings as primary constituents, and so on. The Place of Negotiation theory allows for the integration of all three places together, in their web of
relations under one domain, and offers a conceptual foundation for examining
how places interact, and meanings are negotiated in multiple ways.
At this point, let us consider the other half of the coin. In a reverse projection,
now emanating from the place of 〈topica〉 outward, certain meanings are connected with linguistic signs. With the 〈potential meaning〉 of the sign as a guide,
the partner interprets meaning via this reverse projection. In an interaction-inprogress, these two sides constantly interchange, since the speaker and partner
alternate roles, while anticipating the next turn-taking from one moment to the
next. At the same time, when meanings are negotiated, the speaker and partner
intimately engage in an exchange of possible 〈negotiative meaning〉 which may
require them to switch roles. That is to say, to understand meaning, a speaker
often needs to take the perspective of the partner, to take the perspective of
oneself that is presumably understood by the partner, and so on.
Linguistic Emotivity
Within 〈topica〉, the place of negotiation, three elements interact, i.e.,
〈speaker〉, 〈object〉, and 〈partner〉, resulting in three levels of interrelationships.
Three different aspects of selves are foregrounded in three different places; 〈thinking self 〉 in the 〈cognitive place〉, 〈feeling self 〉 in the 〈emotive place〉, and 〈interactional self 〉 in the 〈interactional place〉. A relation must be realized (1) between
the thinking self and object, (2) between the feeling self and the very relation
captured in (1), and (3) between the interacting self and those relations captured
in (1) and (2). Through combination, competition, and negotiation, certain
aspects of selves are foregrounded. Some utterances primarily foreground the
〈thinking self 〉 leading to the 〈informational meaning〉, some utterances primarily
foreground the 〈feeling self 〉 with varied types and intensities of the 〈emotive
meaning〉, and still others show sensitivity to the 〈interactional self 〉 instantiating
certain 〈interactional meaning〉.
. Negotiation among meanings
The Place of Negotiation theory understands that the meaning of a linguistic sign
results in the process starting from potential to negotiative meanings. The
〈potential meaning〉, as it is, fails to communicate; it must become 〈negotiative
meaning〉 in a place. We observed in the work of Fujitani (as explained in Nakada
and Takeoka [1960]) the distinction between yuu ‘ghost/phantom’ and arawashi
‘appearance/manifestation’. The relationship between 〈potential meaning〉 and
〈negotiative meaning〉 is similar to Fujitani’s conceptualization, but the Place of
Negotiation theory emphasizes the very process of human interaction and
negotiation. The 〈negotiative meaning〉 encompasses both pathos and logos of
language, although my primary interest lies in the former, especially the very
process and mechanisms in which 〈emotive meanings〉 come alive.
The concept of 〈negotiative meaning〉 refers to the totality of meaning which
is actually comprehended by participants including the speaker, the partner, and
possibly other participants. When we casually say we understand, we are referring
to this meaning achieved through negotiation. As alluded to earlier, in accurate
terms, it is possible that the content of the negotiative meaning differs among
participants. Yet even where interpretation may vary, of necessity, an overall
semantic consensus is assumed. Based on this assumption, meanings are further
negotiated, reaching a reasonable level of certitude at each moment.
〈Negotiative meaning〉, frequently polysemous and imaginative, is often
interpreted metaphorically and ironically. Its interpretation is dependent on the
cotextual and contextual information, and therefore, it is prototypically indexically
linked to the actual place of communication. Just as the context transforms from
one moment to the next, so does the negotiative (not negotiated) meaning,
constantly undergoing changes. Overall, the Place of Negotiation theory enables us
The Place of Negotiation theory
to view the linguistic experience as a negotiative process, involving all aspects of
cognition, emotion, and interaction.
In this sense, negotiation occurs at multiple levels; it occurs not only among
participants, but also among different types of meanings, and among different
dimensions of place as well. Furthermore, as will be illustrated in the course of
this volume, the negotiation process is manifest in the interaction itself, verbal and
otherwise. For example, in addition to linguistic signs exchanged in the interaction, conversation strategies such as speaker turn-taking, and back-channel
responses reveal the participants’ negotiative intentions, and consequently, they
guide the researcher in understanding the very negotiation process. Also in
dramatic and fictional discourse, the narrator’s comments offer clues for characterizing the on-going negotiation.
Let me add that linguistic devices and strategies beyond those covered in this
book also play important roles in the process of negotiation. For example,
nonverbal signs such as prosody, speed, voice quality, facial expression, and
gesture all contribute to the negotiation of meaning. The general tone of discourse
indicating varied measures of psychological and emotional distance among
participants is another factor for negotiation. Although important, these devices
are beyond the immediate scope of this book, and therefore, must await future
research. (Refer to Maynard 1989, 1993c for a discussion on some of the nonverbal signs in Japanese conversation.)
. Sign, function, and the interpretation of meaning
In the Place of Negotiation theory, corresponding to the three dimensions of place
and three types of negotiation, six related but distinguishable functions are
recognized, as summarized in Figure 1.
Dimensions of place
Types of negotiation
Functions
〈cognitive place〉
informational negotiation
〈recognition of objects〉
〈construction of proposition〉
〈emotive place〉
emotive negotiation
〈expression of emotional attitude〉
〈communication of attitudes toward others〉
〈interactional place〉
interactional negotiation
〈management of participatory
action〉
〈coordination of joint utterances〉
Figure 1. Types of place, negotiation, and function in the Place of Negotiation
theory
Linguistic Emotivity
It should be noted that the six functions are not mutually exclusive. As will
become evident in the analysis in subsequent chapters (in Parts 3 and 4), functions should not be considered either-or categories. Functions differ in degrees,
and more importantly, they overlap. I should add that the types of negotiation are
not entirely mutually exclusive, either. Linguistic interaction is not so clear-cut
nor simple as the appearance of this list may imply. I propose these categories for
the convenience of analysis, but, it should be kept in mind that it is through the
synergistic sum effect of these functions that language comes to mean what it
means. Like Fujitani’s echoing, functions emerge not as a mere total sum of
functions, but as an integrated, synthesized, overall more-than-sum effect that
runs through the entire utterance. Such a view is in line with the Knowledge of
Pathos discussed earlier. The force that integrates these multiple dimensions of
place and functions of language is the sensus communis operating both on an
individual and societal basis.
At this point, I should refer to my earlier work on Discourse Modality.
Although the concept of Discourse Modality does not contradict the present
analysis of linguistic emotivity, it is necessary to point out the relevant shift of
focus. In Maynard (1993a), I stated the following.
Discourse Modality refers to information that does not or only minimally conveys
objective propositional message content. Discourse Modality conveys the
speaker’s subjective emotional, mental, or psychological attitude toward the
message content, the speech act itself or toward his or her interlocutor in discourse. Discourse Modality operates to define and to foreground certain ways of
interpreting the propositional content in discourse; it directly expresses the
speaking self ’s personal voice on the basis of which the utterance is intended to be
meaningfully interpreted. (Maynard 1993a: 38–9)
Based on this concept, I analyzed a number of what I called Discourse Modality
Indicators, i.e., connectives dakara and datte, sentential adverbs yahari/yappari
and doose, stylistic shift between da and desu/masu, interactional particles yo and
ne, and the [to yuu + noun] structure. Functions of these devices were interpreted
in terms of Information Qualification, Speech Act Declaration and Qualification,
Participatory Control, and Interactional Appeal. The strategies investigated as
Discourse Modality Indicators all function, in varying degrees, as emotives as well.
Linguistic emotivity concentrates on the emotional aspect of language more
closely than the concept of Discourse Modality. It also focuses more intensely on
the negotiative process of meaning under the Place of Negotiation theory. Unlike
Discourse Modality, the study on linguistic emotivity includes analyses of seemingly emotionless signs and strategies in broader discourse genres. Also, as a part
of the proposed theory, I include interpretive processes, which were lacking in the
concept of Discourse Modality. The Place of Negotiation theory, because it
The Place of Negotiation theory
incorporates human interaction in its analysis, offers a philosophical perspective
to many of the nonformalist approaches to language studies. The theoretical
framework I pursue in this book is an attempt to understand language as a part of
the Knowledge of Pathos, and as sources for the realization of the speaker who not
only thinks but, more importantly, who also feels.
The interpretation of meaning within the framework of the Place of Negotiation theory will be discussed in detail later. In brief, the interpretation process
(motivated, in part, by the 〈potential meaning〉 of linguistic sign) is supported by
the concept of ‘‘empathetic conformity’’ (kannooteki doochoo) proposed by
Ichikawa (1975), a theory of shared perspectives, particularly the ‘‘perspectivized
appearance’’ (mie) and ‘‘perspective of becoming’’ (naru shiten) proposed by
Miyazaki and Ueno (1985), as well as the concept of ‘‘emotive focus’’ as understood by Carroll (1997, 1998). These theories provide explanation for the psychological processes of sharing the emotive meaning among participants (including
mediated cases involving fiction readers and television viewers). The explanation
provided by these theories facilitates an understanding of the speaker as a person
participating in a speech event. These interpretive models also enable the Place of
Negotiation theory to explain how participants negotiate meaning as they take
perspectives, interact, experience, and focus on emotivity.
.
Sign
How does the Place of Negotiation theory characterize the nature and function of
a linguistic sign? In my view, the Saussurean signifier-signified dichotomy is not
sufficient; rather, Peircean understanding of the triadic sign-system that involves
multiple processes offers guidance. The relationship between the sign and its
meaning is not completely arbitrary, nor is it simply opposition-based as the
Saussurean view (de Saussure 1966) advocates.
Instead, I view the sign process as a potential system through which the sign
user manipulates to create meaning to the extent that conventions endorse and
negotiations allow. A linguistic sign may give the impression of being purely
informational, but it always holds potential to express emotion. The 〈potential
meaning〉 of a sign contains within it the possibility of three different types of
meaning, some of which are foregrounded in the negotiative process. In other
words, some of the informational, emotive, and interactional meanings are
foregrounded which ultimately lead to the 〈negotiative meaning〉. The 〈negotiative
meaning〉 is instantiated in the 〈topica〉, after integrating cotexutal and contextual
information. Under this view on the interpretive process, the sign-meaning
relationship is that of multiple mediation, and therefore, the meaning is not
constant, nor is it perfectly matched in a one-to-one relation to a sign.
Linguistic Emotivity
For Peirce (1992 [1868]), sign occupied the center of his philosophical
inquiry. In fact, he saw in sign an essence of human existence, as reflected in his
statement that ‘‘man is a sign.’’ In his words:
(. . .) it is sufficient to say that there is no element whatever of man’s consciousness which has not something corresponding to it in the word; and the reason is
obvious. It is that the word or sign which man uses is the man himself. For, as the
fact that every thought is a sign, taken in conjunction with the fact that life is a
train of thought, proves that man is a sign; (Peirce 1992 [1868]: 54)
According to Peirce, linguistic sign belongs to the Thirdness, the mediated
process. Here I follow Parmentier (1985) who cites Peirce’s following definition of
sign as one of the clearest.
By a sign I mean anything whatever, real or fiction, which is capable of a sensible
form, is applicable to something other than itself, that is already known, and that
is capable of being so interpreted in another sign which I call its Interpretant as to
communicate something that may not have been previously known about its
Object. There is thus a triadic relation between any Sign, an Object, and an
Interpretant. (Parmentier 1985: 26)
The sign relation involves three elements, i.e., object, representamen (sign), and
interpretant, bound together in a semiotic moment. It is important to note that
representamen is in the middle between the object and the interpretant. In other
words, a sign (representamen) is an object which is in relation to its object on the
one hand and to an interpretant on the other (cf. the Saussurean dyadic relation).
The object of the sign is that which the expressive form stands for or represents. The
interpretant is, following Parmentier, ‘‘a resultant mental or active effect produced
by the object’s influence on the sign vehicle in some interpreter’’ (1985:26).
The relationship among three elements is characterized by opposing vectors of
‘‘determination’’ and ‘‘representation.’’ Determination is the causal process in
which qualities of one element are specified or predicated by another. (Color is a
determination of object, red is a determination of the color of an object, and scarlet
is a determination of the red color of an object.) Representation, working in the
opposite direction to determination, refers to ‘‘the act or relation in which one thing
stands for something else to the degree that it is taken to be, for certain purposes,
that second thing by some subject or interpreting mind’’ (Parmentier 1985:27).
The relationship among these three at any moment hangs in a state of
constant semiotic expansion. The interpretant acts to determine a further sign,
and the sign, in turn, becomes a further interpretant. Thus the interpretant is a
mediating representation of the object. The three elements in the sign relation are
never stable; they are not permanently object, representamen, and interpretant,
but rather, each shifts roles, as additional operations of determination and
representation accumulate.
The Place of Negotiation theory
This understanding of sign relations is useful for the Place of Negotiation
theory. The meaning of emotives are not only mediated but are negotiated in
multiple mediatory processes. The meaning is not instantiated by sign only, which
provides only 〈potential meaning〉. Interpretation of a sign involves the mediatory
process of interpretant, the process that is predicated upon some interpreter. The
representamen and object are related only because the interpretant represents
them as related. This mediation rescues the human element in the semiotic
process absent in the Saussurean paradigm.
Another important point related to the Peircean semiotic view is the triadic
designation of signs. Among many triads of sign types proposed by Peirce, for our
purpose, the triad of Icon, Index, and Symbol is important. An Icon is a sign which
refers to the object merely by virtue of characters of its own. Anything is an Icon of
anything, as long as it is like that thing and used as a sign of it. An Index is a sign
which refers to the object by virtue of actually being affected by that object. A
Symbol is a sign which refers to the object that it denotes by virtue of a law or a
convention which enables the Symbol to be interpreted as referring to that object.
A linguistic sign is most frequently considered a symbol, since its foundation
rests on the relationship of Peircean Thirdness. Linguistic signs are pure symbols
only when they are conceptualized in the abstract system. On the other hand,
emotive signs in the Place of Negotiation theory carry with them indexical characteristics. In a broad sense, all linguistic signs are indexical (or more accurately, they
all bear characteristics of indexical signs) when they are used in communication.
The Peircean view of signs offers guidance to the Place of Negotiation theory by
supporting the speaker-involving multiple dimensions of emotive signs.
The notion of being indexical is particularly significant in the following sense.
First, 〈emotive meaning〉 is indexically linked to the place, including not only
physical location but also imagined place, where interaction takes place. This is
because the meaning is interpreted on the basis of 〈topica〉 that is defined, in part,
by the participatory behavior of those involved. Second, the meaning is indexically
linked to the place, especially to the partner’s recognition, acceptance, or rejection
of the very meaning. That is to say, 〈potential meaning〉 is not complete, unless
endorsed by the partner’s interpretation as a part of 〈negotiative meaning〉. Given
the Peircean definition of an index (i.e., a sign which refers to the object by virtue
of actually being affected by that object), because 〈emotive meaning〉 is affected
by, or more accurately, partly motivated by, the objects in the place, it is fair to
characterize it as indexical. And, third, meaning of language is indexically linked
to the cultural aspects of which it is a part. In this view, language is an indexical
sign of culture by which it is endorsed.
Regarding emotive signs, at this point, I should mention Volek’s (1987) work
on derived nouns in Russian. Volek’s study is significant to the present discussion,
particularly because he combines Praguean functionalism with Peircean semiotics.
Linguistic Emotivity
For Volek (1987), meanings are either ‘‘notional’’ or ‘‘emotive,’’ and emotivity in
language is expressed as ‘‘direct’’ emotional experiences, in the following sense. To
quote Volek:
I understand as emotivity in language certain psycho-physical experiences or
attitudes of the speaker (not necessarily evaluative attitudes) which he experiences
during the speech and which he expresses in it without transforming them into
notional signs. These attitudes, however, also need not be attitudes toward the
communicated reality, (. . .) but they must be reflected linguistically in the given
communication (message). (Volek 1987: 12, original emphasis)
Volek (1987) takes the position that the meaning of signs is constituted either by
notions or by ‘‘direct’’ emotional experiences (not transformed into notions), and
therefore, we may distinguish between ‘‘notional’’ and ‘‘emotive’’ meaning as ‘‘two
totally separate types of meaning’’ (1987: 25).
Emotive expressions contain an emotive ‘‘semantic component’’ for which he
coins the term ‘‘excitizer.’’ In his view, this component, which too often has not
been included in earlier semantic inquiry, is ‘‘an emotive component of meaning
present in a sign in an expressive way (i.e., relating directly or through an associative component to its object-emotion)’’ (1987: 26, original emphasis). Volek
continues that one can identify the presence of an emotive component through
‘‘the addressee’s actual excitative response to the emotive sign’’ and through ‘‘his
awareness that the meaning of the particular sign cannot be explained fully
through notional components’’ (1987: 26). This somewhat default-based characterization of emotive signs may require further clarification. Nonetheless, Volek’s
contribution is evident in placing the emotive meaning on the same level with his
‘‘notional’’ meaning.
Another point of interest is his typology of signs. Volek proposes the following types of emotive signs.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Exclusively notional sign (table, to run, green),
Notional signs with explicit evaluative meaning (good versus bad),
Notional signs with emotion as connotation (mother, friend),
Notional words denoting or naming emotion (love, hate, lovable),
Exclusively emotive component (wow, ouch),
Expressive sign (hybrid, complex sign) (Russian diminuitive soba. . .ka,
which has the denotational meaning of ‘dog’ yet with an affective emotive
meaning). (1987: 27–8)
Volek describes the majority of emotive signs as ‘‘symbolic indices’’ (1987: 219).
He does so because, as with indices, these signs express emotivity without representing it through a generalized concept. Yet, these signs also retain an arbitrariness, so they have the character of symbols as well.
The Place of Negotiation theory
The kind of signs examined in this volume can also be considered symbolic
indices, or more accurately, symbols in use whose meanings bear indexical
features. In my view, all signs are indexical in the sense that meanings are ultimately instantiated in relation to the place. When linguistic sign is interpreted
through negotiation of participants, it retains the character of an index to varying
degrees. As I argue throughout this book, even the signs normally considered nonemotive carry a certain level of emotive meaning. Such emotivity is instantiated,
in part, as it is indexically interpreted within the 〈topica〉.
Volek’s (1987) work is one of the few studies that approaches emotivity in a
way similar to mine. However, I differ from Volek in that, instead of handling the
matter as a semantic component, I focus on the negotiative aspect of the 〈emotive
meaning〉, and based on the Place of Negotiation theory, I focus on how signs
negotiatively come to mean what they mean expressively and emotively. After all,
I understand sign to be potentially multifunctional only to foreground certain
functions through negotiation. An identical sign, therefore, may function primarily as an informational sign, and at other times, comparatively more as an emotive
sign. Characteristics of signs may shift through time as well from informational to
more emotive (a case of grammaticalization, for example). Varied functions of a
sign are negotiated in the 〈topica〉 on the basis of the cotextually expressed
speaker’s intention, contextually significant situated information, and above all,
through negotiation of meanings attributed to the three dimensions (informational, emotive, and interactional) of place.
.
Function
The Place of Negotiation theory approaches language by dividing its functions
into six types associated with three dimensions of place. Particularly related to
emotivity are 〈expression of emotional attitude〉, 〈communication of attitudes
toward others〉, 〈management of participatory action〉, and 〈coordination of joint
utterances〉. These functions are generally slighted in strictly formal approaches in
linguistics. Within the history of linguistics, however, one must refer to Bühler’s
work as a significant point in time when emotivity was considered an aspect of
linguistic function.
In his 1933 work, Bühler discusses four themes, one of which is ‘‘the schema of
language functions’’ (Innis 1982:147). In this section, Bühler first characterizes
language as an organum connected to three participating parties of communication;
(1) things (or, objects and states of affairs), (2) sender, and (3) receiver. The
organon model of language views language as an intersubjective instrument by
which a sender communicates information related to objects and states of affairs to
a receiver. The language-as-organon view emphasizes the social and functional
Linguistic Emotivity
nature of language because language stands as an intermediary between the sender
and receiver. Within this theoretical context, Bühler proposes the three functions;
(1) appeal (Appell), (2) expression (Ausdruck), and (3) representation (Darstellung).
Bühler, in his 1933 work, establishes the contours of the representational
function, as opposed to the expressive and appeal functions of language. Representational function refers to language’s capacity to represent and to communicate
objects and states of affairs. Then Bühler characterizes the expression and appeal
in the following context (in the translation by Innis).
(. . .) in the structure of the speech situation a special position is occupied just as
much by the sender as the agent of the act of speaking, the sender as the subject of
the speech action, as by the receiver as the one spoken to, the receiver as addressee
of the speech action. They are not simply a part of what the communication is
about, but they are the partners in the exchange, and therefore, in the last analysis,
it is possible that the medial sound product indeed exhibits its own specific sign
relation to the one and to the other. We call the semantic relation of the sound sign
to the performer of the speech deed the expression and the semantic relation of the
sound sign to the addressee the appeal. (Innis 1982: 153, original emphasis)
For Bühler, the starting point of language analysis was the concrete speech event,
and that involved the ‘‘sender as the subject of the speech action’’ and the
‘‘receiver as the one spoken to, the receiver as addressee of the speech action.’’ It
is of critical importance that his expressive and appeal functions are directly
linked to the participants of the speech event, sender and receiver of information,
respectively. As Koerner (1984) states, ‘‘Bühler made a forceful argument in
favour of the semiotically conditioned and sociologically motivated act of human
speech’’ (1984: 22).
Linguistic function within the Place of Negotiation theory is also identified in
association with dimensions of communication, and in close association with the
concept of place, in particular. My position does not contradict Bühler’s in that
the sender-receiver issue is reflected in functions operating in the 〈emotive place〉
and the 〈interactional place〉. Ultimately, Bühler’s position in viewing language as
a human interaction led to the expressive and appeal functions, and this is in line
with the Place of Negotiation theory. However, functions in the Place of Negotiation theory are associated not so much with the sender or receiver as the negotiation between them. Functions are closely associated with the three dimensions of
place, through which participants are able to identify functions more specifically.
. Language as bodily experience
The speaker within the Place of Negotiation theory is a self who engages in the act
of speaking in a given place. In the Place of Negotiation theory, a strict division of
The Place of Negotiation theory
mind and body (more specifically, sign and interaction) is not endorsed, and the
priority of the former is questioned. This is because the 〈negotiative meaning〉 of
language, which includes linguistic emotivity, is achieved through human interaction. Language is not a static concept nor is it an immobile object; language is an
event, an activity, and it is predicated upon participation. For the 〈potential
meaning〉 to be realized as an on-going 〈negotiative meaning〉, one must envision
persons interacting in a place.
To put this line of thought into perspective, Merleau-Ponty (1962) offers
guidance. Merleau-Ponty emphasizes that to describe the phenomenon of speech
and the specific act of meaning, one must leave behind the traditional subjectobject dichotomy. He laments that we have become accustomed, through the
influence of the Cartesian tradition, to jettison the subject. Indeed, the reflective
attitude of cogito has tended to purify the notions of body and mind to an
extreme, which has led to its distinct division. A subject is merely what it thinks it
is. An object is an object to itself. But, Merleau-Ponty warns that the ‘‘experience
of our own body, (. . .) reveals to us an ambiguous mode of existing’’ (1962: 198).
In fact we have no way of knowing the human body other than that of living it.
Thus, he concludes:
I am my body, at least wholly to the extent that I possess experience, and yet at
the same time my body is as it were a ‘natural’ subject, a provisional sketch of my
total being. Thus experience of one’s own body runs counter to the reflective
procedure which detaches subject and object from each other, and which gives us
only the thought about the body, or the body as an idea, and not the experience
of the body or the body in reality. (Merleau-Ponty 1962: 198–9)
The self conceived under the Place of Negotiation theory is this person, that is, the
body-engaging person. This understanding of person enables the kind of comprehension of emotivity critical in the Place of Negotiation in the following sense.
Consider that if language is conceived to be thought, the thinking subject of
cogito is incapable of experiencing emotion. Ideas and concepts already exist before
someone actually uses the language. (This is a mistake caused by equating the
〈potential meaning〉 with the 〈negotiative meaning〉.) Emotion is excluded from the
Cartesian ‘‘clear and distinct ideas,’’ and therefore, nonexistent, and such nonexistent ideas cannot be experienced. Merleau-Ponty reminds us, however, that ‘‘(T)he
denomination of objects does not follow upon recognition; it is itself recognition’’
(1962:177), and this is because ‘‘speech, in the speaker, does not translate readymade thought, but accomplishes it’’ (1962:178). So, Merleau-Ponty emphasizes
that the ‘‘word and speech must somehow cease to be a way of designating things
or thoughts, and become the presence of that thought in the phenomenal world,
and, moreover, not its clothing but its token or its body’’ (1962:182). To conceive
language as body leads to the conclusion that language inevitably engages a person
Linguistic Emotivity
in the process of perception. While objective thought is unaware of such subject of
perception, in Merleau-Ponty’s (1962) view, ‘‘all knowledge takes its place within
the horizons opened up by perception’’ (1962:207).
Merleau-Ponty’s (1962) position resonates with the view of language advocated in cognitive semantics. For example, Yamanashi (1998) comments that at
the foundation of ordinary human language lies the ‘‘sense-based and body-based
experience, including sense-based information management, image construction,
projection of perspectives, empathy, and shifting of points of view.’’1 (1998: 31, my
translation). The cognitivists’ position that knowledge should not be regarded as
static, propositional, or sentential is convincing. This is particularly so in light of
the empirical studies of categorization and concept development. More fundamentally, Johnson (1991) argues that conceptual structure and reason are
grounded in patterns of bodily experience. Structures of our spatial/temporal
orientations based on perceptual interaction, for example, provide an imaginative
basis for our knowledge of, and reasoning about, more abstract domains. Here the
perceiving person is foregrounded, and, therefore, the body-based understanding
of the speaker is endorsed.
This said, as I alluded to earlier in Chapter 2, in my view, the cognitivists’
conceptualization of the perceiving person (or, what Neisser [1988] identifies as
‘‘ecological self ’’) is still insufficient for understanding what truly transpires in
communication.2 The speaker in the place of communication is a bodily person
who is not only a facilitator of perception, but more significantly, an experiencer
of human emotion and feelings. What cognitive semantics fails to fully account for
is a conceptualization of the speaker as someone who talks, interacts, experiences,
feels, and negotiates, always in relation with a partner in the place of negotiation.
As a final note regarding the view of language as bodily experience within
the Place of Negotiation theory, I should mention Tokieda (1941). Tokieda’s
theory of language will be discussed in detail later; here I refer to one citation in
which his understanding of language as the activity of bodily subject (i.e.,
Tokieda’s speaking subject) is particularly elucidating.
It is possible to think of nature apart from the subject who creates it, but one
cannot think of language, no matter when and where, without thinking about the
speaking subject who produces it. More strictly speaking, language is the very
activity of ‘‘speaking’’ and ‘‘reading.’’3 (Tokieda 1941: 12, my translation)
.
Presentation of selves
Beyond the concept of the speaker as discussed above, it is possible to identify
certain aspects of self that become foregrounded in the process of negotiation. As
The Place of Negotiation theory
alluded to earlier, there are three kinds of selves associated with the three places of
negotiation. The 〈thinking self 〉 primarily engages in the logical and descriptive
cognitive activity which is linguistically realized largely by the propositional
construct. This is the aspect of the speaker that is focused in the 〈cognitive place〉.
The 〈feeling self 〉 finds its identity in the emotive place where emotive meaning is
placed in focus. The speaker is emotionally stirred both personally and interpersonally. The 〈interactional self 〉 is the self that is keenly aware of the partner and
acts accordingly, and it is foregrounded in the 〈interactional place〉. Although in
reality a speaker is a combination of all three kinds of selves, depending on the
strength projecting on to the 〈topica〉, different aspects of selves are highlighted.
At this point, perhaps it is necessary to explore a bit further the concept of
self/selves in Japan. Let me draw from the philosophy of Watsuji (1937) and Mori
(1979) in order to elucidate the relationship between the self and other in Japanese.
In his work Watsuji (1937) develops the concept that the social human
relationship is that of aidagara ‘betweenness’. The term aida ‘betweenness’ literally
means a spacial distance that separates two items. In Fuudo (1935) Watsuji
proposes that a person is realized as one who closely interacts with fuudo ‘climate
(and mores)’, and this process of interaction and integration serves as the basis of
human ontology. A person for Watsuji is a betweenness within the network of
social space. Watsuji finds the source of self in interpersonal relationship, and
emphasizes that self cannot be defined without sufficiently considering the
relationship between the self and others in society, which in fact are definable only
in their ‘‘betweenness.’’
In this regard, Watsuji defines the concept of sonzai ‘existence’ as the following.
Son’s fundamental meaning is a subjective self-preservation. The fundamental
meaning of the word zai is the self ’s existence in some place. (. . .) The place
where the self exists is a social place such as lodging, home, village or the society.
In other words, the place is (defined by) the human relationship recognized in
groups such as family, village, town, and the entire world. Therefore, zai refers to
nothing but an existence of self, dwelling in the (human and social) relationship
as one circulates through human relationships. (Watsuji 1937: 22–3, my
translation)
and therefore,
Sonzai is the self ’s comprehension of self placed within human relationships. It is
reasonable to say that sonzai is human relatedness realized by human action.4
(Watsuji 1937: 24, my translation)
Mori (1979) takes a step further in characterizing the nature of Japanese ontology
and develops the concept of nikoo kankei ‘binary combination’ or ‘binary rapport’
(1979: 66). According to Mori, ‘‘binary combination’’ refers to the following; two
Linguistic Emotivity
persons construct an intimate relationship in the process of life experience, and
that relationship itself serves as the ontological basis for each person. In Mori’s
words:
Essentially, among ‘‘Japanese’’ what opposes ‘‘you’’ is not the ‘‘self,’’ but rather,
what opposes ‘‘you’’ is also a ‘‘you’’ from the point of view of ‘‘your you.’’ (. . .)
For example, if we consider a parent as ‘‘you,’’ it might seem obvious to consider
the child ‘‘self.’’ But this is far from the truth. The child is not the ‘‘self ’’ which
has its ontological root in its ‘‘self,’’ but rather, the child experiences self as ‘‘you’’
from the perspective of the parents, who in turn are ‘‘you’’ from the child’s point
of view.5 (Mori 1979: 64, my translation)
In Mori’s view, a Japanese experiences self as 〈you〉 from the perspective of
someone close, i.e., 〈your you〉. The relationship that enables this intimate
reciprocal interdependence is what Mori means by binary combination.
This reciprocal intersubjective view toward self among Japanese does not
contradict Miller’s (1993) view that Japanese construct ‘‘subjects’’ in a relationship
between two subjects (what she calls co-subjectivity). Miller states that in Japan
‘‘subjectivity seems to co-exist routinely with a genuine sense of shared identity’’
(1993:482). Following the views of interaction-based betweenness, 〈your you〉, and
co-subjectivity, it is reasonable to understand Japanese self as being defined in
interactional relationship within a place.
The concept of ‘‘self ’’ endorsed by the Place of Negotiation theory is in basic
agreement with the above views. Self is, like linguistic emotivity, negotiated in
relation with the partner. The negotiation further foregrounds different aspects of
the Japanese selves, i.e., thinking, feeling, and interactional. While linguistic
emotivity is closely linked to both thinking and interactional selves, the present
work is most concerned with the realization of the 〈feeling self 〉. Recognizing a
speaker as a 〈feeling self 〉 is key to understanding how emotives function in
Japanese.
Regarding the concept of 〈you〉, I discuss further in my analysis in Chapter 13.
But for now, two points should be made. First is the concept of the awareness of
〈you〉. When interpersonal relationships are profoundly intimate, the distance
between 〈you〉 and 〈your you〉 become increasingly closer. The speaker finds less
need to address 〈you〉 as a completely separate and distinct partner. Under this
circumstance the speaker does not find 〈you〉 as completely opposed to 〈your
you〉. Depending on the 〈you〉-awareness, different expressions are chosen, and
different expressions also help define the interpersonal relationship.
Second is the issue surrounding different senses of self. Regarding Japanese
senses of self, Lebra (1992) suggests that at least three different aspects of self are
recognized, i.e., the interactional self, the inner self, and the boundless self. The
interactional self involves the awareness between performance by self and sanc-
The Place of Negotiation theory
tions by the audience, as well as the awareness of self as an insider of a group or
network, or as a partner to a relationship. Linguistic expressions chosen when
presenting an interactional self follow social conventions and expectations most
diligently. The inner self is the hidden private self that resides in the kokoro ‘heart,
mind, emotion, spirit’, while the boundless self is the ‘‘empty self, non-self, nonthinking, mindless, or nothingness’’ (Lebra 1992: 115). While the interactional self
is relative, multiple, and variable in accordance to where and how self stands in
relation to others, in the boundless self, ‘‘the relativity is overcome by the mutual
embracement of self and other, subject and object’’ (Lebra 1992: 115).
Following the understanding of Japanese selves advanced by Lebra (1992), I
find it useful to understand speaker’s expressions in association with different
aspects of selves. Interactional strategies primarily function to present the sociallybound self, Lebra’s interactional self. Emotive strategies are also predicated upon
interaction, and therefore present 〈interactional self 〉, but they involve more.
Emotive strategies offer means to present Lebra’s inner self in that they
function in two ways to reach 〈you〉. Emotives desire to appeal to the partner,
either directly or indirectly. The direct appeal presents the inner self wishing to
emotionally appeal to the partner in as direct a manner as possible. The indirect
appeal presents the inner self that engages in inner thought, and only indirectly
appeals to 〈you〉.
The presentation of selves also assumes certain kinds of 〈you〉, i.e., the types
of 〈you〉 the speaker addresses. When the interactional aspect of communication
is foregrounded, the speaker is highly aware of socially-bound 〈you〉. When
emotive aspects become primary, the speaker becomes less sensitive to the
socially-bound 〈you〉. The partner whom the inner self tries to reach is 〈you〉, the
intimate 〈you〉 who the self strongly feels co-subjective with. The association
among different places, functions, and corresponding aspects of selves and 〈you〉
is summarized in Figure 2.
Relevant place
Functions
Self being
presented
〈you〉
being addressed
〈interactional place〉
indexically signals
socially expected
speaker identity
socially-bound
〈interactional self 〉
socially-bound
〈you〉
〈emotive place〉
expresses direct
emotive appeal
expresses indirect
emotive appeal
direct 〈you-reaching
inner self 〉
indirect 〈youreaching inner self 〉
intimate 〈you〉
intimate 〈you〉
Figure 2. Types of place, function, self, and 〈you〉 in the Place of Negotiation
theory
Linguistic Emotivity
Additionally, in the course of this volume, I will discuss further aspects of Japanese selves; (1) subordinate and equal selves as kinds of socially-bound interactional self, (2) gendered selves (such as girlish, boyish, womanly, and manly
selves), and (3) the playful self. Gendered selves are special cases of self foregrounded in the emotive and interactional places, and the playful self emerges in
the creative dimension of language that always embraces emotivity. These concepts will be discussed in detail in Chapter 16.
. Methodology
The Place of Negotiation theory is founded on a range of methodologies available
in a broad spectrum of language studies. Most directly associated methodologies
come from conversation analysis and discourse analysis. In my earlier work
(Maynard 1989, 1993c, 1997a) I have discussed in detail these two research fields.
Research methods used in pragmatics and sociolinguistics are also applied in the
analysis of linguistic emotivity. I also draw from related fields such as psychology,
rhetoric, poetics, and aesthetics in the interpretive process.
The fields mentioned above are well recognized within nonformalist approaches to language, and a number of theories have been advanced. Consider, for
example, theoretical frameworks available in pragmatics. The Relevance Theory by
Sperber and Wilson (1988) is one, and the Theory of the Territory of Information
by Kamio (1979, 1990) is another. In textual and discourse studies, traditional
frameworks such as the Prague School’s Functional Sentence Perspective, and
Hallidayan concept of cohesion are available. Additionally, a text-organizational
model such as Rhetorical Structure Theory (Mann and Thompson 1988) is
known. In conversation analysis, a host of rules and conventions have been
proposed, e.g., turn-taking systematics, adjacency pair, preference organization,
and so on. However, to date, no theory has been proposed that is able to explain
how and to what extent language expresses emotivity. More fundamentally,
avoiding the kind of linguistics that alienates the 〈feeling self 〉, the Place of Negotiation theory rescues and brings to the fore the participants of communication
who speak and interact, and more than anything else, who feel.
The Place of Negotiation theory assumes that linguistic interaction is
intersubjective. As Schiffrin (1994) explains, intersubjectivity is associated with the
sharing of knowledge or experience. In Schiffrin’s view, intersubjectivity is relevant
to communication in two ways, at its inception and at its completion. In order for
communication to proceed, partners must share certain basic knowledge. At the
same time, one of the main purposes of communication is the sharing of new
information. In short, intersubjectivity is assumed in two ways; ‘‘it both allows
communication, and is achieved by communication’’ (Schiffrin 1994: 390, original
The Place of Negotiation theory
emphasis). The Place of Negotiation theory takes this assumed intersubjectivity as
a theoretical starting point, and provides a philosophical foundation and analytical
framework necessary for understanding the process of intersubjective negotiation,
negotiation of 〈emotive meanings〉, in particular.
From the perspective of discourse analysis, the concept of distributional
constraint is useful when identifying the process of negotiation. A researcher can
identify the distributional constraints of certain strategies as they occur (and do
not occur) in real-life discourse segments on the basis of discourse principles such
as cohesion, coherence, as well as topic and other organizational structures.
Depending on the discourse behavior of the investigated strategies, a researcher
can identify whether or not certain aspects of information or emotivity are more
expected and/or foregrounded than others.
From the perspective of discourse functionalism, based on use and non-use of
certain strategies, the semantic and rhetorical effects can be contrasted. Particularly when the use of a certain strategy violates norms, the speaker’s emotive
motivation for doing so is investigated. In this interpretive process, pragmaticsbased cotextual and contextual information provide clues. In certain genres, the
narrator’s comment on the character’s feelings provides additional clues for
interpreting the 〈emotive meaning〉. In addition, the preference of certain strategies observed across different genres is suggestive of the intended expressive
function of those strategies. From the perspective of contrastive discourse analysis
(see Maynard 1997a), a contrast may be made between the original and translation texts, and a researcher is able to study what aspect of emotivity is or is not
communicated across languages. The contrast often reveals language-internal
subtle emotivity difficult to identify otherwise.
Conversation analysis offers a variety of means providing immediate contexts
for those utterances under investigation. By observing prior and ensuing turn
shapes and contents, the reciprocal effect of a particular strategy can be interpreted. Turn-taking rules, adjacency pairs, back-channeling strategies, hesitation,
fillers, preference organization, and so on, help define the conversation context in
normative and systematic ways. When the expected interaction takes place, the
function of the interaction can be interpreted accordingly, and when the expected
interaction does not take place, the motivation for such action can be sought.6
Often the motivation involves emotion and feelings, and cotextually and contextually assisted by other visual and verbal clues, a researcher is able to identify the
kind of emotivity being negotiated.
When investigating linguistic emotivity, a researcher pays special attention to
linguistic devices and strategies normally considered to be emotive (e.g.,
exclamatives, particles, sentence adverbs, and so on). But more importantly, the
Place of Negotiation theory assumes that every linguistic sign is emotive, although
signs vary in kind and intensity. And therefore, seemingly non-emotive devices
Linguistic Emotivity
and strategies fall within its analytical domain.7 Analyses of these strategies require
a close observation of the contexts of their varied occurrences (and non-occurrences). To obtain varied occurrences of linguistic phenomena, data rendered
appropriate in the Place of Negotiation theory are taken from real-life sources of
contemporary Japanese discourse.
In terms of the theory-building, I maintain that construction of a theory based
on imaginary data should be avoided at all cost. I take the position that linguistic
theory must ultimately be accountable to data, whatever such data demand, and
wherever such data lead. The adequacy of a theory must ultimately be tested against
data, and for this reason, linguistic analysis must start at the real-life language used
by ordinary people in ordinary places. Obviously, no linguist is able to analyze all
possible language phenomena. A researcher must select the kind and the extent of
data to be analyzed. Consider that the kind of data selected and the kind of theory
adopted are interdependently related. Data are not simply given, but rather, they
are ‘‘taken’’ from the speech community, based on the researcher’s theoretical
mandate. It becomes important, therefore, to keep in mind the limitation of the
research result, and recognize the need for further exploration. At the beginning of
Part 3, preceding analysis chapters, I offer a detailed explanation on the kind of
data selected for the current study of linguistic emotivity.
Although the Place of Negotiation theory is a theory for language and
linguistic interaction, it can be applied to rhetoric and culture as well. Or, more
accurately, the Place of Negotiation theory is a part and parcel of the very linguistic culture which the theory intends to account for. In broader terms as well, the
concept of place in the Place of Negotiation theory corresponds with the concept
of place endorsed in the culture of which it is a part. The Place of Negotiation
theory, therefore, is applicable to the understanding of underlying principles and
forces of culture, and I address this issue most directly in Chapter 17. The
centrality of place brings to the fore the dimensions of language and culture that
heretofore have not been fully investigated. The theoretical standpoint advocated
by the Place of Negotiation theory enables us to understand language without
discarding pathos, and at the same time it affords us the accumulated knowledge
of the linguistics of logos as well. Because of this inclusiveness, the Place of
Negotiation theory is expected to be able to provide a necessary tool for analyzing
language as emotion.
Chapter 4
The (re-)turn to place
The concept of place is the foundation for the theory of Place of Negotiation. In
this chapter, after tracing the history of the concept of place in Japanese philosophy and language studies, I discuss the centrality of its concept. Place, closely
associated with the Knowledge of Pathos, provides a philosophical foundation that
is polar opposite to the Cartesian subject of cogito. The thinking subject of cogito
exists independent of its place. Consequently, language is viewed as an autonomous decontextualized entity. The Knowledge of Pathos takes the opposite view.
Place is central to the foundation of self, without which self cannot sustain itself.
Place embraces the linguistic performance of the speaker; it includes the grammatical subject and predicate together. Place is central to the Knowledge of Pathos,
and it ultimately hosts 〈topica〉, a locus of the 〈negotiative meaning〉.
Since 1975, by resurrecting the concept of place in a series of writings,
Nakamura (1975, 1987, 1993d, 1993e, 1994, 1996) has urged solutions to social
and environmental problems recognized in contemporary society. Nakamura
(1996: 291) lists four issues associated with place; (1) place as a source of existence, (2) place as a receptacle, in the form of the human body, (3) place in
terms of abstract space, and (4) place as linguistic topos (place). Nakamura
develops the thesis that these conceptualizations of place lead to possible
solutions for contemporary social and environmental problems. All these issues
provide context for, and suggest justification for, the Place of Negotiation theory.
To pursue linguistics with the Knowledge of Pathos as its aim, it is necessary to
foreground the concept of place. We must (re-)turn to place, and (re-)claim the
centrality of its concept.
.
Concept of basho ‘place’ in Nishida’s philosophy
It is in the philosophy of Kitaroo Nishida (1870–1945) that sources for the concept
of place of negotiation can be found. For Nishida, the concept of place was formed,
in part, as an answer to the problem of knowing, particularly as an answer to the
question of how one should philosophically understand consciousness. Nishida
(1949a), in his work titled Basho ‘Place/Topos’ discusses his basho no ronri ‘theory
of place/topos’ which introduces the place for self reflection. Basho is the true
ground of the self, and it is neither the logical subject nor the (Aristotelian)
Linguistic Emotivity
universal predicate. It is a place of ‘‘pure experience’’; it is the concrete ground of
immediacy between the logical subject and abstract universal predicate.
On the ‘‘logic’’ of the place/topos, Nishida (1949a) states the following. First, a
philosophical inquiry should start not from the often assumed dichotomy between
subjectivity and objectivity. Instead, it should start from self awareness which can
be realized by ‘‘reflecting on oneself in oneself.’’ For ‘‘self ’’ to be conscious of
something is to see oneself cast upon the self ’s own field of consciousness. For
Nishida, place is like a mirror on which one reflects oneself. To quote Nishida:
This mirror that reflects oneself is not only the place where knowledge takes on its
form, but also where emotion and will are formed. When we say ‘‘the content of
experience,’’ in many cases we already have intellectualized it, and therefore, it
may consist of illogical substance. The experience in a true sense must exist in a
total Nothingness; it must exist free from intellectualized knowledge; and it must
exist in the place where emotion and will are also reflected. This is why I think all
three, i.e., knowledge, emotion, and will, form the phenomenon of consciousness.1 (Nishida 1949a: 213, my translation)
Place is where one experiences and where one’s existence comes into being. But
the place itself is not restricted by anything, nor is it itself an existence. And such
a place, Nishida called, the ‘‘place of Nothingness’’ (mu no basho). The place of
Nothingness is free from restrictions, and therefore, it is a place of endless
possibilities. The logic of Nishida’s place/topos unfolds in a hermeneutical calculus
of negations until its absolute negativity is reached. At that point, the place
enables the experiential immediacy, ‘‘pure experience’’ in Nishida’s term.
What is particularly significant to the Place of Negotiation theory is that
Nishida saw this place of Nothingness as a locus where intellectualized knowledge,
emotion, and will are all embraced together in consciousness. When Nishida states
that the place ‘‘is not only the place where knowledge takes on its form, but also
where emotion and will are formed,’’ it is reasonable to assume that a sense-based
experiential immediacy operates within consciousness. One experiences not only
intellectual knowledge but also emotion and will within this place of Nothingness,
the place brimming with possibilities. Place, in Nishida’s view, is a field of
consciousness, the precise locus of immediacy and self-identity.
Regarding the importance of emotion/feelings in particular, Nishida’s view in
his Hatarakumono kara Mirumono e ‘From the Acting to the Seeing’ (1949b) is
instructive. In this writing, Nishida argues that since the expressive action involves
both subjective and objective aspects, feeling is said to exist on more profound
level of consciousness than intellectual cognition. It is this ‘‘pure feeling’’ experienced in a concrete immediacy in the place that is most fundamental in human
consciousness. This is where one can hear what Nishida refers to as the ‘‘voiceless
voice’’ and where one can see the ‘‘formless form.’’
The (re-)turn to place
The centrality of place becomes even clearer when Nishida explains the
relationship between a language-based judgment and logic. According to Nishida
(1949a), in terms of logic, the field of consciousness functions as a predicate.
Given a logical calculus of ‘‘S is P,’’ this means that S (supported by particularity)
is defined by P, i.e., generally perceived characteristics of the object. That is, one
interprets the proposition ‘‘S is P’’ by applying general characteristics to the
particular. For Nishida, the subject is particular, while the predicate is general. The
predicate, supported by generally perceived characteristics, is rooted in the place,
where one can deeply reflect on oneself.
Within this place, Nishida further explores the relationship between consciousness and judgment. To quote Nishida again:
If I define consciousness from the perspective of judgment, I must say that it is
something that ultimately becomes predicate, and that never becomes subject. The
domain of consciousness exists within its predicateness. By objectifying the
predicate, it becomes possible to view consciousness from an objective point of
view.2 (Nishida 1949a: 213, my translation)
Then, Nishida characterizes what occurs in this place as the following.
That which is self-conscious must stand, self-consciously, in a dynamically expressive relation to an absolute other. This entails the biconditional structure of coorigination and co-reflection. Thus I repeat that I disagree altogether with the
epistemological position that takes its point of departure from the logic of objects.
I hold that thinking takes place within the structure of an interexpressive relation.
Judgment itself occurs within the contradictory identity of subject and object. From
A, A expresses B in itself, as something expressed by A. That is, taking B as
grammatical subject, A predicates of B: alternatively, taking B as object, A predicates of B. But the converse is also true. It can equally be said that A is expressed in
B, becomes a perspective of B’s own expression. (Dilworth 1987: 55)
As expressed in the statement above, Nishida moves away from the traditional
Western subject-based logic, and arrives at the place of the predicate-based logic.
To Nishida, judgment must be approached not from the subject, but from the
predicate, and more accurately, within the place where S and P are mutually
inclusive and determining.
For Nishida, the most important aspect of the self-identifying logic is not the
a priori awareness of the subject of cogito but the self placed in the field of
consciousness that is given the power of predicating. Instead of building on the
logic based on the concept of subject as the center of the universe, Nishida
prioritizes the predicate on the basis of which the subject is identified. Nishida
continues:
Ordinarily one thinks of self as a subjective unification just like those objects
possessing various characteristics. However, self is not a subjective unification;
Linguistic Emotivity
rather it must be a predicational unification. It is not one dot, but rather, it must
be a circle. It is not an object; rather, it must be a place.3 (Nishida 1949a: 279,
my translation)
Place is like a circle, that includes the subject–predicate relationship within itself.
Evaluating Nishida’s theory of place, Nakamura (1993d) comments that
Nishida indeed ‘‘achieved a Copernican paradigmatic shift from subject-based
logic to predicate-based logic,’’ and that Nishida ‘‘understood all existence on the
basis of predicateness’’ (1993d: 67, my translation). And most importantly,
Nishida ‘‘understood the place of Nothingness, not as a place lacking in something, but as a bottomless fertile world’’ (1993d: 67, my translation).4
Following Nakamura, I find, in the concept of place, the creative potential. By
transforming the philosophical concept of place/topos into a theoretical practice,
I construct the Place of Negotiation theory. In other words, the Place of Negotiation theory is where Nishida’s theory of place is transformed into a concrete
linguistic analytical practice. The theory specifies the inner workings of the place
directly associated with language and emotion.
Interestingly, as Nakamura (1975, 1987, 1993d, 1993e, 1994, 1996) repeatedly
points out, the concept of place resonates with bamen ‘situated place’ in Tokieda’s
theory of Gengo Katei-setsu ‘Language-as-Process theory’. In addition, place and
related concepts were discussed in many of the traditional Japanese language
scholars’ studies. The interest in place in Japanese language theories has sustained,
and this fact itself poses an interesting question on the issue of linguistic ideology.
.
Place in Japanese language studies
In traditional Japanese language studies, a series of bamen-ron ‘discussion of
scene/situated place’ occurred during the era roughly spanning the 1930s to 1950s.
Perhaps the most relevant works from that era are Mio (1948), Sakuma (1940,
1954, 1983 [1936]), and Tokieda (1941).5 Prominent among these scholars was
Tokieda, who developed his own theory of language with the concept of bamen
‘situated place’, and who prioritized ji (modal expressions and particles). These two
features resonate with Nishida’s philosophy in which the concept of place and the
function of predicate were prioritized. Among contemporary Japanese language
scholars as well, the tradition of the concept of place persists, for example, in the
works of Nagano (1952, 1970, 1986) and Takahashi (1956). Some of the traditional
Japanese language research predates the disciplines of sociolinguistics, discourse
analysis, and pragmatics, and it is worth reviewing a few critical points.
The scholar who introduced the concept of ba ‘place’ into Japanese language
studies is Sakuma (1983 [1936]). Influenced by Bühler’s Zeigfeld, Sakuma (1983
[1936]) introduces shiji no ba ‘referential place’, and then in his 1954 work,
The (re-)turn to place
introduces three different places, i.e., hatsugen no ba ‘utterance place’, wadai no ba
‘discourse place’, and kadai no ba ‘topic place’.6 Utterance place is the situation
where expressive and vocative functions come alive, and where the speaker and
the partner occupy the two polar opposites. Discourse place, which is influenced
by Bühler’s Symbolfeld, is where the scene is described, and consequently the place
is created as discourse. ‘‘Topic place’’ is Sakuma’s creation and an addition to
Bühler’s two-field theory. Sakuma (1940) defines topic place as follows.
Now, when one comments about something, first, one needs to create an atmosphere. And it becomes important to specify about what one is going to make a
comment, that is to say, in terms of its form, it becomes important to delimit the
framework of description. (. . .) It is perhaps appropriate to call the operation of
establishing and presenting the territory as the establishment of topic, or teidai.
These defined territories, in the psychological process of symbolic expression,
establish the ‘‘place’’ that guides each description and judgment. This is what one
can call ‘‘topic place.’’ Just as the interpretation of the content in a given situation
requires the situated cognition, the description of things located in an imagined
place is also understood within this ‘‘topic place,’’ that is established by the
presentation of topic in each of the imagined places.7 (Sakuma 1940:210–12, my
translation)
The topic place, in a word, facilitates the relationship between topic and comment, with the topic establishing the framework for comment in both concrete
and imagined places. As in the Japanese topic sentence marked with wa, topic and
comment are connected to each other as if presenting a question and an answer.
While insightful, Sakuma’s three-place theory is motivated, in principle, by
sentence types, and each place remains separated.
Following up on Sakuma, Mio (1948) attempts a sentence typology by
introducing the concept of ba ‘place’. Mio starts his explanation by referring to
the magnetic field. Although a magnetic field refers to the territory over which
the magnetic energy extends (i.e., the territory is defined by the distance the
energy controls), the concept of place in language studies differs. The place Mio
had in mind is not a place where participants are influenced by certain energy. In
Mio’s words:
One tends to simplistically think that the speaker is in the center of place, and the
place passively receives the effect from the speaker. But this view is contrary to
how the place of talk functions. The speaker is the one influenced by place; place
is acting and the speaker is receiving. The place influences, and in fact defines, the
speaker. Speaker does not merely speak in the place; the speaker is defined by the
place.8 (Mio 1948: 21, my translation, original emphasis)
More concretely, Mio explains that this ‘‘place of talk’’ is where the speaking ‘‘I’’
and the listening ‘‘you’’ are located. The speaker finds tsumori ‘intention’ to
Linguistic Emotivity
communicate with the partner, and this tsumori is realized in different ways
depending on the place of talk. Thus, in Mio’s view, if one considers language
activity as the process of transforming tsumori into actual speech, the place of talk
at the moment of interaction is defined as ‘‘the totality of all conditions influencing, in one way or another, the language activity at a specific moment’’ (1948:
26–7, my translation).9 Mio conceptualizes place as a moment-to-moment state of
communication, although the content remains largely consistent. Constantly
changing and renewing, place influences the speaker’s tsumori, and an utterance,
after conforming to the place-based restrictions, appears as the final product. Mio
concludes that ‘‘there is no language apart from its place’’ (ba o hanarete gen to
yuu mono wa nai) (1948: 28, my translation).
Based on this concept of ba, Mio attempts a four-way sentence typology of
Japanese; (1) sentence of place (ba no bun), (2) sentence that contains place (ba o
fukumu bun), (3) sentence that is directed toward place (ba o shikoosuru bun), and
(4) sentence that supplements place (ba o oginaiau bun). These four types are also
called (1) genshoobun ‘sentence of immediate description’, (2) handanbun
‘sentence of judgment’, (3) mitenkaibun ‘exclamatory sentence’, and (4) bunsetsubun ‘sentence with topical ellipsis’.
Overall, Sakuma (1940, 1983 [1936]) introduced the concept of place in
language studies, including the ‘‘topic place.’’ Mio (1948) characterized language
in terms of place, and elucidated the energy that place exerts upon sentence types
and expressions. Both Sakuma and Mio understood place, not as an independent
factor associated with language, but as an essential defining dimension. Their
place-centered approaches are in basic agreement with the Place of Negotiation
theory.
.
Bamen ‘situated place’ in Tokieda’s theory
In contrast to the previous scholars who linked the concept of place to sentence
types, Tokieda incorporates the concept of bamen ‘situated place’ as one of the key
concepts of his language theory. His Language-as-Process theory (Gengo Kateisetsu), as in the case of Nishida’s theory of place/topos, poses a theoretical challenge to traditional Western thought, the Saussurean view toward language, in
particular. Tokieda (1941, 1950) takes the position that language is the very
process in which the speaking subject expresses ideas by using linguistic sound.
Instead of viewing language as a product (or an object) with its internal structure,
Tokieda insists that language is the very ‘‘psychological process’’ (shinteki katei)
(1941: 86).
Based on the Language-as-Process theory, Tokieda views language as subjective experience, and prioritizes subjectivity over objectivity. For him, objective
The (re-)turn to place
facts result from subjective cognition and recognition. In language, the subjective
process is expressed by ji, while the objective facts are represented by shi. Tokieda
claims that all Japanese lexical items are grammatically categorized either as shi or
ji. According to Tokieda (1941, 1950), shi is an expression which has gone through
the objectifying process, representing an objective and conceptualized notion of
the referent. Shi includes nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs. Ji, on the other
hand, is an expression which has not gone through the objectifying process,
representing the speaker’s subjective perspective toward the referent. It includes
conjunctions, exclamatory expressions, auxiliary verbs, and particles. It was ji that
Tokieda found to be critical in language, since it enables self-expression.
The concept of place is introduced as one of the three elements necessary for
language and language experience. The three elements are; (1) the ‘‘speaking
subject’’ (shutai), (2) the ‘‘situated place’’ (bamen) inclusive of the addressee
(kikite), and (3) the linguistic material (sozai). In Tokieda’s view the situated place
is not only the actual social situation for interaction but also a rather comprehensive (almost psychological and emotional) place where linguistic interaction
occurs. In Tokieda’s words:
(. . .) as opposed to the notion of basho ‘place/location’ referring only to physical
and locative space, bamen ‘situated place’ includes the contents which occupy
such location. Thus, although bamen ‘situated place’ is similar to basho
‘place/location’ to the extent that objects and scenery are included, bamen
‘situated place’ includes far more than that. It includes the speaking subject’s
attitudes (taido), feelings (kibun) and emotion (kanjoo) directed toward these
objects and the scenery.10 (Tokieda 1941: 43, my translation)
For Tokieda the most important element of the situated place is the addressee. The
addressee influences the speaker and ‘‘language is always expressed in harmony
with that situated place’’ (gengo wa tsuneni sono bamen to no choowa kankei ni oite
hyoogenserareru mono) (1941:46). Also important for Tokieda are the speaker’s
intentions, attitudes, and emotions. It is through these that the speaking subject
understands the addressee and other objects identified in the situated place. Thus,
according to Tokieda, ‘‘the situated place is not purely objective nor purely
subjective; rather it is the world where subjectivity and objectivity fuse into one’’
(Bamen wa jun kyakutaiteki sekai demo-naku, mata jun shutaitekina shikoosayoo
demo-naku, iwaba shukyaku no yuugooshita sekai dearu) (1941:44).
The situated place, according to Tokieda (1941), is filled with many other
objects and situational factors. Thus, depending on the context of the situation,
the same addressee encourages different speech styles from the speaking subject
depending on the context of the situation. The important point here is that all
elements in the ‘‘situated place’’ must be recognized as such by the speaking
subject. Therefore, there is no concept of place unless we acknowledge the
Linguistic Emotivity
speaking subject who defines it. At the same time, since the speaking subject is
defined by the situated place, no linguistic action is possible without being located
in the situated place. The situated place contextualizes linguistic expression, and
in turn linguistic expressions help define the situated place. Tokieda concludes
that it is because of this unbreakable chain between human action and the situated
place that the concept of situated place becomes critical to the study of language.
Tokieda’s inclusion of the attitude and emotion of the speaking subject in the
situated place resonates with Nishida’s understanding of place. Nishida’s field of
consciousness embraced not only knowledge, but also emotion and will. Tokieda’s
words (the situated place is not purely objective nor purely subjective, but rather, it
is where subjectivity and objectivity fuse into one) also resonate with Nishida’s
philosophy of basho. Most seriously, when Tokieda states that ‘‘the existence of
situated place is nothing but the testimony that we are alive’’ (bamen no sonzai to
yuu koto wa, iwaba wareware ga ikiteiru to yuu koto ni hokanaranai no dearu) (1941:
45), we witness that for Tokieda the concept of place has served as an ontological
basis as well. This quotation from Tokieda reminds me of the statement Nishida
made in the first paragraph of his writing on the logic of place: ‘‘Things that exist
must exist somewhere; otherwise, it is impossible to distinguish between there is
and there is not’’ (Aru mono wa nanika ni oite nakerebanaranu. Shikarazareba aru
to yuu koto to nai to yuu koto tono kubetsu ga deki-nai no dearu) (1949a:208).
The source of Tokieda’s grammar can be found in Suzuki’s distinction between
shi and te-ni-o-ha. Recall that Suzuki (1979 [1824]) stated that the ‘‘voices from the
heart’’ are expressed by te-ni-o-ha, which enable the expression of shi. Tokieda,
following this tradition, makes a clear case that ji enables the speaker’s self-expression. If language is a process of self-expression, ultimately, ji controls the expression. To understand ji as something enveloping shi echoes with Nishida’s predicatecentered view of logic. Tokieda sees in ji the realization of self-expression that
becomes possible in a situated place. Likewise, Nishida sees, in the image of place as
a circle, the reflection of self cast upon the self ’s field of consciousness. The
prioritization of self-expression and its consequent minimization of the subject-asagent lead to the understanding of language as event, as immediate experience.
Nakamura (1987, 1993d), pointing out the commonality between Nishida’s
place/topos and Tokieda’s situated place, states that ‘‘(I)n Japanese, the sentences
are connected to the narrating self through ji, and further connected to the
situation or situated place, where the self is located’’ and ‘‘(T)herefore, language
is significantly restricted by place’’ (1987: 84, my translation).11 Nakamura concurs
with Tokieda that there is no way of dissociating between language and situation
or situated place, and this is linguistically evidenced, that is, language contains in
itself ji and ji-related expressivity.
Tokieda’s theory on bamen ‘situated place’ predates some of the recent
developments of context-dependent theories of language. Tokieda, by denying
The (re-)turn to place
abstract language, by theorizing for the language used in the situated place, and by
insisting on the importance of the speaking subject and the addressee, had
engaged in the construction of linguistics of pathos. It is worth noting that
Tokieda’s insight was available prior to the yet-to-prosper formal linguistics which
came into existence in the West.
Tokieda’s theory does not stand unchallenged, however. If language is to be
understood as linguistic experience, and if it takes place in the situated place, one
cannot deny interactional (i.e., negotiative) processes that participants regularly
undergo. How do they identify and interact with each other? And, how does the
meaning emerge in interaction, in relation to the partner (i.e., Tokieda’s addressee)?
Tokieda’s concept of speaking subject retains a sense of autonomy; perhaps even in
Tokieda’s mind, the shadow of the subject of cogito was not entirely overcome.
Although Tokieda argues for language-as-process, how exactly does the theory
account for the interpretation of meaning, especially the mechanism and the
process of interpretation? Where is the meaning? Or, how does one come to
interpret meaning through varied psychological processes and manipulations,
particularly in the process of interaction? What methodological approaches can
reveal the interpretation process? Tokieda does not provide adequate answers to
these. And lastly, one cannot escape the sense of logos-based thinking regarding his
division of shi and ji. Although Tokieda (1941) repeatedly argued against the
structuralist view of linguistics, and remained critical of traditional Western
linguistic theories, one cannot deny the feeling that perhaps he himself had
succumbed to them. That is, following the Western ideology of the clear-cut
categorization, he attempted a clear division of items into two mutually exclusive
groups, which eventually has led to controversy for years to come.
I maintain that the distinction between shi and ji should not be conceived as
clear-cut as Tokieda once argued. Rather, words function as ji-like and shi-like
expressions for the purpose of varied shades of descriptive and expressive needs.
True, some words are more ji-like, and others, more shi-like. But the two categories are not completely distinct; rather, they differ in tendencies. In the Place of
Negotiation theory some of the points raised above regarding Tokieda are
addressed and some answers are provided. The Place of Negotiation framework
enables extensive analyses of real-life data, and it identifies the interpretive
processes of meaning more explicitly.
. Place and interaction
Discussions on the concept of place in Japanese language studies have declined in
large part since the 1960s. The exception, of note, however, is the theoretical
contribution made by Nagano (1952, 1970, 1986). Nagano’s thinking is of
Linguistic Emotivity
particular interest to the present discussion because he criticizes and further
advances Tokieda’s concept of bamen ‘situated place’. Nagano insists that three
elements of a specific speech event, i.e., speaker, addressee, and the material, exist
in an objective, physical world. But when these elements are cast in the speaker’s
consciousness, they no longer exist in the objective world. The speaker becomes
‘‘self ’’ (jibun); the addressee becomes ‘‘partner’’ (aite); and material becomes
‘‘material in consciousness’’ (ishiki no naka no sozai). The hearer and the partner
are not the same; the same addressee/partner is characterized differently depending on the speaker’s consciousness.
Nagano’s bamen ‘situated place’ is represented by three different universes; (1)
the objective situation, (2) the subjective bamen as understood by the speaker, and
(3) the subjective bamen in the hearer’s consciousness. Each speech act is performed through the interaction of five different elements; (1) by someone, (2) to
someone, (3) about something, (4) in some context, and (5) as expansion of some
discourse. The actual event consists of (1) speaker, (2) hearer, (3) material, (4)
environment, and (5) thread of discourse. But when the event is cast in the
participants’ consciousness, these elements are understood as (1) self, (2) partner,
(3) topic, (4) atmosphere, and (5) plot development. And Nagano calls the
tension among these five elements in the event, bamen ‘situated place’.
In Nagano’s bamen, these five elements function, not separately, but forming
mutually influencing relationships. Nagano understood what Tokieda referred to
as objects and situated place to be a fundamentally psychological enterprise, and
characterizes it as a subjective understanding. Nagano’s contribution to the theory
of place is that it enables the researcher to see how the subjective worlds engage
(or do not engage) in the interpretation of meaning. By understanding bamen
‘situated place’ ultimately as a subjective concept, one can face the reality that the
speaker and partner may not completely share the specifics of the situated place.
Their ways of understanding are approximate, not necessarily identical. This
position resonates with Vico’s insistence, that is, perhaps our understanding is
only reassured by certitude, and not necessarily by truth. Given that this possibility is acknowledged, Nagano’s understanding of bamen seems to reflect what
actually happens in communication more accurately than Tokieda’s bamen. In
Nagano’s works, bamen has become more concrete and interaction-based.
.
The concept of place in the Place of Negotiation theory
As briefly reviewed above, there has been a long tradition of prioritizing the
concept of place in Japanese philosophy and language studies. Nishida’s place, as
a source of one’s existence, challenged the Cartesian philosophy and the knowledge of logos. Among traditional Japanese language scholars reviewed, the place-
The (re-)turn to place
centered view of language experience has been the norm, and this is in line with
the pursuit of the Knowledge of Pathos. Starting from Sakuma’s concept of place,
Mio’s and Tokieda’s theories of place and situated place, all challenge the propositional description of language as logos in the form of [agent-does]. In these
models, the speaker emerges as a self who self-expresses through ji, and who
participates in the speech event sharing common experiences.
Recall that Edo scholars were most concerned with the expressivity of te-ni-oha. They focused on the expressivity of the speaker, i.e., pathos including, and not
limited to, emotivity. As we saw earlier in the works of Fujitani and Suzuki,
studies on linguistic emotivity had been launched long ago in the tradition of
Japanese studies. My task, while incorporating this tradition, is to establish a
place-centered theory of language and interaction that enables analysis of contemporary Japanese discourse.
The place within the Place of Negotiation theory is a space where participants
perform verbal interaction, as they negotiate their interaction and meaning. It
incorporates Nishida’s place embracing the subject–predicate relationship within
itself, and it also adopts Nakamura’s ‘‘place as a source of existence (foundation of
Being)’’ (sonzai konkyo [kitai] toshite no ba) (1993e: 59). This is a place brimming
with possibilities and freedom. It defines the 〈topica〉, where the interpretation of
meaning is practiced. 〈Topica〉, by converging meanings emerging in three
different dimensions of place (i.e., 〈cognitive〉, 〈emotive〉, and 〈interactional〉),
facilitates the interpretation of 〈negotiative meaning〉. 〈Topica〉 is a locus for
incorporating cotextual and contextual information as well. The interpretation of
〈negotiative meaning〉 is restricted by 〈potential meaning〉 associated with the linguistic signs. It is also restricted by the speaker’s intentions associated with informational, emotive, and interactional meanings.
As stated earlier, in the place of the Place of Negotiation theory there are three
dimensions of place, each of which consists of three elements, i.e., objects, speaker,
and partner. Thus the negotiations are multiple and occur on multiple levels.
These elements interact and undergo negotiative processes, constantly changing
the content of the 〈topica〉. The place of negotiation is instantiated in actual communication, but it also becomes internalized. The knowledge of actual encounters
accumulates as a part of social convention, and contributes to a society’s sensus
communis.
Perhaps at this point it is useful to provide an example to illustrate the
negotiative process of meaning in the 〈topica〉. For the interpretation of (1), the
following negotiative processes are necessary.
(1) Doose noroma desu yoo . . . da.
anyway slow
be ip
be
‘I’m slow anyway (I’m telling you).’
(Asagiri 1992: 173)
Linguistic Emotivity
The 〈potential meaning〉 for (1) consists of the combination of dictionaryprovided meanings for each lexicon, including noroma ‘slow person’, and desu
‘be’. The 〈informational meaning〉 for (1) refers to the propositional meaning [I’m
slow]. The 〈emotive meaning〉 of (1) includes the emotional attitude depicted in
‘anyway’ (a feeling of hopelessness and resignation), the sense of direct emotional
appeal (of the 〈you-reaching inner self 〉) signaled by the particle yo, and da that
expresses the speaker’s telling-it-as-is assertive attitude. The 〈interactional
meaning〉 associated with (1) includes the speaker’s socially sensitive (highawareness) attitude toward the partner reflected in the choice of the desu/masu
style. This choice evokes a sense of formal declaration. The use of yo also accentuates the sense of direct speech which foregrounds the narrator as a speaker. All
these meanings project on to the 〈topica〉.
In addition, for the interpretation of the meaning one must take into consideration the cotext and context of (1). For example, the cotext includes the
elongation of yo, which emphatically enhances the emotional appeal, and the
pause between yoo and da which prolongs the emotive effect. Contextually, (1)
appears in a romance novel in which the narrator, a teenage girl named Konomi,
tells a confessional story of how she fell in love with Naoyuki Satoo. (1) is
preceded by; ‘When he caught up with me, Satoo breathed deeply, and said ‘‘You
are always slow, but only in this situation, you’re fast.’’ Suddenly he says (like) this
. . .’ In other words, (1) is a teasingly defiant statement the narrator makes in
response to Satoo’s criticism. The meaning of (1) must be negotiated in this
interactional context between the character and the narrator enacted in the
narrated place. At the same time, the reader must appreciate the said meaning as
a confessional statement through which the narrator reveals her inner feelings. In
this way, the broad context includes not only the turn-taking situation but also
the kind of genre (i.e., romance novel targeted to adolescent girls) the expression
represents.12 The 〈topica〉 is the place which makes available all necessary information for the negotiative interpretation, and which facilitates the combination,
competition, and integration of meanings.
Ultimately, the place within the Place of Negotiation theory is a construct
where, in addition to logos, participants interact and negotiate pathos, approximating and arriving at instantiated meanings. In this emotivity-rich place, as the
meaning comes alive, the speaker and partner also come alive. As Mio (1948)
emphasized, meaning and speaker do not merely appear in the place, but rather,
they are defined by the place.
Chapter 5
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
In the preceding chapter, I have maintained that the concept of place has occupied
a central position in some of the Japanese philosophical and linguistic studies. But
obviously, the concept of place has been advanced in Western scholarly traditions
as well. The place, as opposed to the subject of cogito, has been introduced in the
history of linguistics-related disciplines, among which the concept of topica in
rhetoric is the most significant. In this chapter after touching upon place-related
concepts, such as context and frame in sociolinguistics and cognitive semantics, I
briefly discuss the rhetorical concept of topica.
The place in the Place of Negotiation theory is creative and enabling. But,
given such a characterization, how does the negotiation of meaning take place? I
stated earlier that the foundation of the negotiation of meaning lies in the sensus
communis, but what kind of psychological processes are involved for the negotiation of 〈emotive meaning〉? This chapter provides some answers to these questions. In my answer I draw from available concepts; Ichikawa’s (1975) ‘‘empathetic conformity,’’ Miyazaki and Ueno’s (1985) ‘‘perspectivized appearance’’ as
well as ‘‘perspective of becoming,’’ and Carroll’s (1997, 1998) ‘‘emotive focus.’’
These models explain interpretive processes incorporated into the Place of
Negotiation theory.
.
The location of meaning and topica
It is fair to say that the concept of place is closely associated with a theoretical
construct related to ‘‘context’’ in sociolinguistics and pragmatics. For example, a
classic example is Hymes’ (1972) S-P-E-A-K-I-N-G (settings, participants, ends,
act sequences, keys, instrumentalities, norms, and genres). Added to the list are
Malinowski’s (1964) ‘‘context of situation’’ and Gumperz’ (1982, 1992) ‘‘contextualization (cues).’’1
In linguistics and cognitive studies, concepts such as ‘‘frame’’ in frame
semantics (Fillmore 1982), ‘‘mental space’’ (Fauconnier 1985), ‘‘image schema’’
(Langacker 1987, 1988), and ‘‘ICM (idealized cognitive models)’’ (Lakoff 1987)
are utilized, and traditionally, terms such as ‘‘schema’’ (Rumelhart 1975) and
‘‘scripts’’ (Schank and Abelson 1977) appear in psychology and Artificial Intelligence research. Common among these models is the tenet that the meaning is
Linguistic Emotivity
interpreted in relation to other elements within a larger but defined framework. In
all these studies, the concept of place (more accurately, space) has come into play
in one way or another.
Studies that loosely fall under the rubric of cognitive semantics subscribe to
anti-logos approaches, in that they oppose objectivist views of knowledge. As
represented by Lakoff ’s (1987) position of ‘‘experiential realism,’’ the significance
of bodily experience to thought is recognized. Lakoff ’s statement such as ‘‘the core
of our conceptual systems is directly grounded in perception, body movement,
and experience of a physical and social character’’ (1987: xiv) can generally be
characterized as anti-Cartesian in nature.
For instance, regarding linguistic behavior of categorization, Lakoff (1987)
observes that it essentially involves experience and imagination, and it is not
simply a matter of manipulation of abstract symbols. Categorization is based on
human perception, motor activity, and culture on one hand, and it is also based
on metaphor, metonymy, and mental imagery on the other. In short, it can be
summarized that the process of cogito involves more than Cartesian ‘‘clear and
distinct ideas.’’ Thought is imaginative, Lakoff (1987) maintains, and even those
concepts not directly grounded in experience employ metaphorical imagery that
extends beyond the literal representation of external reality.
Although the Place of Negotiation theory does not contradict the cognitive
semanticists’ position, as I alluded to earlier, in my view, cognitive linguistics
tends to slight some of the critical aspects of communication. It does not directly
account for the human factors involved, especially the interactional, dialogical,
and negotiative aspects of communication performed in a dynamic place. Instead,
in cognitive semantics, the concept of place is static and participants are absent.
Instead, the viewer’s position in relation to the surrounding environment is
focused. The perspective in this theoretical paradigm is unidirectional; the human
being acts on externally existing phenomena and observes objects and interprets
environment. Human communication, however, takes place when interacting with
partners, and therefore, the perspective in language and communication (and even
in cognition because cognition is primarily language-based) must be recognized as
being bi- and multi-directional.
Consequently, the cognitive semanticists’ concept of place fails to provide a
fully convincing methodology for analyzing emotives to be investigated in this
work. The theory of language and communication must be designed to account
for the intersubjective process of acting and being acted upon, and that process
inevitably occurs in a place. One must not ignore the recipient, the passive side of
the perception, with a full understanding that the roles of the observer and the
observed are mutually supported and are constantly being interchanged.
Rhetoric, a classical tradition in Western scholarship, touches upon the
concept of place, specifically topica, the art of topics. In Western rhetoric, topica is
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
the place where one finds the problematic as well as the necessary manner of
argument. In the most classical sense it is understood as a storehouse for arguments. The information found in an appropriate topica helps the speaker’s
inventive efforts; the art of topics facilitates groupings of relevant material, so that
necessary material can easily be located when required.
In order to understand the historicity of the art of topics, perhaps it is
necessary to return to Aristotle. The Aristotelian topics refer to the procedure
whereby one may build conclusions from probable statements concerning any
problem. The art of topics is considered useful when speaking in public, especially
because it may protect the speaker against self-contradiction. This is because the
art of topics is concerned with a common place, where one can argue with certain
generalities on the basis of evidence bearing upon general subjects. This is rooted
in the classical view represented by Aristotelian Organon, particularly in Aristotle’s
Topics which contains probable methods of arguing such as hypothetical and
verisimilar syllogisms.
For Descartes who praised clear and distinct ideas, this line of argument
supported by somewhat compromising topica, quickly became the target of
contempt. And, in turn, Descartes’ contempt for the humanities and his contempt
for synthetic thinking is what Vico opposed. Vico (1965 [1709]) argued that the
traditional art of topics is the art of finding the arguments, and those who know
the loci of argument are able to grasp the elements of persuasion inherent in any
case at any time. And therefore, although the art of topics is forgotten in the
education of the young, Vico warned that ‘‘young men should be taught the
totality of sciences and arts, and their intellectual powers should be developed to
the full; thus they will become familiar with the art of argument, drawn from the
ars topica’’ (1965 [1709]: 19). Vico praised the art of topics because it requires
identification of the locus of problematics, and it provides information necessary
to carry on appropriate argument for eloquence.
In modern rhetoric, Perelman (Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca 1969)
discusses the importance of loci. Loci are headings under which arguments can be
classified. Reclassifying the Aristotle’s classification of loci communes (i.e., loci
relating to accident, species, property, definition, and sameness, all proposed for
the purpose of providing premise for dialectical syllogisms), Perelman introduces
six types of loci; quantity, quality, order, existence, essence, and person.
Particularly important are loci of quantity and loci of quality. Loci of quantity
are the rule of majority, that is, an argument is made that one thing is better than
the other because the former is observed more frequently. For purely quantitative
reasons, a locus of quantity defines a major premise, that which occurs most
often, the usual, the normal. Loci of quantity are often used by Classicists. And
according to Perelman, Classicists consider superior and as the basis of value
‘‘(T)he universal and eternal, the relational and universally valid, that which is
Linguistic Emotivity
stable, durable, essential, that which concerns the largest number’’ (Perelman and
Olbrechts-Tyteca 1969: 98).
Loci of quality become an issue when the strength of numbers is challenged in
argumentation. They are used by reformers or those who revolt against the
majority’s position. Loci of quality are often used by the Romanticists, since these
loci are considered to bear the character of uniqueness, originality, and newness.
Thus, in comparison, the Classicists are sympathetic toward abstract or, at least,
universal values, while the Romanticists advocate particular, concrete values.
Likewise, while the Classicists maintain the superiority of thought and contemplation, the Romanticists maintain the superiority of effective action.
It is important to observe here that the contemporary art of topics, as
represented by Perelman’s rhetoric, are in pursuit of the Knowledge of Pathos.
Loci of quantity and quality offer a method of argumentation based on the general
circumstance and condition tied to the place, the antithesis of the subject of cogito.
There are no syllogisms, or the prioritization of clear and distinct ideas, for
example. Loci of quantity and quality are largely situation-based, and they are
useful for identifying philosophical positions (such as the Classicists and the
Romanticists). The concept of topica in the sense of loci does not contradict the
current study of linguistic emotivity. As Vico warned, understanding emotive
meanings requires the knowledge of topica, loci of problematics and solutions.
.
Negotiation of emotive meaning in conversation
The Western tradition of rhetoric discussed above reinforces the importance of
place-based interpretation of meaning. But we still face the question of how one
interprets meaning in the 〈topica〉. In this section, first, I discuss conversational
interaction and second, I introduce the concept of ‘‘empathetic conformity’’ as
an interpretive tool useful for understanding meaning, especially in the 〈interactional place〉.
In an on-going conversation, the role of speaker and partner constantly change,
as each role is endorsed by the other. The meaning of conversation in this speech
event must, therefore, be understood in this interdependent relationship. This is
particularly so when the conversation participants engage in sharing emotive and
interactional (more than cognitive) aspects of meaning. In a series of studies, I
reported on various aspects of the interactional management mutually conducted
by conversation participants (Maynard 1986a, 1987a, 1987b, 1988, 1989, 1993c).
In Maynard (1989, 1993c) I discussed the concept of self-contextualization as
a process of context-sensitive participation. Conversation participants do not
behave entirely spontaneously. Their behavior is, in part, a predictable response to
the specific conversational context. By perceiving, identifying, and evaluating the
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
overall as well as immediate context of the conversation as they interact, participants in a conversation understand themselves in context. This on-going process
of continually defining oneself in relation to one’s 〈interactional place〉 is selfcontextualization. Self-contextualization involves two interacting stages; (1) contextual interpretation, and (2) contextual transformation. The first stage involves
the participant’s understanding of actual signs and other structural and interactional knowledge. The second stage requires the participant to process one’s
ideas and intentions in such a way as to be appropriate in the on-going 〈interactional place〉 by ‘‘transforming’’ information to conform to the context. Since
the situation in conversation changes from one moment to the next, conversation
participants must self-contextualize continually, with each change being mutually
incorporated in each other’s self-contextualization. Self-contextualization describes the interpretive process that speaker and partner undergo in the
〈interactional place〉 of the Place of Negotiation theory.
To illustrate this negotiative process of participation as reflected in conversational interaction, I offer the example of rhythmic interaction. Conversational
interaction is characterized by a rhythm often shared by participants, referred to
as ‘‘rhythmic ensemble’’ (Scollon 1982). During ordinary casual conversation
among speakers sharing a common sociocultural norm, a rhythm is cooperatively
established. The established rhythm jointly maintained by speaker and partner
affects not only the tempo in which each syllable is pronounced but also how
some nonverbal signs are incorporated into the flow of conversation.
Regarding Japanese casual conversation I reported (Maynard 1989) that head
movement often occurs in pairs, triplets, or even quadruplets. These repetitious
head movements contribute to the rhythm by hitting beats of the given tempo of
the conversation. The speed of each head movement seems to match the overall
speed of conversation. Sometimes, rhythmic synchrony occurs in head movement
made by both participants. The occasions of these synchronized head movements
are like ‘‘dances’’ the participants perform as a demonstration of mutual cooperation and acknowledgment. They are at the same tempo making the identical
movement in synchrony and at the same speed, hitting the given beat even during
the turn-transition period. This synchronized rhythmic ensemble helps participants feel comfortable with each other. It helps them make their way through the
complex verbal entanglement of face-to-face encounters.
On head movement, I noted that ‘‘head movements in Japanese, available to
both speakers and listeners, are performed in predictable pragmatic contexts and
function in multiple domains; as continuer and transition filler on the listener’s
part, and as clause boundary, emphasis, affirmation, turn-end marker, transition
period filler, and (pre-)turn claim on the speaker’s part’’ (Maynard 1989: 189).
These functions illustrate that head movements, while performing rhythmic
ensemble, achieve a coordinated negotiative interaction. Participants must act not
Linguistic Emotivity
only in response to, but more critically, in anticipation of each other’s current and
ensuing actions.
A question may be raised: How do participants anticipate other’s and self ’s
action from each other’s perspective? To participate in conversation and to take
part in joint head movement, one must not only interpret the other’s action, but
must anticipate it, and perform simultaneously with the partner. Note here that
the meaning these simultaneous actions bring to discourse is not cognitive, but
primarily emotive and interactional. As evidenced in the awkwardness participants
normally find themselves in when taking part in disengaged conversation, the
emotive meaning attributed to synchronic actions influences the overall feelings of
communication. How, then, do participants experience emotivity in conversational interaction?
To understand this experiential and psychological process, Ichikawa’s (1975)
concepts of ‘‘empathetic conformity’’ (doochoo) and ‘‘sense-based empathetic conformity’’ (kannooteki doochoo) guide our understanding. By these terms he means
that, on the basis of bodily senses, one conforms empathetically, being guided by the
meaning of other’s action and expression. Doochoo literally means to be in synchrony
with one’s partner, or to become like the partner. In concrete terms, doochoo requires
one to first recreate the partner’s action in oneself, and to understand the meaning
behind the partner’s action. Next, based on such understanding, one predicts the
partner’s next action, and at the same time one prepares for one’s own action.
Ichikawa’s (1975) 〈empathetic conformity〉 is a principle of negotiation
between two organisms. There are two types; (1)‘‘assimilating empathetic conformity’’ (doogatateki doochoo), and (2) ‘‘complementary empathetic conformity’’
(yakuwariteki doochoo). Two dogs running may run together at the same speed, a
case of assimilating empathetic conformity. The dogs may also run by exchanging
the leading roles; one may run faster and lead, or one may run slower and follow,
yet they playfully interact, always participating in a joint activity. This is an example of complementary empathetic conformity. The negotiation of head movement discussed earlier can be explained from the perspective of empathetic
conformity. The joint head movement illustrates how participants engage in
assimilating empathetic conformity. And head movements used as a listener response are examples of complementary empathetic conformity.
In a broad sense, the 〈empathetic conformity〉 is at work whenever we interpret
messages in interaction. Consider that when an actor cries on television, a child
viewing it conforms to a similar expression. Or, when watching a boxing match, a
viewer imitates the favorite boxer’s movements. In some cases, the viewer engages
in activities beyond mere imitation. The viewer empathizes with the boxer, experiences what the boxer experiences, and when the viewer predicts what the boxer will
do, he or she conforms to the boxer’s movement. This action involves an anticipated conformity, that is, more than imitating the boxer’s action.
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
In addition, when the assimilating empathetic conformity is internalized,
complementary empathetic conformity takes place. The viewer not only conforms to the boxer, but as the viewer engages more deeply in this conforming
activity, the viewer follows the opponent’s movement, and from the opponent’s
point of view, the viewer anticipates the responding movement of the favorite
boxer. When we engage in cooperative human activity, we understand not only
our own roles and actions but also those of the partner as we sense the entire
situation in perspective. In other words, we understand other’s behavior as a part
of the whole, and behave in such a way as to complement the missing part. Such
complementary behavior relies on the understanding of the entire event as well
as the overall assessment of the place.
We participate in conversation and experience others’ verbal actions and
interpret symbolic and indexical signs based on 〈empathetic conformity〉. We are
able to understand verbal actions and linguistic signs produced by others not only
because we understand them by assimilating them into our own, but also because
we view the partner’s and our own actions in a complementary relationship. The
intimate awareness of each other’s verbal action and 〈empathetic conformity〉 to
each other’s behavior help participants to reach appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉. Obviously we may fail to achieve 〈empathetic conformity〉 and consequently
fail to arrive at appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉. However, on the basis of
certitude, we assume we can reach a mutually intended meaning, at least to the
extent that we are able to communicate in an ordinary sense. In face-to-face
conversation, participants have access to sense-based information, and this also
adds to the process of the negotiation of meaning.
Resonating with Merleau-Ponty (1962), Ichikawa (1975) emphasizes the
importance of bodily senses in the process of interpretation of meaning. In his
words:
The body that is attracted to words, and the body empathetically conforming to
the images provoked by language; such a body cannot be reduced to the sum of a
physical-chemical process. The body is the concrete, functionally operating body
that acts on and responds to the world.2 (Ichikawa 1975: 192, my translation)
Ichikawa goes further and elaborates on the importance of interaction for understanding human perception. For Ichikawa, a world dissociated from the observer’s
perspective does not exist. Whatever human beings perceive, it must be understood
as an interaction between the perceiver and the perceived. Again in his words:
The world is not an object that exists out there; it is an event generated through
our organisms’ negotiation with others. And at the same time, through the event,
my organism and the other’s organism are determined. In other words, by the fact
that I determine the world, in turn I determine my own self.3 (Ichikawa
1975: 215, my translation)
Linguistic Emotivity
The psychological interpretive process required in the Place of Negotiation theory
can be explained by the sense-based 〈empathetic conformity〉. This is particularly
the case in face-to-face conversation in which speakers directly participate. 〈Emotive meaning〉 is experienced not only as knowledge but, more importantly, as
bodily experience. And for interpreting linguistic emotivity (particularly when the
speaker is a participant), sense-based empathetic conformity provides the psychological foundation for instantiating a particular 〈negotiative meaning〉.
.
Interpreting textual emotivity
We experience various shades of emotions, such as outrage, compassion, fear,
suspense, and so on, when we read a novelistic text. How do we experience such
often intense emotions simply by reading words on a page? How does the Place of
Negotiation theory account for this mediated event? True, these emotional
experiences involve senses and bodily response, but they are not the same as those
experienced in a face-to-face encounter. As we saw in Ichikawa’s (1975) work, the
sense-based 〈empathetic conformity〉 may be internalized, and therefore, we
experience emotion through both direct and mediated means. Our interpretation,
however, requires more than 〈empathetic conformity〉, especially in reading.
Within the Place of Negotiation framework, the interpretive process, especially
of written text (e.g., novels, essays, comics, newspaper articles, and so on), is
understood as follows. In essence, the reader, in his or her desire to understand,
observes objects and events through the eyes of the narrator and/or character.
Novelistic comprehension, for example, requires that the reader share the perspective with a character or characters. In this process the reader attempts to understand, from the internal point of view of the character, the meaning negotiated
among characters. This negotiation of meaning requires a locus. More accurately,
the interpretation of text requires multiple dimensions of place, not only where
characters interact but also where the narrator and characters interact. The Place of
Negotiation theory facilitates the construal of these multiple dimensions of place.
I just touched upon the shared perspective required for textual comprehension. But the reader does not comprehend text simply by sharing the identifiable
perspective of a specific character alone. Comprehension requires a shifting of
perspectives not only among different characters but also between the narrator
and the character. The shifting of perspectives offers clues for the reader to
comprehend the relationships among characters, as well as the relationships the
narrator maintains with the various characters.
Discussing how perspectives function in human perception and understanding from cognitive psychology, Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) discuss the theory of
shiten ‘perspective, point of view’. Two fundamental points are presented. First,
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
the recognition of objects, including sense perception and concept comprehension, becomes possible by temporal and spacial shifts of the perspectives. Second,
the recognition of objects is always predicated upon a specific way in which one
takes the viewing perspective toward objects. Based on these two principles, Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) explain the process of how one cognitively and emotionally
comprehends others, especially in written text. In their words:
Comprehension of the other, including when the other is a character in a novel,
involves the process where a person transfers his or her perspective to the other.
The person tries to generate the other’s feelings and emotions from that person’s
internal perspective. In other words, it involves the process where one tries to
understand the inner state of the other’s perspective by delegating oneself to share
the other’s perspective.4 (Miyazaki and Ueno 1985: 103, my translation)
Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) further divide comprehension into two different
processes; (1) comprehension of objects and scenery, and (2) comprehension of
psychological states. For the comprehension of the former, the ‘‘perspectivized
appearance’’ (mie) becomes important; for the comprehension of the latter, the
‘‘perspective of becoming’’ (naru shiten) plays a role. The 〈perspectivized appearance〉 refers to a specific appearance of objects and scenery as viewed from a
determined perspective. When comprehending objects and scenery, readers create
an imaginary textual world, and delegate themselves into that world as imagined
(surrogate) selves. Readers station themselves in a specific viewing position within
that imagined world, and they locate the objects. When the delegated self and the
objects are located in perspective of each other, a clear image emerges as a
〈perspectivized appearance〉. By setting up the viewing position, we create a
defined perspectivized appearance, and by incorporating relevant information
provided by the text, we comprehend the meaning. Miyazaki and Ueno
(1985: 144) call this process of understanding mie senkoo hooryaku ‘optical-worldfirst strategy’ (this translation attributed to Ikegami 1996).
The perspective plays a more significant role in the comprehension of psychological states, where the ‘‘perspective of becoming’’ (naru shiten) plays a role. To
understand how a person feels (regardless of whether that person is someone real
or imagined), one needs to guess at the person’s intention, feelings, and emotion,
and to experience it oneself. Here Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) insist that one must
‘‘become the other person who possesses intention and feelings/emotions’’ (aru
mokuteki nari, shinjoo nari o motta tasha ni ‘‘natte’’ miru to yuu koto) (1985:130).
Taking this 〈perspective of becoming〉 requires that the reader delegate the imagined self to the other, and by inhabiting in this person, the reader attempts to
generate the psychological state of someone else, as if the reader were that person.
In their account of textual comprehension, Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) focus
on two types of perspectives, namely, the perspective of ‘‘seeing’’ and of ‘‘becom-
Linguistic Emotivity
ing.’’ In their view, to understand one’s partner in communication, first, one
needs to ‘‘see’’ (recognize) an approximate appearance of the world as viewed
from the partner, i.e., 〈perspective of seeing〉. Second, one re-creates the world
seen by the partner by ‘‘becoming’’ (i.e., taking the identical perspective of) the
partner, i.e., 〈perspective of becoming〉. Ultimately, understanding requires one to
‘‘become’’ like the partner.
The following example is illustrative. Quoting a Japanese director, Miyazaki
and Ueno (1985) mention how one successfully plays Hamlet. However detailed
analyses one may obtain about the character of Hamlet, the actor will not be
instructed how to act. But if one imagines the situation into which Hamlet is
placed, and speculates how Hamlet would perceive that world, one can gain a
closer understanding of his character. In other words, by sharing Hamlet’s view
toward the world, one ‘‘becomes’’ Hamlet. In order to gain empathetic understanding, one must imaginatively inhabit the very body that experiences thought
and emotion in the imagined place. In sum, when reading a novel, the reader
sends out, as it were, an imaginary self to travel through the story under the
narrator’s guidance. The reader finds oneself placed within the imaginary place,
seeing and experiencing the world just as narrators and characters do.
Also relevant to the point made here is the art of detached seeing, an approach
praised in traditional Japanese performing art. According to Nakamura (1987), the
Noh master, Seami, described the art of the Noh drama as the following. To
perform masterfully, the Noh actor must be able to see himself from the audience’s
perspective, as if borrowing others’ eyes. Although physically one is unable to see
one’s back, one must be able to ‘‘see’’ it, because by seeing through detached eyes,
one understands one’s own performance. Here, the idea of shared perspectives (or
more accurately, being able to see oneself from someone else’s perspective and
consequently sharing perspectives) becomes essential. Although the idea of shared
perspectives is not limited to the interpretation of Japanese text, the relative
importance placed in Japanese aesthetics is supportive of the point made here.
It should be noted that in interpreting the written text, 〈empathetic conformity〉 is also at work. The conversational interaction among characters needs to be
understood through 〈empathetic conformity〉; it operates as a part of the process
to gain access to the 〈perspectivized appearance〉 and to experience the 〈perspective of becoming〉.
. Interpretation and tacit knowledge
At this point, a question may be raised as to whether or not interpretive principles
discussed above are culture-specific. Although I cite Japanese scholars such as
Ichikawa, Miyazaki and Ueno, there is no doubt that these scholars are influenced
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
by Western scholarship, and therefore, these theories are not necessarily specific to
Japanese academic discourse. Just as meaning emerges as an intermediary in the
negotiative process, much knowledge results from mediation of available knowledge that may be traced to multiple branches of Western and non-Western
scholarly traditions.
In fact, Ichikawa (1975:113) comments in a footnote that his concept of
〈conformity〉 (doochoo) is an extension of Minkowski’s (1970) ‘‘syntony.’’ According
to Minkowski, ‘‘syntony alludes to the principle that allows us to vibrate in unison
with the environment’’ (1970:73). Sympathy may be considered a representative of
syntony, although it is not the same; sympathy is a manifestation of syntony.
Minkowski points out, from the perspectives of existential-phenomenological
psychiatry and psychotherapy, that our sense of well-being is linked to the feeling of
being like our partners, and to be in tune with each other. Minkowski’s idea that we
vibrate in unison with other persons is key to understanding Ichikawa’s 〈empathetic
conformity〉. 〈Empathetic conformity〉 provides the psychological motivation for
speaker and partner to participate in the intersubjective negotiation of meaning.
Likewise, Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) base their theory of perspectives on the
concept developed elsewhere, i.e., Polanyi’s (1983) ‘‘tacit knowledge.’’ Polanyi’s
tacit dimension of knowledge is key to understanding Miyazaki and Ueno’s
optical-world-first interpretive strategy. That is to say, a tacit knowledge provides
an answer to the following question: How do we successfully gain 〈perspectivized
appearance〉, and more importantly, how does the 〈perspectivized appearance〉
enable us to interpret our partner’s inner feelings and emotions, thus leading to
shared perspectives?
According to Polanyi (1983), tacit knowing involves two items; (1) first
(proximal) term, and (2) second (distal) term. How these two terms of knowing
are related to each other offers clues for the optical-world-first strategy.
Polanyi (1983) refers to an psychological experiment of ‘‘shock syllables.’’ In
this experiment, the subject was presented with a large number of nonsense
syllables, and at certain syllables, the subject received an electric shock. The
subject showed symptoms of anticipating the shock at the sight of ‘‘shock syllables’’, yet the subject could not identify those syllables. The shock syllables and
shock associations form the first (proximal) term of knowing, and the electric
shock which followed them form the second (distal) term of knowing. Note here
that we know the shock-producing particulars only by relying on our own
awareness of them by attending to something else, i.e., the electric shock, and
therefore, our knowledge is tacit. In short, ‘‘we know the first term only by relying
on our awareness of it for attending to the second’’ (1983: 10). Polanyi continues
that ‘‘in an act of tacit knowing we attend from something for attending to
something else; namely, from the first term to the second term of the tacit
relation’’ (1983: 10, original emphasis).
Linguistic Emotivity
It is true that we often sense the distal knowledge more vividly. For example,
when we drive a nail, we attend to both nail and hammer, but in a different way.
The hammer is not, like the nail, an object of our attention; it is simply an
instrument. Although it is the hammer that our hand holds, we do not watch the
hammer itself. We watch the nail, while keeping intensely aware of the hammer.
In fact, we ‘‘sense’’ the nail going into wood. This sensation is distal, but through
this focused distal knowledge, the person understands the feelings of one’s own
hands. What one feels is difficult to approach directly, but through distal, and
often through more concrete knowledge, one is capable of experiencing the
feeling. In other words, one’s proximal knowledge is dependent on the distal
knowledge.
Miyazaki and Ueno (1985) maintain that their optical-world-first strategy
works because of this characteristics of knowledge. The 〈perspectivized appearance〉 functions as distal knowledge, enabling the interpretation of proximal
knowledge. More fundamentally, it may be said that human knowledge is mediated by way of distal but often concrete knowledge. The process of interpretation
is mediated in that immediate and concrete experiences, although these experiences themselves are not emotions, evoke inner feelings associated with them.
Interpretation of feelings is circular, or ricochet-like in that those feelings are
recalled by way of something concrete, only to be interpreted in a specific place.
In this sense, both Ichikawa’s 〈empathetic conformity〉 and Miyazaki and Ueno’s
〈perspectivized appearance〉/〈perspective of becoming〉 are dependent on the
mechanism of tacit knowledge.
In sum, the idea that we reach our own inner (and often personal) feelings
through something concrete is not limited to Japanese academic discourse. And
the interpretive theories incorporated into the Place of Negotiation theory are not
necessarily particular to Japan. It should be noted in passing that as I discuss in
Chapter 6, the rhetorical figure of futaku, the idea originating in Japanese poetics
of waka, resonates with the mechanism of Polanyi’s tacit knowledge.
At the same time, I must remind the reader of the culture-based nature of
knowledge. Perspective-based understanding and empathy-based conformity
incorporated into the Place of Negotiation theory are supported by sensus communis, and in turn, reinforce particular cultural sentiment as a part of the Japanese
sensus communis.
.
Between cognition and emotion
Now, for the comprehension of visual text, such as movies and television dramas,
our visual focus plays a part. We often expect certain sequencing of events,
primarily because our cultural knowledge endorses that certain events follow
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
certain others. This expectation often influences how we experience emotion. This
is because we integrate cognition and emotion as we incorporate the knowledge of
event sequences into psychological and emotional understanding.
For comprehension of the visual text, neither Ichikawa’s 〈empathetic conformity〉 nor Miyazaki and Ueno’s 〈perspective of becoming〉 provide sufficient
explanation. In addition to these concepts, Carroll’s (1997, 1998) concept of
assimilation is necessary. Carroll (1997) launches his argument by criticizing the
simulation theory of comprehension. According to Carroll, simulation theory is
‘‘the hypothesis that we predict, understand and interpret others by putting
ourselves in their place, that is to say, by adopting their point of view.’’ Ichikawa’s
as well as Miyazaki and Ueno’s positions fall under this label in that the participant/reader identifies with a character by going through a mental simulation of
the partner’s/character’s situation. The participant/reader imagines the partner’s/character’s situation and then through this imagery he or she is better able
to vicariously undergo the partner’s/character’s experience.
Carroll (1997) claims that an alternative view is necessary. That is, we respond
emotionally to fiction from the outside, as an observer of the situation and not, as
simulation theory suggests, as a participant in the situation. For example, when a
female character is about to be ambushed, we fear for her. But in this circumstance, we do not imagine ourselves to be her and then experience ‘‘her’’ fear.
That is to say, we understand the character’s mental situation as outside observers
as we assimilate our perception of the character’s mental state into our overall
response, ‘‘as a sort of onlooker’’ (1997: 391). Thus he concludes that ‘‘(R)ather
than centrally imagining that we are the character, we adopt the stance of an
observer or an onlooker and form an overall emotional response to the situation
in which the character finds herself ’’ (1997: 397).
Based on this theory of assimilation, regarding interpretation of emotion,
Carroll (1998) explains his position in the following way. As background, Carroll
criticizes Plato’s view on (mass) art, particularly the view on how emotion
functions. According to Carroll, Plato believed that the arts ‘‘undermine the rule
of reason, both in the individual and, in consequence, in society’’ (1998: 250).
Plato was concerned that drama in particular was inexorably bound to promote
emotion over reason. But, Carroll argues, in contemporary psychology, it is more
common to understand that reason and emotion are not opposed, and that reason
is a constituent of emotion.
Consider, Carroll suggests, that unless there is someone or something that you
direct your emotion toward, one cannot be said to be in an emotional state.
Emotional states are linked to certain sources; you are afraid of war. What links
our internal feelings to external objects and events is our cognitive states. Thus,
emotion and cognition are not separate, but they interact. In fact, emotional states
cognitively organize our perception of the situation. Emotion organizes a situa-
Linguistic Emotivity
tion, in such a way that it foregrounds certain details ‘‘in a special phenomenological glow’’ (1998: 262).
Carroll continues. Texts containing scenes that cause emotional reaction are
‘‘criterially prefocused’’ (1998: 264) and criterially prefocused texts give rise, in the
right circumstances, to ‘‘emotive focus’’ (1998: 265) in the audience. Emotive
focus refers ‘‘both to the way in which the emotional state of the reader, listener,
or viewer fixes but also shapes her attention’’ (1998: 265). In Carroll’s (1997, 1998)
view, our emotional involvement with the visual text comprises this criterially
prefocused scene plus certain concerns or attitudes toward the focused situation.
This suggests that narrative structure, especially the sequencing of events, can
enlist a viewer about the way a story might develop. Audiences (who share common sociocultural background) show preferences about how a story should
evolve. Emotions are aroused when the character follows (or does not follow) the
course of the event in the way the audience follows.
Carroll (1998) explains that, particularly in mass art, a technique called
‘‘point-of-view editing’’ is used to make use of the ‘‘emotive focus.’’ Point-of-view
editing is a widely used technique of the cut in contemporary television. By
appealing to common and often observed emotions, the point-of-view technique
uses two images; (1) the point/glance shot, and (2) the point/object shot. The
point/glance shot involves a character in the act of looking at something, often off
screen, with emotional expression. The point/object shot then follows, showing
the audience what the character sees. For example, a surprise look on the character’s face is followed by a blood-stained knife thrown on the floor. The juxtaposition of these two shots, through 〈emotive focus〉, arouses expected emotion in the
audience.
In the situation above, there is no need to describe the character’s emotion,
say, by emotive words. Instead, the audience understands the sequencing of events
(in the case of the knife and the surprise, a cause-effect relationship) through
cognition- and emotion-based knowledge. Note that the simulation theory of text
interpretation in its narrow sense is not sufficient to explain this phenomenon.
The audience, as an onlooker, must figure out how to make sense of what is
focused on by assimilating both information and emotion.
From the perspective of the Place of Negotiation theory, then, three complementary approaches are necessary for the interpretation of 〈negotiative meaning〉;
(1) sense-based 〈empathetic conformity〉, (2) shared perspectives motivated by the
optical-world-first strategy (including 〈perspectivized appearance〉 and 〈perspective of becoming〉), and (3) 〈emotive focus〉.
It should be reminded that all these interpretive processes remain under
cultural influence. And how they come to operate concretely is dependent on
sensus communis. Recall that sensus communis means multiple things; a means
connecting body and mind, a bridge connecting thought and sense, or cognition
Locating and interpreting emotive meanings
and emotion, and a force organizing and integrating senses whose process requires
a rational process. And above all, the sense-to-concept process is experienced not
only by an individual, but also by a group of people. In this volume, these
approaches are put into practice through the interpretive process of uncovering
linguistic emotivity that is always emergent in Japanese cultural discourse.
Chapter 6
Topic–comment, futaku,
and the Rhetoric of Pathos
It is fair to say that the Place of Negotiation theory is a product based on observed
fundamental features of the Japanese language. This chapter discusses one of the
characteristics of the Japanese language most critical to the Place of Negotiation
theory, that is, the topic–comment dynamic. This chapter also describes the
overall rhetorical preference observed in Japanese discourse, which I call ‘‘Rhetoric
of Pathos.’’
The Rhetoric of Pathos is supported, in part, by the topic–comment dynamic,
and therefore, understanding such dynamic is critical. The significance of the
topic–comment dynamic extends further in that it provides context in which the
concept of futaku is appreciated. Both the topic–comment dynamic and the
expressivity of futaku require place-based negotiation of meaning, and such
necessity provides further evidence for the centrality of place in Japanese discourse. Ultimately, Japanese emotivity is predicated upon the realization and
appreciation of place. And in this place, the experience of 〈feeling self 〉 is indirectly shared through the topicalized target of futaku, followed by personal
commentary.
.
The significance of the topic–comment dynamic
Needless to mention, every language is, in a broad sense, equipped with the
subject–predicate propositional structure. This structure often coincides with the
[agent-does] description. Preference to this propositional description, however,
differs across genres as well as across languages. In some languages (e.g., Japanese
which is considered both subject–predicate and topic–comment prominent,
attributed to Li and Thompson [1976]), the topic–comment relationship becomes
relatively more important than, say, in English. The relative importance of the
topic–comment dynamic in Japanese is evidenced in the documentable structure
of the Japanese language, as well as through its practice in discourse.
Few areas within the field of Japanese linguistics have generated as much
research and controversy as the topic–comment (or, thematic) relationship,
especially as it relates to the topic marker wa. In traditional language studies,
scholars have identified wa using a variety of terms. Among them kakarijoshi ‘(lit.)
Linguistic Emotivity
relational particle’ is perhaps one of the most widely used. Different functions of wa
have also been proposed in association with and in contrast with other grammatical
features. For example, according to Yamazaki (1965), wa serves the function of
mentioning the items to be explained as well as the function of emphasizing. Mio
(1948) associates wa with handanbun ‘sentence of judgment’ while Miura (1976)
characterizes wa as expressing a universal phenomenon. It is through Kuno’s (1972,
1973) study of wa, however, that topic marking (or thematization) and wa have
become the focus of many scholars’ inquiries outside Japan. (See, for example,
contributions appearing in Hinds, Maynard and Iwasaki [1987].) Kuno, incorporating the Praguean concept of theme-rheme and given-new information, introduced
functional terms associated with wa, e.g., ‘‘anaphoric wa,’’ ‘‘wa for generic noun
phrases,’’ ‘‘noun phrases of unique reference,’’ ‘‘thematic wa,’’ and ‘‘contrastive wa.’’
In my earlier studies (Maynard 1980, 1981, 1987b), I analyzed discourse
functions of wa in the Japanese narrative and argued that wa is a ‘‘staging’’ device
through which the narrator manipulates characters on the narrative stage in terms
of the degree of centrality and the mode of appearance. I have repeatedly argued
that the topic–comment relationship is central to Japanese grammar and discourse
in narratives (1980, 1981, 1987b), in conversations (1989), and in other text
genres as well (1992, 1997 f).
In making a case for the centrality of the topic–comment dynamic in Japanese, the first order of business is defining the concept of topic. Although the
working definition of topic, i.e., topic is what the sentence is about, may capture
the raw essence of its function, further elaboration is necessary. Such elaboration
is particularly useful for highlighting the fundamental difference in preferences
between the subject-centered and topic-centered communication.
The concept of topic (or, theme) is notoriously elusive and previous studies
have defined it in a variety of ways.1 The best place to start is perhaps Weil’s (1887)
work, which is believed to have influenced subsequent views of theme accepted
among the Prague Linguistic Circle scholars. Weil, in his book published as early as
1844, distinguishes two different orders that must interact as we speak, namely,
‘‘the syntactic march’’ and ‘‘the march of ideas.’’ Weil notices that ‘‘as long as
thought and word followed each other closely or immediately the very instant of
perception, the unity of speech would correspond exactly with the unity of
thought’’ (1887:29). However, when the thought is related to the past, it is necessary in the first place for the speaker and the partner to share some common
knowledge. Weil concludes that in almost everything said there is a division
between ‘‘the point of departure’’ or ‘‘the ground upon which the two intelligences
meet,’’ and ‘‘another part of discourse which forms the statement’’ (1887:29).
Mathesius, adopting Weil’s terms ‘‘point of departure’’ and ‘‘statement,’’
develops the notion of ‘‘theme’’ and ‘‘rheme.’’ According to Mathesius, theme is
the part of a sentence ‘‘known or at least obvious in the given situation’’ and
Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
‘‘from which the speaker proceeds in his discourse’’, while rheme is that part of a
sentence which ‘‘contains the actual new information to be conveyed,’’ which
‘‘substantially enriches the knowledge of the listener or hearer’’ (attributed to
Firbas [1964: 268]). More importantly, Mathesius concurs with Weil by claiming
that theme and rheme are, under normal circumstances, arranged so that theme
precedes rheme. Although individual Prague School scholars have defined theme
and rheme differently, for example, Firbas (1964, 1971) and Daneš (1974), the
fundamental tenet of the thematic relation as characterized by Mathesius has
largely remained intact.
Linguistics and related fields have produced similar notions which include
‘‘topic’’ and ‘‘topic Chinese style’’ by Chafe (1976), ‘‘given information’’ (Chafe
1976; Halliday 1967; Kuno 1972; Prince 1981; Yule 1981), ‘‘topic-framework’’
(Brown and Yule 1983), and the psycholinguistic study of the given-new contract
(Clark and Haviland 1977). Among these studies two major approaches to the
notion of theme (or, topic) are advanced. The first is the thematic referent
approach in which theme is defined as something that is talked about, which
represents the same line of thought with the Prague School. Studies such as
Halliday and Hasan (1976), for example, represent this approach in that the
cohesion relation is identified as a tie between the earlier-mentioned referent and
the information associated with it. Likewise, Clark and Haviland’s (1977) study
falls within the referent approach; their major concern lies in how old and new
information are ordered within sentences, and how information is processed when
an antecedent of old information is or is not specified on the surface level.
In contrast to this ‘‘referent’’ approach, the second view identifies topic not as
an item or a thing, but rather, as a ‘‘proposition’’ or ‘‘propositions.’’ For example,
Keenan and Schieffelin (1976: 338), in the context of conversational discourse,
define the notion of topic as ‘‘the proposition (or propositions) about which the
speaker is either providing or requesting new information.’’ Van Dijk’s (1980,
1981) notion of a topical macrostructure comprises yet another view of topic from
the propositional perspective within an even broader concept. For van Dijk, topic
consists of hierarchically ordered propositions representable in tree structures.
Although in some of my previous research I have used the term ‘‘theme’’, in
this book (as I did in Maynard 1990) I am referring to the phenomenon as
‘‘topic’’ and define it in the following sense.
Theme is the element, in the form of a phrase or a proposition, that presents a
framework to which information is linked, or to which the propositions apply, and
that provides a thematic cohesion in discourse by presenting information in
accordance with the information flow from known to new. (Maynard 1994a:234)
The concept of topic as described above is similar to Chafe’s (1976). I avoid
equating topic with the initial element of a sentence (in the way Halliday [1967]
Linguistic Emotivity
does) for the following two reasons. First, as Downing (1991) makes explicit,
initial elements are not necessarily what the clause is going to talk about, but
rather, they offer a broad framework within which the clause can be interpreted.
This framework can include not only participants but also circumstantial or
situational settings. Second, although it is true that topic markers may not appear
on the surface, the Japanese language offers specific topic markers (primarily wa,
but others including mo, tte, to ieba and so on). While topical phrases and clauses
marked by topic markers often appear sentence-initially, they can and do appear
elsewhere. Thus equating directly the position of the elements with the concept of
topic is less useful in Japanese.
The concept of ‘‘topic’’ used in the current study follows the definition given
above, but with a broader application. As I explain later, I include, in this broad
concept of topic, the target of futaku, which provides topic only indirectly. Among
the target of futaku, as I explain in the course of this book, I also include visual
images which may also be considered indirect topic in the broadest sense.
At this point, I should introduce some background on the topic–comment
dynamic in traditional Japanese language studies. In Japanese studies, the issue of
topic-marking has often been discussed in the context of sentence types. Given
that sentence typology has been an important area of inquiry in Japanese language
studies, the fact that the topic–comment relation has been discussed in its context
provides partial evidence to support the significance of the topic–comment
dynamic in Japanese.
Sakuma (1940) introduces iitatebun, a sentence containing a proposition that
consists of subject and predicate. Iitatebun is divided into monogataribun ‘narrating sentence’ which contains a verbal predicate, and shinasadamebun ‘defining
descriptive sentence’ which contains a nominal predicate. Shinasadamebun is
further divided into seijookitei no bun ‘quality-defining sentence’, and
handanhyoogen no bun ‘sentence of judgmental expression’. Significantly, Sakuma
(1940) makes a qualitative distinction between verbal and nominal predicates.
Although Sakuma’s distinction is based on limited grammatical features, the
implications abound. Sakuma (1940) mentions that while ‘‘narrating sentences’’
take the grammatical particle ga, ‘‘defining descriptive sentences’’ take the topic
marker wa. This statement implies a close association between the sentence containing the wa-marked topic along with a nominal predicate with the topic–
comment dynamic, a point I will return to later.
Another scholar who proposes sentence typology as it relates to the topic–
comment dynamic is Mio (1948). As reviewed earlier, Mio categorizes Japanese
sentences into four groups; (1) genshoobun ‘sentence of immediate description’,
(2) handanbun ‘sentence of judgment’, (3) mitenkaibun ‘exclamatory sentence’,
and (4) bunsetsubun ‘sentence with topical ellipsis’. Of these four categories,
genshoobun ‘sentence of immediate description’ and handanbun ‘sentence of
Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
judgment’ correspond to Sakuma’s monogataribun ‘narrating sentence’ and
shinasadamebun ‘defining descriptive sentence’, respectively. Mio contends that
there is a qualitative difference in how one perceives a phenomenon and how one
expresses one’s thought between genshoobun and handanbun. Mio (1948) characterizes these two sentence types as follows.
Genshoobun:
1. It is syntactically characterized by the structure [NP ga VP], where VP
includes present progressive forms or past tense forms;
2. It is a sentence that represents a phenomenon as it is, and the phenomenon perceived and reflected is arrived at without the process of judgment;
3. There is no gap between the phenomenon and its descriptive expression;
4. Since there is no subjective view to intrude between the phenomenon and
the expression, there is no responsibility on the part of the user of
genshoobun with regard to content.
Handanbun:
1. It is syntactically characterized by the structure [NP wa NP da];
2. It is a sentence that expresses a judgment in a proposition such as [A
equals B].
The structural difference Mio observes between these two types of sentences is
especially significant, since he claims that the topic relation in Japanese is realized
by handanbun. Although the study of topic to date, especially in the West, has
centered around the information status of phrases and clauses, it is important to
realize that in Japanese the topic–comment dynamic is realized, in part, in terms
of sentence structures often directly associated with different types of expressivity.
Given that, in Japanese sentence typology, the defining descriptive sentence
(shinasadamebun) and the sentence of judgment (handanbun) take the nominal
predicate and they are considered as important as verbal sentences, it is not
difficult to identify the Japanese preference toward nominals and nominal
predicates. In my earlier study (1997a) I made a case for the Japanese preference
toward the structure identified as [encapsulation-of-happening followed by
commentary]. Japanese rhetoric often prefers the organization of the speaker’s
descriptive target as an event or a happening (dekigoto) followed by his or her
response and/or comment to it. The speaker’s central concern lies in sharing, as an
experience, the happening as a topic followed by his or her emotional attitude
toward it. This combination is compatible with the topic–comment structure in
that it frames the [agent-does] proposition within itself. By encapsulating a
propositional content as a happening, that is to say, by incorporating and condensing information into a conceptual unit through nominalization, it becomes
easier to define it as a given topic, and thus facilitates the topic–comment organization. Instead of verbalizing one’s descriptive world according to the [agent-does]
Linguistic Emotivity
structure, the Japanese speaker has a means for expressing the experience through
a sequencing structure that foregrounds the topic followed by comment. And,
returning to Sakuma’s (1940) point mentioned earlier, this topic–comment
dynamic is often structurally realized by the nominal sentence with a wa-marked
phrase.
Let me broaden the discussion to the characteristics of the Japanese language
that further clarify the preference toward presenting the topic as the
[encapsulation-of-happening]. Ikegami (1981, 1988, 1991) proposes that Japanese
is a BECOME-language in contrast to a DO-language such as English. The Japanese
language describes the world as a changing state as a whole, while the English
language describes active events where an agent acts on or with others. In Japanese
text, Ikegami continues, ‘‘(a)n individuum is not seen in isolation; it is not clearly
separated from what it stands contiguous with’’ and ‘‘(I)t is merely a part of a
larger whole, with which it may become merged to the extent of losing its identity’’
(1988:9). Given Ikegami’s characterization of the Japanese language, it seems
reasonable to expect that a Japanese rhetoric fosters focus on the whole event, as
opposed to the English rhetorical style that enjoys explicit focus on the individuum.
In short, in Japanese, the event (dekigoto) as a whole often becomes the
primary focus of attention, while in English the pivotal point of expression often
falls upon an agent. Japanese expression shows preference toward koto ‘event as a
whole’, while English expression tends to focus on mono ‘object, thing’. This
preference also helps the establishment of topic and helps realize shared perspectives. Topic defines the target of the perspective, making it easily identifiable, and
comment conveys how the speaker feels. By sharing similar perspectives, speaker
and partner are psychologically aligned, so to speak, sharing common feelings.
Significantly, in this rhetorical movement no descriptive words are necessary for
expressing emotion. Instead, topics are borrowed so that the speaker and the
partner share feelings through them. Topics provide, as Weil (1887) stated long
ago, the ground where two minds (and hearts) meet. The rhetoric of [encapsulation-of-happening followed by commentary] is compatible with the interpretive
processes reviewed earlier, such as Ichikawa’s (1975) sense-based 〈empathetic
conformity〉, as well as Miyazaki and Ueno’s (1985) 〈perspectivized appearance〉
and 〈perspective of becoming〉.
.
Rhetorical figure of futaku
. Emotivity of futaku
One way of expressing emotivity in Japanese is the use of exclamatory expressions.
Curiously, some of the Japanese exclamative expressions require a specific kind of
Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
interpretation, that is, the rhetorical figure of futaku. But, first, let me focus on
Japanese exclamatives. Recall Yamada’s (1936) kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive
phrase’ as opposed to his juttai no ku ‘descriptive phrase’. Following up on
Yamada’s position on the vocative-exclamative nature of certain Japanese expressions, Onoe (1986) advances further this thought on kantai.
By applying kantai and juttai to contemporary Japanese exclamatory expressions, Onoe (1986) discusses five different types of exclamatory expressions in
Japanese; (1) exclamatory phrase (e.g., Waa! ‘Wow!’), (2) independent nominal
(e.g., Nezumi! ‘Mouse!’), (3) sense/perception adjectives (e.g., Itai! ‘Ouch!’), (4)
the adjective and noun combination (e.g., Aoi sora! ‘(What) a blue sky!’), and (5)
adjectival sentence (e.g., Sora ga aoi! ‘The sky is so blue!’). In characterizing
exclamatory expressions, Onoe (1986) points out that in each case koto ‘event as
a whole’, rather than mono ‘object, thing’, is presented with surprise/emotional
reaction. Even when an independent noun appears, more than a mere reference is
intended; Nezumi! ‘Mouse!’, for example, means exclamative amazement ‘Wow!
(I see) a mouse!’. Although an expression such as Sora ga aoi! ‘The sky is so blue!’
is, in terms of its structure, just like a sentence of juttai (in that it represents a
subject–predicate structure), when such an expression is used to convey surprise,
it is interpreted as an exclamatory expression.
To my immediate interest is the nominal expression such as aoi sora, which
Yamada called kantai no ku. Sora ‘sky’ in Aoi sora! ‘(What) a blue sky!’ offers what
Onoe (1986) calls the center of emotive meaning (jooi no chuukaku). As in the case
of Yamada, Onoe recognizes the role that nominal expression plays in presenting
the target of emotional experience. More critically, Onoe (1986) recognizes
contemporary Japanese exclamatory expressions that take nominal elements such
as shiteiru watashi desu ‘such is myself!’ and koto da naa ‘how . . . it is!’. True, Onoe
points out that since in these expressions the use of da is expected, they could be
considered juttai, but Onoe clearly recognizes emotivity in these expressions.
Significantly, the emotivity suggested above operates in the manner similar to
the Japanese traditional rhetoric of futaku. According to Amagasaki (1988),
futaku, ‘(lit.) committing, referring to’, is a method for expressing one’s feelings by
borrowing something concrete. In the art of Japanese waka, one strategy is to
avoid directly stating what one feels (for example, by using an expression such as
‘‘I am sad’’); rather, one borrows something else and presents it to be seen by
others. Only by reference to something concrete (often items taken from nature,
such as cherry blossoms, the moon, or a dewdrop), one is able to express one’s
emotion indirectly, and thus more movingly. If one is sad, the moon is seen as
being sad. By presenting a sad moon, the poet hopes that the reader will see the
moon from the same emotional perspective. Amagasaki suggests that if presented
with the poet’s direct expression of emotion, it is difficult to empathize, but if
presented with an object or image that reflects the same emotion, one will ‘‘see the
Linguistic Emotivity
object with the same eye’’ (onaji me de miru) (1988: 120). Because of the shared
seeing of visual images from shared perspectives, Amagasaki (1988) concludes that
interpretation is, in essence, a shared experience. Similar to Miyazaki and Ueno’s
(1985) concept of shared perspectives, Amagasaki takes the position that this
alignment of perspectives is key for appreciating waka.
Although the rhetorical method of futaku is introduced in the context of waka
poetry, I contend that a similar rhetorical strategy is at work in the case of
ordinary language. The topic–comment structure is just such a dynamic. It
facilitates the nominalized topic to be presented as a target of futaku, in association with which the speaker’s personal feelings are expressed. True, the topic in an
ordinary discourse is not necessarily a source of analogy or metaphor as in the
poetics of waka. However, the strategy of encapsulating an event as a topic and
then adding comment to it in an ordinary discourse brings forth the futaku-like
effect. Topic itself does not directly describe or explain the feeling; it is borrowed
so that the common ground may be established. It is as if the topic were cast into
place, not unlike an object (say, a flower), toward which the speaker’s and the
partner’s perspectives are aligned. In the way I explained in my earlier study
(Maynard 1999b) as well, through this aligned perspective, the speaker and the
partner share feelings that ricochet back from the object.
Recall Miyazaki and Ueno’s (1985) optical-world-first interpretive strategy.
Recall also Polanyi’s (1983) tacit dimension of knowledge. In both cases, deep
meanings are felt and feelings are experienced not directly, but by attending to
something else. By looking at something in terms of 〈perspectivized appearance〉,
we are able to experience and feel deep emotion. By attending (from proximal
deep feelings) to something concrete and distal, we feel a proximal sensation. By
focusing on the topic, which is distant from the feeling itself, we are able to
experience feelings close to our hearts.
It is true that when the [agent-does] structure is used, the perspective alignment also takes place, but in a way different from the topic–comment dynamic.
The [agent-does] structure encourages the partner to view the same grammatical
subject from the same perspective. Metaphorically, both speaker and partner
direct their attention to the focused elements found in the event, looking in the
same direction, without the ricochet effect suggested above. Here, the information
itself becomes primary, and consequently, there is less awareness that the speaker
and partner share perspectives together as they anchor their focus on a common
emotional target of futaku.
Not unlike the poetics of futaku, the topic–comment dynamic facilitates the
speaker’s desire not to straightforwardly describe emotion. Although no words
describe emotion, by avoiding the primacy of the [agent-does] description, the
topic–comment structure foregrounds something else. And this alternative focus
is the shared emotion such as exclamation and feelings of being deeply moved.
Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
Thus, futaku applied in an ordinary discourse encourages less focus on the
〈informational meaning〉, and instead, guides participants to intensely focus on the
〈emotive meaning〉. I will be using the expression ‘‘futaku effect,’’ in this broad
sense of futaku-like effect applicable to ordinary discourse.
Still, the reader may ask the reason why the indirect roundabout strategy of
borrowing something else is more effective in linguistic emotivity. Perhaps I should
quote from Fujitani (1986 [1817]) to clarify a tradition of Japanese poetics. Fujitani
uses the word toogo ‘figure of saying-the-opposite’ to describe the poetics of futaku.
The figure of toogo ‘saying-the-opposite’ refers to, for example, saying ‘‘not going’’
when you mean ‘‘going,’’ and saying ‘‘not seeing’’ when you mean ‘‘seeing.’’ These
examples refer to saying-the-opposite in reference to facts, but the figure of sayingthe-opposite also operates in terms of emotion as well. That is, not to say what one
feels, but to create some other words unexpectedly. These cases of saying-theopposite are what I mean by toogo. It is almost always the case that people are
against my own inner feelings (or, hold feelings opposite to mine). Therefore, using
purposely the figure of saying-the-opposite is an exquisitely skillful strategy for the
purpose of making people conform with my feelings. This logic should be carefully
and appreciatively observed. Because of this reason, ancient people, when expressing their feelings, did not refer to them directly, but attached words to items taken
from nature (lit. flower-bird-wind-moon) which themselves are muted and do not
speak of their feelings.2 (Fujitani 1986 [1817]: 766–7, my translation)
. Poetics of kakarimusubi
The rhetoric of futaku requires isolation of topic, and optionally, attachment of
the speaker’s comment. In other words, one engages in the rhetoric of disconnection, followed by connection. Through this dynamic, futaku promotes a kind of
poetic suspense. To understand this poetic phenomenon further, let me turn to
the concept of kakarimusubi ‘particle/adverb-predicate correspondence’ in
Japanese (classical) poetics. Kakari is literally translated as ‘relationship, correlation’ and musubi literally means ‘tying, knotting, or concluding’. Kakarimusubi is
a concept that has occupied an important place in the history of Japanese language studies. In the most general and perhaps most accepted sense, kakarimusubi
refers to the following phenomenon of classical Japanese grammar.
Following Yoshida (1971), during the Nara period (710–794 ad) there existed
eight different kinds of kakarijoshi ‘relational particles’, i.e., wa, mo, ya, ka, zo,
namo, koso, and na. Of these, wa and mo signal emphasis, ya and ka are interrogative particles, while zo, namo, and koso function as demonstrative emphatic
particles, and na marks the intent of prohibition. In classical Japanese, when a
kakarijoshi appears within a sentence, the predicate takes a specific corresponding
verb form; (1) wa and mo take sentence-final predicate form, (2) ya, ka, zo, and
Linguistic Emotivity
namo change the endings into pre-nominal forms, and (3) koso takes the classical
verb form of izenkei, the predicate form assigned to koso. During the Kamakura
period (1192–1333 ad) and the Muromachi period (1392–1573 ad), however,
these predicate correspondences have declined, and consequently sentence-final
predicate forms have mostly replaced pre-nominal and izenkei forms.
In modern Japanese the kakarimusubi phenomenon in its surface form has
practically disappeared. However, the fundamental rhetorical effects of
kakarimusubi are still observed in contemporary Japanese. Indeed, some Japanese
language scholars have stressed the importance of the concept of kakarimusubi
surviving in Japanese poetics (e.g., Morishige 1971; Oono 1993; Tokuda 1982;
Yoshida 1971). These scholars suggest that the kakarimusubi dynamic enacts (and
symbolizes) essentially emotive aspects of the Japanese language and communication, and claim that particles such as wa, mo, koso, teba, and so on in contemporary Japanese retain the nature of classical kakarimusubi.
For example, Tokuda (1982) emphasizes the importance of kakarimusubi in
the following way.
We must encourage the understanding of the attitudinal essence that lurks behind
grammatical concordance and agreement. This (kakarimusubi) is not limited to
objective, mechanical, and formal phenomena nor to the semantic aspects. It
involves an aspect of the speaker’s (emotional and evaluative) attitudes, and refers
to a dynamic psychological interrelationship and correspondence. Therefore, one
must place importance not only on its (kakarimusubi’s) objective mechanical
formal features, but also on the effects of psychological emotional moods it
realizes.3 (Tokuda 1982: 410–11, my translation)
The relationship between the kakarijoshi ‘relational particle’ and its corresponding
predicate is not simply a formal one. A dynamic force is created between these
two linguistic elements by once pausing for a moment, and then responding to it
in the corresponding commentary. Not unlike Fujitani’s (as explained in Nakada
and Takeoka [1960]) echoing, this force influences the tone of the entire sentence,
where rich psychological and emotional nuances reverberate throughout.
The nature of kakarimusubi as discussed by Morishige (1971) offers additional
insight into the understanding of how the topic–comment dynamic works. Morishige uses the expression ‘‘kakarimusubi-style disjunction-conjunction relationship’’
(kakarimusubiteki danzoku kankei) (1971:182), and explains that important
rhetorical effects can be traced to the sentential elements that simultaneously
disconnect (and being disconnected) and connect (and being connected). Among
disconnecting-connecting relations, Morishige includes not only the logical
subject–predicate relationship but also the subjective poetic effect, especially the
relationship observed between kami no ku (the first 17 moras that appear in the
first three lines) and shimo no ku (the remaining 14 moras in the last two lines) of
Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
the Japanese waka poetry. The phenomenon noted here can be considered a case of
the topic–comment dynamic in a broad sense. Just as the topic–comment dynamic
demonstrates the simultaneous disconnection and connection between the topic
and comment within a sentence, by foregrounding the nonpropositional relation,
the kakarimusubi relation provides a dynamic force to realize the topic–comment
dynamic in an extended poetic text. And ultimately, the topic offers the target of
futaku, and comment, the speaker’s commentary. In this process of disconnection
and connection, the element of emotivity becomes foregrounded, and the [agentdoes] propositional meaning recedes into the background.
.
Rhetoric of Pathos
Many features of Japanese grammar and discourse, most prominently the
topic–comment dynamic discussed above, seem to be motivated by a preference
for recognizable sensus communis. Many of the characteristics of the Japanese
discourse I have reported in my earlier studies and those features to be revealed in
this volume are not products of pure coincidence. At the foundation of these
features exists a fundamental force in Japanese discourse that pulls the language
toward a certain way of emotive expressivity. Among these features, some are
more basic in that they provide a latent force for skewing language in certain
ways. Others provide overt devices that linguistically express the skewed preference. Together they provide empirical evidence for what I have termed Rhetoric
of Pathos. (See Maynard 1997a for further explanation.)
In Japanese, although the subject–predicate relationship surfaces in many
utterances, in many others, they recede into the background. Utterances take on
the topic–comment structure, although topic and comment often may not be
explicitly presented. The nominalization and nominal predicate together provide
a prominent case where an overt topic–comment structure is observed, especially
when nouns encapsulating events are used. Other features further supporting the
Japanese preference toward Rhetoric of Pathos include fluid methods of quotation
and an abundance of self-expressions offering the speaker’s personal commentary
(e.g., interactional particles, sentential/modal adverbs, attitudinal markers,
emotive da, emotive interrogatives, and so on).
All these characteristics point toward an image of language and rhetoric that
reinforces the importance of the relationship between the 〈feeling self 〉 and the
partner, both suspended within the place. Topics are created by delineating and
encapsulating events by strategies such as nominalization and quotation. The
comment is offered as a self-expression to appeal to the partner, which in turn
encourages a shared emotional feeling between the speaker and partner.
It should be noted that a Rhetoric of Pathos and its opposite, a Rhetoric of
Linguistic Emotivity
Logos, are not mutually exclusive and do not directly correspond to specific
languages. The preference/dispreference toward either rhetoric is likely to exist
across genres within a single language, although cross-linguistic differences are
also expected. This said, let me, for clarification purposes, summarize the characteristics of a Rhetoric of Pathos in contrast with a Rhetoric of Logos.
Rhetoric of Pathos
Rhetoric of Logos
Relative unimportance of language
Relative importance of language
Less trust placed in language
More trust placed in language
Relative importance of topic–comment
Primacy of subject–predicate
Comment-based logic/argumentation
Subject-based logic/argumentation
Importance of context of place
Context subordinate to text
Modality effect is critical
Propositional structure is critical
Speaker/writer offers personal commentary
Speaker/writer describes phenomenon in
terms of proposition
Concept of BECOME functional in
sentence construction
Concept of DO functional in sentence
construction
Event (dekigoto), often captured by
nominalization and quotation, and
comment toward it important
Agent (mono) and its action important
Relatively fluid and shifting/moving points
of view
Relatively rigid and consistent points of
view
Conclusion presented, if at all, at the end
of text
Conclusion often presented in the
beginning of text
Essay-like progression important in text
organization (e.g., ki-shoo-ten-ketsu)
Logical coherence important in text
organization
Sharing of personal experience important
Objective description important
Aims to sympathize, co-experience,
especially through shared perspectives
Aims to argue, persuade
In Japanese, there exists a marked tendency to mistrust the persuasive potential of
words. For example, as Barnlund (1989) characterizes, there is an introspectionist
emphasis in Japanese culture compared with Western expressionist emphasis. And
among Japanese ‘‘(T)here is a sense that reality cannot be captured in words, that
any statement about one’s inner experience inevitably will distort and oversimplify
it’’ (1989: 117).
We have already witnessed in a variety of language scholars’ works that in
Japanese, the topic–comment dynamic plays a significantly more important role
than in English. In Rhetoric of Pathos, the way to persuade others, especially in an
emotional sense, is not to explicitly argue for it; rather, through strategies such as
Topic–comment, futaku, and the Rhetoric of Pathos
futaku, a target of emotion is cast, as a topic, into the 〈topica〉, with or without
explicit commentary. Language often functions metaphorically expressing feelings
that words cannot or do not describe. And yet, in the final analysis, in many
genres one’s emotive expressivity bears critical significance.
The Rhetoric of Pathos prefers to describe events in the way that [somethingbecomes], rather than in terms of the [agent-does] structure. As Ikegami (1981,
1991) points out, the Japanese preference toward the use of naru ‘become’ is a
case in point. At the same time, the Japanese preference toward nominalization of
event (dekigoto) offers a means for constructing sentences as topic–comment,
often by making use of the topic nominalized by koto ‘event as a whole’. In
contrast, Rhetoric of Logos prefers to organize sentence and text according to the
subject–predicate structure, often explicitly and prominently displaying the
[agent-does] structure.
On the discourse level, as my earlier studies (Maynard 1996b, 1997a, 1997d)
have reported and as I discuss in detail in Chapter 15, the textual organization
follows the ordering of topic–comment as well. Often conclusive comments
appear toward the end of various units within the text, following the Japanese
rhetorical structure of ki-shoo-ten-ketsu.4 Ultimately, what Rhetoric of Pathos aims
for is not persuasion through primarily logical reasoning as in the case of Rhetoric
of Logos, but the co-experience of emotivity. Especially important in the process of
interpretation are 〈empathetic conformity〉 and shared perspectives based on the
〈perspectivized appearance〉 and the 〈perspective of becoming〉 experienced by
speaker and partner.
Different emphases placed in two types of rhetoric are reflected in the
realization of different aspects of selves as well. Rhetoric of Pathos foregrounds the
〈feeling self 〉 in contrast to Rhetoric of Logos which prioritizes the 〈thinking self〉.
The dichotomous characterization between the two rhetorical orientations
presented above rests on qualitatively different conceptualizations of knowledge.
Rhetoric of Logos is based on knowledge of logos, on the human desire to understand surrounding phenomena in orderly, hierarchical structures. Hierarchical
structural models common in formal linguistic analyses symbolize the desire for
centered organizational understanding. Moreover, such desire is fed by a contradiction between the tendency to sever linguistic signs from human perception on
one hand, and the tendency to connect linguistic signs with an objectified (and
abstract) universe on the other. These two tendencies are represented by an
ideology of arbitrariness of signs and by the practice of understanding meaning in
terms of the truth condition.
In contrast, Rhetoric of Pathos does not aim for a pursuit of Knowledge of
Logos supported by a strict and symmetrical structure. The kind of meaning
pursued through a Rhetoric of Pathos is interaction-based; it centers around
human emotions predicated upon its context. Meanings emerge through negotia-
Linguistic Emotivity
tion and they are approximated case by case. Given these different preferences, it
is perhaps reasonable to state that the Rhetoric of Pathos appeals to the Knowledge
of Pathos; indeed they are in a synergistic relationship.
Naturally, depending on genre, primacy may be placed on 〈informational
meaning〉. Legal documents and procedural manuals, for example, out of necessity, prioritize information more than the 〈emotive meaning〉. This said, in genres
investigated in this book, emotion-rich expressivity is omnipresent. It is also true
that relative importance among 〈informational meaning〉, 〈emotive meaning〉, and
〈interactional meaning〉 may shift, or may be expressed in different ways through
history. Even when these factors are taken into consideration, I maintain that
Japanese discourse shows a marked preference toward the Rhetoric of Pathos. At
its foundation, Japanese language prioritizes a means to reveal and share one’s
〈feeling self 〉.
Analysis chapters to be presented in this book offer evidence to support just
such preference in Japanese. Part 3 examines four related strategies associated with
topics in Japanese; (1) vocatives and topic-marking expressions, (2) exclamative
and emotive nominals, (3) quotative topics, and (4) emotive nan(i) ‘what’. All
these strategies present topics and topic-like elements with varied shades of
emotivity. Examining how different strategies present topics with potential
〈emotive meaning〉 and the futaku effect adds to our understanding of the
significance of the topic–comment dynamic, the centrality of place, and the
omnipresence of linguistic emotivity in Japanese discourse.
Part 4 discusses three strategies for presenting emotive comments; (1) the socalled copulative da (and ja-nai), (2) emotive interrogatives, and (3) stylistic
shifts. These strategies function to embellish comments as they further specify
relevant types and intensities of linguistic emotivity. Despite the fact that da has
been categorized as a copula, da is also a device projecting on to the 〈emotive
place〉. Interrogative sentences also express linguistic emotivity in that they
manipulate how a sense of doubt is expressed. Stylistic shifts, reflecting and
realizing the speaker’s desire to share emotion with the partner, also provide
evidence for preference toward the Rhetoric of Pathos.
Furthermore, in Part 5, I present discourse-level evidence for the Japanese
preference toward the Rhetoric of Pathos. Chapters in Part 5 reveal different
aspects of the Rhetoric of Pathos in a television drama, newspaper articles, and a
television drama series. In these chapters I illustrate that the Rhetoric of Pathos is
at work in varied ways across genres in contemporary Japanese cultural discourse.
Part 3
Emotive topics
On data for analysis
To analyze language under the Place of Negotiation theory means to aim for an
understanding of how language contributes to the negotiation of meaning. It also
aims to understand linguistic emotivity as part of an interpersonal and sociocultural experience in contemporary Japanese discourse. Observing language
phenomena, however, is not a one-way street. Such activity inevitably involves
interaction between observer and observed, between the theoretical framework
and the object of analysis. A linguist, unable to observe the totality of events,
selects certain linguistic phenomena. This selection presupposes the observer’s
theoretical position. A decision regarding what constitutes data and an identification of what the theory aims to account for are intrinsically related. Indeed, data
do not exist a priori, as ‘‘given.’’ Data are ‘‘taken’’ by a researcher because they are
expected to answer the corresponding theoretical demand.
Language involves not only the 〈thinking self〉 but also the interactional and
feeling selves. ‘‘Languaging’’ is an event participated by selves who experience both
logos and pathos. For this reason, the data selected for analysis are part of cultural
discourse, produced, enacted, consumed, and shared by the masses. The data
relevant to the Place of Negotiation theory are the totality of such cultural events,
and particularly those expressed by language and related signs.
Realistically, however, given the impossibility of capturing the totality of
evidence related to discourse, I focus on certain kinds of data. These are three
types; (1) data discussed in previous research by scholars, (2) data selected from
contemporary Japanese culture, and (3) example sentences created specifically for
the argumentation. The vast majority of data examples appearing in this volume
are those taken from Japanese discourse, and their sources are specified.
I have selected comics and fiction as my primary source of data. Comics
offer a useful research site since they provide select (and presumably significant
for the negotiation of meaning) visual signs that provide context for the
〈topica〉. In addition, the speech event is divided into frames, which isolate relevant places of communication. Actions in comics are exaggerated and dramatized, and they obviously do not provide naturally-occurring speech. However,
since relevant information is already framed by the comic artist, a researcher
can utilize that communicative frame to his or her advantage. In other words,
comics provide limited and distilled information on which the researcher can
concentrate.
Linguistic Emotivity
One may argue that linguistic analyses should be based solely on naturallyoccurring data. Such a position, however, is easier said than done. Consider that
whatever method a researcher uses, totally naturally-occurring data are impossible
to obtain. In addition to the Labovian observer’s paradox, regulations regarding
research involving human subjects render it practically impossible to record
speech events in naturally-occurring settings. In my earlier work (Maynard 1989)
I conducted research based on 40 pairs of casual conversations videotaped in
Japan and the United States. Conversational data were appropriate for the type of
analysis I conducted. Given my intention to focus on linguistic emotivity, intentionally collected data are not appropriate. People are not inclined to express
emotional outbursts in the presence of an immediate or mediated observer.
Speech events involving multiple participants at different chronological stages of
relationship are extremely difficult to document in natural settings.
Comics provide an extensive range of emotional exchanges under a variety of
sociocultural circumstances. Also, since comics highlight dramatic emotioninvolving situations, multiple cases are available in a relatively small corpus of
data. In addition, in comics, the narrator’s and characters’ inner feelings appear
outside the speech balloon, often in different fonts. These are not available in reallife communication. Human emotions otherwise inaccessible can add to the
understanding of linguistic emotivity in Japanese. For these reasons, I have chosen
14 volumes of comics. Included are romance comics for adolescent girls, action/
mystery comics targeted primarily to young male readers, and a comic series Chibi
Maruko-chan (The Little Girl Maruko) popular among the general public. Girls’
comics contain emotional situations emphasizing the character’s inner feelings.
Mystery/action comics develop plots peppered with suspense, conflict, and reconciliation, and they often feature hot-tempered action and fight scenes. Chibi
Maruko-chan depicts a wistful, sometimes humorous, take on family life surrounding a girl named Maruko, a third grader.
The second genre I chose for analysis is fiction. Fiction offers the kind of data
that complement some of the shortcomings of comics. Fiction provides conversational fragments carried out by young and mature adults representing various
walks of life. Direct quotations in novels offer sociolinguistically varied examples.
In addition, since fiction contains extensive narrative text, it can overcome the
lack of such text in comics. The narrator’s perspective explaining the verbal event
offers a useful resource for understanding the speech event. Instead of the visual
signs, often in fiction, the narrator explains the behavior and feelings of the
character, providing researchers access to the intended characteristics of the
relevant speech.
Among fiction, I chose novels (general), mystery novels, fantasy novels, and
romance novels. Novels, mystery novels, and fantasy novels provide examples of
language use practiced among (young) adults. Romance novels for adolescent girls
On data for analysis
take a distinct confessional tone, and maintain an unusual colloquial style. The
narrator (almost always female, and mostly the teen-age heroine herself) ‘‘talks to’’
the reader as if being an intimate friend secretly confessing her romance. Because of
this presumed intimacy, the narrator’s and the character’s feelings are frequently
revealed. In fact, most romance novels read as if they were personal diaries, where
uncensored, intimate emotions are exposed. I chose in all 26 volumes of novels.
In addition, for analyzing written text as an example of a Rhetoric of Pathos,
I have chosen newspaper articles. Newspaper articles provide relatively short and
yet complete pieces of text whose overall organizational principles may be
examined.
Another genre I draw from as data is television drama. I have chosen three
television programs; (1) Oda Nobunaga, a one-episode drama, (2) an 11-episode
drama series titled Majo no Jooken ‘Conditions of a Witch’, and (3) another 11-episode drama series titled Long Vacation. I also discuss, if only briefly, examples
taken from an animated version of the comic Chibi Maruko-chan, and Oooka
Echizen, a drama depicting a righteous feudal lord of the Edo period. Television
programs provide what lacks in both comics and fiction, i.e., visually observable
movements and actions, the switching of camera angles, and the consequent shifts
in perspective, and so on. These data are analyzed with different purposes, and to
different degrees of scrutiny.
Oda Nobunaga is a period drama depicting Nobunaga Oda (1534–1582), the
feudal lord of Owari, and it offers a research site where I examine emotives across
the entire episode. Language used in Oda Nobunaga should reflect the language of
the 1560s, but obviously it does not present entirely authentic speech of the 16th
century. Rather, the speech in Oda Nobunaga consists of early modern Japanese
mixed in contemporary Japanese, the speech style frequently used in period
dramas (jidaigeki). Period dramas constitute a thriving genre in Japanese fiction,
comics, television dramas, and movies, and they depict different time periods.
They use language styles with varying degrees of authenticity to the extent that are
routinely comprehended by the masses as a part of contemporary Japanese cultural
discourse. Period dramas also provide linguistic expressions less expected in
contemporary romance dramas, the genre of the other two dramas investigated in
the current work.
The two 11-episode dramas, Majo no Jooken and Long Vacation, fall into the
genre of contemporary romance drama, and are set in the 1990s of Japan. These
dramas are targeted to the general public, especially young adults. Majo no Jooken
depicts a forbidden love affair between Michi (Hirose), a 26-year-old female high
school teacher and Hikaru (Kurosawa), a 17-year-old transfer student. Majo no
Jooken provides a chronology of human emotions and corresponding changes in
speech styles. Long Vacation portrays a friendship-turning-into-love-affair
between Minami (Hayama), a boyish 31-year-old female ex-model and (Hidetoshi)
Linguistic Emotivity
Sena, a 24-year-old male pianist-to-be. Long Vacation offers a useful site for
analyzing different presentations of selves as they relate to gender and social
hierarchy. Given that stories of Majo no Jooken and Long Vacation are lengthy
and complex, their summaries are given in the Appendix. Example utterances cited
from these dramas are based on the transcript I personally made.
One may argue that the language used in television dramas is overly dramatized and is inappropriate as data for linguistic analysis. However, I maintain that
language used in popular television dramas is a part of the speech culture; a
speech created for mass consumption, and is indeed shared among the masses. As
Koyano (1996) points out, the relationship between natural speech and speech
used in Japanese contemporary television drama is bi-directional, one influencing
the other. And for this close association, I trust that dramatic discourse broadcast
in the mass media yields reasonably reliable findings about language.
To further clarify the meanings and functions of emotives, I have also chosen
discourse for which English translation is available. These include a comic
Kookaku Kidootai and its published English translation, Ghost in the Shell. Kookaku
Kidootai is a science fiction comic where a female-shaped cyborg, Major Kusanagi,
combats evil forces in an imaginary floating metropolis in Japan in the year 2029.
Also, from fictional text, I have chosen Kitchin, Tokage, and N.P, contemporary
novels by Banana Yoshimoto along with their corresponding English translations,
Kitchen, Lizard, and N.P. English translations are used for contrastive purposes
and as partial evidence to substantiate the Japanese 〈negotiative meaning〉. Let me
add that, when contrasting the Japanese original text with its translated English
text, my intention is not to criticize the quality of the translation, or the translator,
for that matter.
By examining different genres of Japanese discourse, different aspects of
linguistic emotivity are revealed. Using these texts not only as an object of analysis
but also as supporting evidence, I aim to understand the expressivity of pathos in
the Japanese language. The analytical frameworks adopted under the Place of
Negotiation theory, such as conversation analysis and discourse analysis, necessitate both qualitative and quantitative methods. Data selected for the study are
sufficient for quantitative purposes as well.
The following transcription methods and conventions are used for data
presentation. Japanese transliteration is given in phonetic orthography referred to
as the Hepburn style. In presenting double consonants, before cha, chi, cho and
chu, t is added, thus instead of icchi ‘agreement’, itchi is used. Syllabic n is written
n unless it immediately precedes a vowel, in which case it is written n’. The glottal
stop, written as small tsu in Japanese, is spelled out as tt. For long vowels, unless
conventionalized otherwise, double consonants are used. Proper nouns also follow
the transliteration method unless conventionalized otherwise. When transcribing,
not all morphemes are separated. Only those morphemes relatively prominent
On data for analysis
and/or important to the discussion are separated with glosses. English translations
accompanying Japanese data are mine, unless otherwise noted.
For comics, expressions appearing within a speech balloon are marked by 〈 〉,
and line changes are indicated by /. Although Ghost in the Shell uses capital letters
only, for legibility, I present the translation in standard style, with capital letters
used for conventional purposes. Phrases appearing in bold letters in Ghost in the
Shell are reproduced likewise. In transcribing television programs, short pauses are
marked with a comma, and the sentence-final intonation with a period. Exclamative and interrogative utterances are marked by ! and ?, respectively. Long pauses
are marked by // and the utterances impossible to transcribe are presented as (?).
My own descriptive explanations regarding visual signs are given in parentheses.
In transcribing the dialogue, the location where a speaker’s turn is taken over by
the partner is marked by =. In all Japanese data, the expression under discussion
is presented in bold letters.
Also note the following abbreviations. EMPH (emphatic morpheme), IO
(indirect object), IP (interactional particle), LK (linker that connects nominals),
NEG (negative morpheme), NOM (nominalizer), O (direct object), Q (question
marker), QT (quotation marker), S (subject marker), T (topic marker). Also note
that BE is used to gloss the so-called copulative verb da and its variants, except in
Chapter 11 where informational da and emotive da are marked separately, IF and
EM, respectively. In Chapter 9, tte marking the quotative topic is glossed as QTT,
although it is glossed as QT elsewhere. Chapter 12 contains abbreviations CQ
(commentary question), OQ (ordinary question) and SIC (stray interrogative
clause); Chapter 15 contains CS (commentary sentence); and OS (ordinary sentence). Throughout the main text in this book some of the theoretical concepts
are marked with 〈 〉.
Chapter 7
Vocatives and topics
.
Introduction
In this chapter, I explore the emotivity surrounding Japanese vocatives. Additionally, since vocatives and topic presentation function similarly in terms of emotive
effect, and since they use similar expressions and strategies, I examine certain
types of topics. This chapter reveals that vocatives and topics both express,
through the rhetoric of futaku, the speaker’s varying linguistic emotivity. Vocatives
and topics achieve emotive expressivity because they identify the target object (or
image) of futaku, providing sources for attention and emotion. Those who
experience the futaku effect are deeply moved not only by the extraordinary
feelings associated with the target of futaku, but also by the very awareness of the
fact that they experience shared perspectives. The deep emotional feelings are
sensed on the basis of interpretation through 〈empathetic conformity〉,
〈perspectivized appearance〉, and 〈perspective of becoming〉. Vocatives and topics
project on to cognitive, emotive, as well as interactional places, zeroing in on a
particular 〈topica〉. This chapter also discusses topics with and without markers,
including ‘‘floating topics’’ which provide a functional link to vocatives.
Data discussed in this chapter are taken from various genres of spoken and
written Japanese, including television dramas Majo no Jooken and Long Vacation,
comics, and romance novels. For contrastive purposes, I also touch upon Kookaku
Kidootai (Shiroo 1991) and its translation Ghost in the Shell (Schodt and Smith
1995), as well as N.P (Yoshimoto 1992a) and N. P. (Sherif 1994).
In this chapter I focus on person vocatives only, i.e., vocatives in the form of
nominals (with or without particles) that call out toward persons (including
partners and characters) relevant to the situation. It should be noted that when
vocatives are used toward the third person, or the first and the second person who
is not the addressee in physical terms, I include those as vocative cases as well.
Consider that one may call out toward a person who is not physically present at
the time of speech. I examine all cases of person vocatives, including situations
where one calls out to oneself.
Linguistic Emotivity
.
Vocatives
. Background
Perhaps one finds in Yamada (1936) the most significant work on vocatives in
Japanese linguistics. Yamada defines vocatives (kokaku) as those phrases structurally unrelated to other elements of the sentence and those that ‘‘call out and
identify the objects and partners’’ (taishoo mata wa taisha o yobikake shijisuru
katachi) (1936: 671). Vocatives are always nominal phrases, sometimes appearing
with particles, and sometimes without. Most frequently used is the vocative
addressed to the second person. Yamada continues that if the vocative involves the
third person, the vocative phrase identifies the object as ‘‘an object of emotion and
hope/desire’’ (kandoo mata wa kiboo no taishoo) (1936: 671). In Yamada’s view, the
object of emotion could very well be non-human, such as a beautiful flower.
It is interesting that Yamada (1936) touches upon vocatives in terms of
language use. Yamada points out that vocatives occur in conversation for expressing one’s emotion and desire. Calling the sentence requiring the designation of
specific conversation partner a ‘‘conversational utterance’’ (taiwa no ku), Yamada
emphasizes the pragmatic aspect of vocatives. According to Yamada, in (1),
(1) Kimi, kore wa jitsuni omoshiroi ne.
you this T really interesting ip
‘(lit. You) My friend, this is really interesting, isn’t it?’
979)
(Yamada 1936:
while kore wa jitsuni omoshiroi is a descriptive sentence, when it is used in
conversation addressed to the partner, a vocative kimi may accompany it. Thus,
when a vocative is used, the sentence is no longer a mere form of a sentence; it
becomes a conversational utterance. To our particular interest is that Yamada
(1936), by identifying the pragmatic dimension of language to which the vocatives
belong, recognizes the interactional nature of vocatives.
More recently, Ishigami (1994, 1995) discusses Yamada’s (1936) kandoo kantai
‘vocative–emotive phrase expressing deep and surging emotion’ and what is
referred to in Japanese linguistics as a one-word sentence (ichigobun). Advancing
and applying Yamada’s concept of kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’ to
contemporary Japanese, Ishigami argues that the structure of kantai is a combination of (1) expression of objectified emotivity, and (2) an item central to the
event/situation, and this combination forms an expression where ‘‘the operational
process and the existing objects involved in an organized thought are simultaneously presented’’ (matomatta shisoo no sayoomen to taishoomen ga tomoni
teijisareteiru) (1995: 7). And he adds that in contemporary Japanese, just like
Yamada’s kandoo kantai, one can capture the kantai-like expression as a combina-
Vocatives and topics
tion of emotivity and objects, i.e., modification clause plus the modified noun.
For Ishigami (1994: 77), a vocative is a one-word sentence expressing desire
(kikyuukei ichigobun), and cites examples such as Taroo! ‘Taro!’, Kimi! ‘Hey, you!’,
and Sensei! ‘Hey, teacher!’. Ishigami continues:
These expressions orient the partner toward the target of the vocative. They
enhance the individual specificity of the target by identifying the core of desire
and by directing the partner toward the target. Devices used for this purpose
include proper nouns, second person pronouns, and nouns of address. They are
nominal one-word sentences. Also by focusing on the core object of desire out of
the two elements (one is the core object, i.e., the person who performs the action,
and the other is its situation, i.e., the action), these expressions further enhance
the specificity of one’s desire. In other words, this expression of desire conveys the
speaker’s wishes for the accomplishment of some yet to be performed
action/situation on the part of the partner, and therefore, it is an action-involving
expression of desire.1 (Ishigami 1994: 77–8, my translation)
Although Ishigami’s characterization elucidates the sense of desire involved in
vocatives, I must point out that his study falls short of detailed analyses of
examples taken from real-life language in use.
. Emotivity of vocatives
Vocatives appear in varied forms. Proper nouns, personal pronouns, as well as
ordinary nouns are used with or without particles, and they appear most frequently at, but not limited to, the sentence-initial position. The phrases chosen for
vocatives indexically signal a variety of 〈emotive meanings〉. Particles accompanying vocative expressions also communicate emotive and interactional attitudes.
The very selection of vocative phrases expresses 〈emotive meanings〉 in
multiple ways. The speaker, by selecting a particular phrase, expresses in varying
degrees his or her feelings, attitude, and overall attitude (e.g., friendliness,
camaraderie, endearment, vulgarity, disdain, femininity, masculinity, and so on)
toward the person called out. This, in turn, is indexically linked to how the
speaker identifies himself or herself in relation to the person called out. This
information is useful for the negotiation of meaning in the place, because interpersonal relationships influence the 〈topica〉 where the appropriate 〈negotiative
meaning〉 is instantiated.
How a person is addressed affords an important social message, and therefore,
the choice of label may become an issue, and sometimes it is overtly negotiated.
For example, in Kookaku Kidootai, a plea is made in (2.2) not to use a certain
vocative expression.
Linguistic Emotivity
(2.1) 〈Keibiin ga ‘‘Monowasure’’/ suru no wa nijuugo
byoo da/
security S forgetting
do nom T twenty-five second be
wakatta
ka shinmai!〉
understood q newcomer
(2.2) 〈Shinmai shinmai tte/ yuu-na yo Ryookai!〉
newcomer newcomer qt say-neg ip Roger (Shiroo 1991: 26)
(3.1) 〈Their/ security’ll/ ‘‘sleep’’/ for 25/ seconds./ You got/ that,/ Kiddo/?〉
(3.2) 〈Roger,/but/knock/off the/‘‘kiddo’’/stuff,/willya/?!〉
1995: 30)
(Schodt and Smith
In the prior text of the comic, there is a mention of Hara kukuri na/ shinmai
(Shiroo 1991: 25) ‘Tough/it/out,/kiddo . . .’ (Schodt and Smith 1995: 29). The
complaint is a result of the repeated labeling of which one of Major Kusanagi’s
subordinate dissapproves. He is aware that Ishikawa characterizes him as an
inexperienced newcomer, which is precisely what causes him to react in protest.
This illustrates how labeling in vocatives promotes psychological and emotional
negotiation among interactants.
Vocative expressions shift according to the different domains of place.
Depending on who calls out in the 〈interactional place〉, the same person is
addressed differently. And naturally the same person may also address the identical target in different ways depending on how the person feels. Indeed, variability
of vocatives bears testimony to the fact that language functions in ways that
readily exceed mere descriptive purposes. Obviously, if transmitting information
in the 〈cognitive place〉 is the only function of language, there is no need to
accommodate so many different vocative expressions addressed to the same
individual.
In Kookaku Kidootai, Major Kusanagi is called Kusanagi by her boss, Shoosadono ‘Major’ by her subordinate, and histerii onna ‘hysterical woman’ by an upset
colleage, among others. (4) offers two additional expressions. In (4.1), Major
Kusanagi is called neechan ‘(lit.) elder sister’ by a hustler, and in (4.3), anesan
‘(lit.) elder sister’ (more polite than neechan) by a subordinate of the hacker
Krolden.
(4.1) hustler: 〈Neechan/ hifu no harikae/yasuu shitoku dee〉
elder.sister skin lk change cheap do
ip
(4.2) Kusanagi: 〈Usena/ sukebeyaroo〉
get.lost creep
(4.3) subordinate: 〈A-tt〉 〈Anesan!?〉
ah
elder.sister (Shiroo 1991: 164)
Vocatives and topics
(5.1) hustler: 〈Hey,/ babe — /I could/give yuh/a cheap,/new skin/job . . .〉
(5.2) Kusanagi: 〈Bug/ off,/Creep〉
(5.3) subordinate: 〈Wha-?!〉 〈Major?〉
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 166)
In addition to signaling emotional attitude, the selection of vocative terms reflects
the speaker’s cognitive processes. Whether to use a proper noun or to use a
categorial representation (such as neechan ‘(lit.) elder sister’ and anesan ‘(lit.) elder
sister’), for example, conveys a category-based 〈cognitive meaning〉.
More interestingly, however, vocatives, by shaping nuanced relational cues,
help create the desired atmosphere in the 〈interactional place〉. In the interaction
depicted in (4), the term neechan ‘(lit.) elder sister’ expresses the speaker’s
abusively intimate, perhaps sexist and condescending, attitude. And as a result,
neechan projects on to the 〈topica〉, and defines the kind of place corresponding to
that world view. Based on cultural convention, the speaker’s choice of the word
neechan, reveals the speaker’s age (middle and above), gender (male), educational
level (perhaps less than the norm), and social status (low). In response to (4.1)
Kusanagi further defines the 〈topica〉 by choosing sukebe yaroo ‘creep’ which
expresses vulgarity, coarseness, and masculinity. The specific 〈topica〉 is quickly
defined while these indexical signs are used by both participants, to confine,
shape, and instantiate the appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉.
In (4.3), one of the subordinates of the underground hacker calls Major
Kusanagi anesan. Anesan ‘(lit.) elder sister’ is typically used among Japanese mobsters in reference to a senior female member, and it carries with it the unmistakable tone of the criminal world of yakuza. This also exemplifies how a vocative,
since it carries with it the attitudinal meaning, specifies in what kind of
〈interactional place〉 the participants find themselves. Through this process, vocatives encourage recognition of the speaker who calls out toward someone. This is
because vocatives invite into discourse a sense of interaction, and interpreting
vocatives requires identification of the person calling out, the person being called
out, and the relationship between the two. This interaction itself opens up
possibilities for emotive expressivity.
Vocatives appear with and without particles. (6), (7), and (8) taken from the
comic Chibi Maruko-chan exemplify the varied cases of vocatives. In (6), Maruko
appears without a particle first, and second, Maruko ya, with the particle ya.
Vocatives with particles offer additional means for the speaker to specify his or her
attitude toward the person addressed. In (6), with the use of ya, the grandfather
lovingly calls out to Maruko; ya adds feelings of endearment and tenderness. The
vocative ya stylistically represents elderly speech, revealing further the speaker’s
identity.
Linguistic Emotivity
(6) 〈Maruko-tt/ Maruko ya/ kono dokudamicha o Hide-jiisan
ni/
Maruko
Maruko ip this herbal.tea
O Hide-grandfather io
watashitokure . . .〉
give
‘Maruko, dear Maruko, please give this herbal tea to Hide.’ (Sakura
1995: 7)
It should be noted that vocatives appear not only when the speaker actually
interacts with the partner, but in an imagined place as well. For example, vocatives
appear as the speaker calls out to a dramatic character in a story as shown in (7).
Upset with Tamezoo’s cunning lies, in (7) Maruko yells out Tamezoo’s name in
disgust. Maruko’s feelings are cotextually presented by the particle mee (the
elongation of the vowel of the particle me), conveying emphasis by phonological
prominence.2 At this point in the episode, Tamezoo appears in the story told by a
butler at Maruko’s friend’s house, and therefore, Tamezoo is not present in
physical terms. However, vocatives are used to express the speaker’s anger toward
and accusations of someone else’s misbehaviors.
(7) 〈Kusoo/ Tamezoo mee/ yuruse-n-tt〉
shit
Tamezoo ip forgive-neg
‘Shit, Tamezoo, I won’t forgive him.’
(Sakura 1995: 15)
Vocatives may also appear where different discourse domains interact. (8.1) is a
narrative voice inserted in the comic episode.3 The narrator, as the story comes to
an end in which Fujiki is betrayed by his friend and yet is still unable to get angry
about it, asks if things are really fine with him. The use of yo adds dramatic effect
to the narrator’s voice, signaling the narrator’s intense concern and desire.
(8.1) Fujiki yo, kono mamade yoi
no ka?
Fujiki ip this as.is
all.rignt nom q
‘Hey, Fujiki, are you OK with this?’
(8.2) Hontooni kono mamade yoi
no ka!?
really
this as.is
all.right nom q
‘Are you really OK with the things as they are?’
(Sakura 1995: 36)
The vocative in (8.1), by virtue of the fact that the narrator uses it, situates the
narrator in the 〈narrating place〉, foregrounding the narrator’s presence. Through
this process, narrating and narrated places are integrated, and consequently,
linguistic emotivity transcends different discourse domains. Consider that the
〈narrating place〉 and the 〈narrated place〉 each hosts three different dimensions of
place. Thus vocatives used across different discourse domains bring into the
〈topica〉 a complex negotiation of meaning.
From the perspective of the Place of Negotiation theory, the functions of
Vocatives and topics
vocatives are multiple. First, vocatives function by projecting on to the 〈cognitive
place〉, thus providing information for identifying and recognizing objects.
Projecting on to the 〈emotive place〉, different forms of vocatives and particles
help realize multiple emotions and express the desire to reach 〈you〉. These
emotive meanings fall into two functional aspects, i.e., 〈expression of emotional
attitude〉, and 〈communication of attitudes toward others〉. In the 〈interactional
place〉 vocatives invite the partner into real or imagined place, with varied feelings
and emotion which further contribute to specify the 〈topica〉. It should be noted
that depending on cotextual and contextual information, vocatives may function
primarily for identification purposes, or for the purpose of emotive expressivity,
and in various degrees in between these two functions.
. Vocatives and intimacy
This section documents the different ranges of emotion, intimate feelings in
particular, that vocatives aim to achieve. Vocatives to be examined here do not so
much function to identify the partner. In fact, the partner is already identified,
and both speaker and partner are intensely aware of each other.
Before discussing examples taken from television dramas, the following points
should be noted. Kanamaru (1993) points out that -kun is used by female speakers
toward males who are considered to be lower in status. In the classroom situation,
for example, Kanamaru reports that female teachers most often call male students
by their last name followed by -kun, and female students by last name followed by
-san. On the other hand, male teachers often call both male and female students
by their last name only. Female teachers rarely address students by name only,
(i.e., without either -san or -kun). In fact, addressing someone without adding
-san and -kun is known to express intimacy. It can be said that calling persons by
name only is something like a proof that the speaker finds them close and
considers them members of an intimate group.
Now, in Majo no Jooken, when calling out to Hikaru, Michi uses Kurosawakun, Hikaru-kun, and Hikaru. Michi initially uses the vocative Kurosawa-kun,
which is the norm. Toward the middle of the series, Michi uses Hikaru-kun, the
first name plus -kun, signaling a more intimate relationship. Finally, when their
relationship grows stronger, Michi calls Hikaru by his first name only. Hikaru uses
the term sensei ‘teacher’ as a vocative throughout, except when he directly
expresses his emotion as he foregrounds the presentation of 〈you-reaching inner
self〉. Under this circumstance, Hikaru uses anta ‘you’ as a vocative.
The term sensei is used as a title, vocative, as well as a reference regarding a
person who is in the teaching profession (or, more extensively, someone who
demands social respect). For Hikaru, Michi is his high school teacher, so sensei
with its varied functions is the expected choice, unless he has reasons to shift from
Linguistic Emotivity
it. Interestingly, Hikaru continues to use sensei as a vocative (and also as a
reference form) almost entirely to the end of the drama series. This is the case,
despite Michi’s earlier explicit denial of the teacher-student relationship as
depicted in (9). (9) takes place when Michi and Hikaru, after running away from
the school grounds, find themselves on a train heading toward the suburbs. Michi
uses the term kyooshi, which refers to teacher (its use is restricted to descriptive
purposes only, and not used for vocative nor referential purposes).4
(9.1) Hikaru:
Daijoobu? Kookaishite-nai?
all.right regret-neg
‘Are you OK? You are not regretting, are you?’
(9.2) Michi:
Sotchi wa?
that.way T
‘How about you?’
(9.3) Hikaru:
Ore wa sensei to isshonara.
I T sensei with if.together-be
‘Me, as long as I’m with you, sensei, (I’m OK).’
(9.4) Michi:
Atashi wa moo,
kyooshi ja-nai.
I
T any.longer teacher be-neg
‘I’m no longer in a teaching profession.’
(9.5)
Anata mo, seito ja-nai.
you also student be-neg
‘You are no longer a student either.’
episode 6)
(Majo no Jooken,
In episode 6 of Majo no Jooken, since Michi resigned and Hikaru withdrew from
school, officially they are no longer in the teacher-student relationship. However,
Hikaru continues to use sensei. This vocative choice has a function that goes
beyond mere reference. Sensei carries with it endearing but respectful feelings,
which, despite an explicit denial, constantly redefines the relationship.
At the end of the series, when Michi and Hikaru have for some time lived
their lives away from school, they return to the library and sit close together with
Hikaru’s arm placed around Michi’s shoulders. They engage in the conversation
given in (10). Responding to Michi’s overt request not to call her sensei, Hikaru
embraces Michi, and for the first time in the drama, they call each other by their
first names.
(10.1) Michi:
Nee, onegai ga aru
n
da kedo.
say request S there.is nom be but
‘I have something I want to request.’
Vocatives and topics
(10.2) Hikaru:
Nani?
what
‘What is it?’
(10.3) Michi:
Sensei tte yuu no moo
yame-nai?
sensei qt say nom any.longer stop-neg
‘Won’t you stop saying sensei?’
(10.4) Hikaru:
Michi. Michi.
Michi Michi
‘Michi. Michi.’
(10.5) Michi:
Hikaru.
Hikaru
‘Hikaru.’
(Majo no Jooken, episode 11)
At this moment, a vocative expression redefines the relationship. The use of a
specific vocative is explicitly negotiated and when Hikaru calls her Michi at her
plea, and Michi calls him Hikaru, the two have become (or, more accurately, they
acknowledge that they are indeed) lovers. The shift of vocatives to reciprocal
intimate style sanctions each other’s identity as lovers through their negotiating
use, legitimatizing their intimacy.
Another situation taken from another television drama series, Long Vacation,
illustrates the multiple emotivity vocatives express. In the drama’s final scene
where (11) takes place, Minami and Sena find themselves standing face-to-face in
front of the apartment which they once shared. In this scene where two main
characters finally realize and express their love for each other, Sena uses the
vocative seven times, with different tones and strength. Likewise, in response to
Sena’s vocatives, Minami responds with different kinds of emotivity. Sena and
Minami negotiatively interact and share varied kinds and degrees of the 〈emotive
meaning〉. Being cotextually and contextually supported as described below, it is
possible to reach 〈emotive meanings〉 such as hesitation in (11.3), confirmation in
(11.5) and (11.9), proclamation in (11.10) and (11.11), and joy of being in love in
(11.12) through (11.15). (Glossing and translating the proper names are avoided
for convenience.)
(11.1) Minami: Nani yatten no, sonna kakkoo de.
what do
nom such attire be
‘What are you doing in such an attire?’
(11.2) Sena:
Hanayomeishoo yori mashi
jan.
wedding.gown than less.offensive ip
‘This is better than the wedding gown, though.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(11.3) Minami. (somewhat hesitantly)
(11.4) Minami: Hai.
yes
‘Yes.’ (somewhat uncertain, but ready to respond)
(11.5) Sena:
Minami. (clearly calling out to her)
(11.6) Minami: Hai.
yes
‘Yes.’ (with rising intonation, attentively listening to Sena’s
words)
(11.7) Sena:
Minami-san. (softly, almost mumbling)
(11.8) Minami: Hai, hai.
yes yes
‘Yes, yes.’ (responsive, smiling and encouraging)
(11.9) Sena:
(11.10)
Minami. (mumbling, as if confirming to himself)
Minami! (Sena approaches Minami, and shouts out)
(11.11) Minami: Sena! (responds with a shout)
(11.12) Sena:
Minami. (Minami and Sena embrace each other)
(11.13) Minami: Sena. (embracing Sena)
(11.14) Sena:
Minami. (still in each other’s arms)
(11.15) Minami: Sena! (confirming and repeating in embrace)
(11.16) Sena:
Isshoni bosuton ikoo.
together Boston let’s.go
‘Let’s go to Boston together.’
(Long Vacation, episode 11)
In the entire series, Sena does not use Minami or Minami-san as a vocative. In the
series, he playfully uses oneesan ‘elder sister’ to express friendship and familiarity
toward a woman six years his senior. But at the moment when they realize they
are lovers, rather than friends or in the brother-sister relationship, Sena calls
Minami by her first name. Curiously, he even tries Minami-san in (11.7) which
expresses Sena’s politeness toward her. Minami is recognized as a woman senior
and precious to him. In this manner, vocatives not only express the speaker’s
changing heart but also, and more significant to the Place of Negotiation theory,
offer guidance for the realization of emerging feelings of love as a part of the
〈negotiative meaning〉.
Vocatives and topics
It is true that the dramatic use of vocatives is a theatrical device universally
recognized, and therefore, one may argue that the examples cited above are
limited to dramatic discourse alone. However, given that television drama is
created for and consumed by the masses, it seems reasonable to assume that the
use of vocatives depicted above is not entirely restricted to drama. In general,
vocatives facilitate the realization of intimacy levels, and different intimacy levels,
in turn, make use of varied vocative strategies in a synergistic manner.
. Emotivity of inner vocatives
Curiously, some vocatives do not directly call out to the persons involved in the
〈interactional place〉. Observe (12) taken from Chibi Maruko-chan. At this point in
the episode, a butler at the home of Hanawa-kun, Maruko’s classmate from a
wealthy family, falls ill. When Maruko and friends visit the butler, Hide-jii, he is
overwhelmed by the kindness and sweetness of the children, and breaks into tears.
Children console and praise Hide-jii, with Hanawa-kun adding the comment that
Hide-jii is truly a fine man. To this, Hide-jii, utters (12).
(12) 〈Botchama . . .〉
dear.young.master
‘Oh, dear young master . . .’
(Sakura 1995: 13)
In this scene, cotextually the heightened emotion is visually obvious. The three
dots following the utterance indicate that Hide-jii’s voice trails off, implying a
lingering thought on Hide-jii’s part. Certainly, this is not a vocative addressed to
Hanawa-kun, as contextually evidenced by (12) itself, in which Hide-jii does not
take a conversational turn. Rather, he utters (12) to himself, overwhelmed with
emotion. Hide-jii’s emotional surge is contained in one word, botchama.
Botchama serves as the embodiment of Hide-jii’s emotivity, i.e., the feeling of
being overwhelmingly moved by Hanawa-kun’s kind praise.
Viewed from the Place of Negotiation theory, vocatives function as a means to
present a target of futaku. Although names are not metaphorically used, these
names are ‘‘borrowed’’ in the sense that they provide sources of emotional
experience, and not the emotion itself. Instead of using descriptive emotion words,
vocatives provide targets through which emotions are shared between the caller
and the called, and consequently shared by the reader as well.
This kind of vocative use is sometimes accompanied with overt explanation in
the surrounding text. This contextual explanation serves as evidence to identify
and understand the vocative’s emotive meanings accordingly. An example follows.
In a romance novel, the following exchange takes place between two kings, Yuujin
and Shura, the latter of whom the heroine calls prince. Note the explanatory
statement in (13.4) following the vocative-like utterance in (13.3).
Linguistic Emotivity
(13.1) ‘‘Sonatano okagede, Shiruhaankoku
wa sukuwareta.
your
thanks.to Shiruhaan.kingdom T was.saved
‘‘‘Thanks to you, the kingdom of Shiruhaan was saved.’
(13.2) ‘Ohitoyoshi’ no Esufahan-oo wa, soogen no tami no kokoro
good-natured lk King.Esufahan T grassland lk people lk heart
mo tsukanda yooda na.’’
also touched seem ip
‘The ‘‘good-natured’’ King Esufahaan seems to have touched the heart
of the people of the grassland.’’’
(13.3) ‘‘Yuujin-dono’’
Yuujin
‘‘‘Oh, Yuujin.’’’
(13.4) Choppiri karakau yoona Yuujin no kotoba ni, ooji ga kushoo
a.little tease
seem Yuujin lk word to prince S wry.smile
o kaesu.
O return
‘In response to Yuujin’s words, teasing him a little, the prince returns a
wry smile.’ (Orihara 1998: 215)
As the description kushoo o kaesu ‘return a wry smile’ implies, Yuujin-dono is
uttered, not so much calling out to someone to attract attention as uttering a
word about which the prince is emotionally overwhelmed. What follows in the
text also supports this interpretation since Yuujin does not directly respond to the
vocative. In short, some vocatives are not necessarily used to call out to someone.
It may be used internally in one’s thought as what may be called an ‘‘inner
vocative,’’ merely to identify the target of emotion. Through inner vocatives, the
speaker creates an opportunity to cast one’s overwhelming emotion on to the
target of futaku.
A question may be raised at this point as to how vocatives become internalized, from actually calling out to someone to internally identifying what is on
one’s mind. The Place of Negotiation theory stipulates that the emotivity is
negotiated in different dimensions of place, and the 〈negotiative meaning〉 of the
vocative and vocative-like expressions is indexically dependent on the
〈interactional place〉. However, this indexically interpreted meaning may also be
internalized, along with the interaction, so that even when vocatives are used in an
imagined place, similar effect results. This is because conversation can be internalized as a whole, and the 〈negotiative meaning〉 can transcend the limitation of
physical space.
In my earlier studies (Maynard 1986b, 1989, 1993a), I discussed the possibilities of applying Vygotsky’s (1962 [1934]) concept of ‘‘inner speech’’ to conversa-
Vocatives and topics
tion management in the following sense. Vygotsky addresses the issue of semiotic
mediation in the context of child development. In Vygotsky’s view, the cognitive
development of a child is accomplished through a process of internalization of
language, which is first used by the child for the purpose of socialization when he
or she interacted with other individuals. Vygotsky emphasizes that higher
psychological processes an individual attains directly reflect the social processes
in which that individual participated at earlier developmental stages, especially
through the use of language. When Vygotsky states that ‘‘all higher mental
functions are internalized social relationships’’ (Wertsch 1979: 164), we are
reminded that human beings retain the functions of social interaction in our
inner private place.
It is reasonable to speculate that the conversation, being one of the most
socially engaging interactions, is also internalized. More specifically, the characteristics of interactional strategies and management are internalized, and accompanying meanings are negotiated in such a way to reflect the actual social interaction.
Although Vygotsky himself does not refer to conversation or to the interactional
aspects of language, when Vygotsky uses the term ‘‘word,’’ he means more than
the morphological unit, ‘‘word.’’ This point is explained by Wertsch (1979); the
term ‘‘word’’ used by Vygotsky ‘‘does not refer solely to morphological units;
rather, phrases, sentences, and entire texts fall under this category as well’’
(1979: 158). It is reasonable to assume that a certain interactional style is internalized as sensus communis in Japanese speakers’ minds. The basic function of
vocatives is to call out to someone, with a hope of getting that person’s attention.
But in an imagined inner place where no physical person exists to call out to,
vocatives do not function in this basic sense. Rather, vocatives identify the target
of emotional experience.
(14) offers a case where the inner vocative functions in the inner place. In
romance novels, the narration often takes on a monologic confessional tone, as
shown in the following.
(14.1) Nani ishikishiten no yo.
what take.seriously nom ip
‘What are you taking it so seriously?’
(14.2) Gamu
moratte, waraikakerareta kurai de dooyooshichau nante.
chewing.gum receive was smiled
degree be be.swayed
such
‘To be swayed by him, just because you were given a stick of a chewing
gum, and he smiled at you.’
(14.3) Matsunaga Remi!
Matsunaga Remi
‘Remi Matsunaga!’
Linguistic Emotivity
(14.4) Shikkari shinasai yo!
strong do
ip
‘You better be strong!’
(Kobayashi 1998: 16–17)
In this segment, the self as speaker and the self as partner are physically one and
the same. Yet, the negotiation between these two selves is achieved through an
inner vocative. In (14.3), when the speaker calls out to herself, a conversational
interaction is enacted. This created interaction can invite a variety of concrete
factors immediately associated with actual conversation, for example, an enhanced
sense of encouragement. The person participating in an inner conversation
inevitably experiences the interaction-related 〈feeling self 〉. In this sense, vocatives
help recreate the interaction in such a way that a person not actually participating
in it experiences a pseudo conversation, whereby emotivity is negotiated. In this
way, the vocative broadens its functional territory, from a concrete place to an
internalized inner place.
Another important expressive function associated with inner vocatives
surrounds Yamada’s (1936) concept of kandoo kantai ‘vocative–emotive phrase
expressing deep and surging emotion’. When the vocative appears with a modifying clause, it functions as what Yamada (1936) and Ishigami (1995) identify as
kandoo kantai. According to Yamada (1936), kandoo kantai requires a central
nominal and a modifying clause. Similarly, Ishigami (1995) states that kantai is
structured with (1) expressions of objectified emotivity, and (2) an item central to
the event/situation, i.e., [modification clause + modified noun] structure. A case
of vocative functioning as kandoo kantai is observed in (15.1) where we find a
combination of modification clause (i.e., minohodo o shiranu orokana) followed by
a modified noun (i.e., ani), which is then followed by the particle yo.
(15.1) ‘‘Mattaku, minohodo o shira-nu orokana ani
yo.
completely position O know-neg silly
brother ip
‘Silly brother who knows nothing about his position!’
(15.2) Esufahan-oo no inochigoi
ga nakereba,
sono ba
King.Esufahan lk begging.for.mercy S if.there.is-neg that place
de kubi o haneteyatta mono o.’’
at head O choped
nom O
‘If there were no begging for mercy by King Esufahaan, I would have
chopped his head off right then.’’’ (Orihara 1998: 89)
Calling out to someone is fundamentally an act of pointing to an item to which
one’s emotional experience is linked. The speaker identifies the target of futaku
because he or she wishes to share it with the partner. In this sense, vocatives in
general, including those used in reference to someone physically present as well as
someone in an imagined place, identify the source of emotional experience (of
Vocatives and topics
being deeply moved). And as I argue in the course of this chapter, vocatives also
function as a means of topic presentation, further enhancing the topic–comment
dynamic in Japanese.
.
Topics
. Expressivity of topic markers
In this section, as in the case of vocatives, I focus on topics associated with persons
only. Person topics are relevant to the current discussion because my interest lies
in the functional similarities between person topics and vocatives. Japanese topics
are most typically presented by the nominal followed by the topic marker wa.5
Overt topics explicitly define what participants talk about, and this helps the
participants achieve shared perspectives toward definable targets.
The speaker’s choice of the topic presentation itself (e.g., no overt topics,
topics without markers, and topics with markers) expresses emotivity. In Japanese
it is possible to create a sentence without an overt topic, but I exclude these cases
for my immediate purpose, since my interest lies in the investigation of emotive
topics in relation to vocatives, and this process is predicated upon overt topics.
Under normal circumstances, for the presentation of overt topics in Japanese,
the nominal followed by wa is expected. However, topics with markers other than
wa appear substantially, as evidenced by a variety of markers shown below. Here,
for convenience, topic markers are simply glossed as T instead of identifying their
grammatical categories.
(16) Atashitachi tte, hontoni fukinshin!!
we
T really careless
‘We are really careless!!’ (Kobayashi 1998: 193)
(17) Atashi to ooji nante, ikiteru sekai ga chigau no yo.
I
and prince T
live
world S differ nom ip
‘Between me and the prince, we live in different worlds.’ (Orihara
1998: 84)
(18) Atashi nanka . . . Reiyaanohaitta chairoi kami.
I
T
layered
brown hair
‘As for myself . . . My hair is brown with a layered cut.’
1998: 35)
(Kobayashi
Linguistic Emotivity
(19) Dakedo tsuyokina Yuujin ni shitemireba choppiri fukuzatsuna
but
bullish Yuujin as T
a.little complicated
shinkyoo
daroo.
state.of.mind be
‘But for bullish Yuujin, he must be in a bit of a complicated state of
mind.’ (Orihara 1998: 49)
(20) Damatte kiiteiru ooji koso wa, sono gisei
no omosa o dare
silently listening prince emph T that sacrifice lk gravity O anyone
yori
kanjiteiru daroo.
more.than feel
be
‘The prince listening to it silently must be the one who feels the gravity
of that sacrifice more than anyone else.’ (Orihara 1998: 103)
In (16) the topic, atashitachi ‘we’, is followed by tte. Tte is a quotative topic (to be
discussed in detail in Chapter 9). Because tte retains the effect associated with
quotation, it adds a sense of conversational interaction to the topic presentation.
Nante in (17) adds the speaker’s surprise, dissatisfaction, and even derogative
attitude.6 Instead of presenting the topic ‘I and the prince’ in a less emotional
manner (such as with tte), the speaker expresses her surprising dissatisfaction.
Noteworthy is that tte in (16) and nante in (17) take the quotative (t)te.
Incorporating the quotative process to the topic marker foregrounds the speaker,
since quotation necessitates the speaker’s participation in a metalinguistic act. As
will be discussed in detail in Chapter 9, the quotative marker is a device that
evokes not only a description of the speech event but also a description of the
qualification of that speech event. Discourse is created by another piece of
discourse, realized by the double indexing and reflexive nature of quotation.
Because of this pragmatic mandate, these topic markers specify the speaker’s
interactional voices. The more expressively marked the utterance, the more clearly
is revealed the speaker’s emotivity. Compare (16) and (17) with sentences without
topic markers (i.e., Atashitachi, hontoni fukinshi!! ‘We are really careless!!’, and
Atashi to ooji, ikiteru sekai ga chigau no yo ‘Between me and the prince, we live in
different worlds’). (16) and (17) express the speaker’s feelings more explicitly, and
consequently, they are likely to be interpreted with specific emotivity.
Nanka in (18) adds a self-depreciating attitude, presenting the topic with
feelings of disappointment and disgust.7 Shitemireba ‘(lit.) if it were’ in (19)
explains the perspective in which the topic is presented. Here, the speaker identifies Yuujin’s perspective by using the conditional phrase shitemireba (i.e., if it
were Yuujin). Interestingly, shitemireba literally refers to Miyazaki and Ueno’s
(1985) 〈perspective of becoming〉, since the narrator literally assumes Yuujin’s
viewing position (by becoming Yuujin). This example offers linguistic evidence
that the 〈perspective of becoming〉 indeed operates in interaction. Koso wa in (20)
Vocatives and topics
adds exclusivity to the topic adding the meaning of ‘only the prince’. Koso (a
kakarijoshi ‘relational particle’ reminiscent of kakarimusubi ‘particle/adverbpredicate correspondence’ in classical Japanese) expresses the speaker’s focused
emphatic attitude.
As stated above, a variety of topic markers contribute to embellish 〈emotive
meanings〉. Presenting a topic involves much more than the identification of what
the sentence is about. In the process, the speaker specifies one’s emotional
attitude, aroused response, or general attitude and feelings linked to the topic.
Through this process, the speaker hopes to achieve shared perspectives with the
partner.
It is interesting to note that subtle differences in topic marking discussed
above are often lost across languages. For example, topic marking strategies are
only marginally reflected in corresponding English translations. Observe the
following, taken from Yoshimoto (1992a) and its English translation by Sherif
(1994), where different kinds of topic presentation in the original Japanese are
translated into English by using similar devices.
(21) ‘‘Kare, muchuu
na no ne.’’
he
totally.absorbed be nom ip (Yoshimoto 1992a: 49)
(22) ‘‘He’s completely sold on her, right?’’
(Sherif 1994: 42)
(23) ‘‘Chigau wa. Otoosan nante tadano hako yo. (. . .)’’
wrong ip father T
mere box ip (Yoshimoto 1992a: 156)
(24) ‘‘No, that’s not what I mean. My father is just ashes now, (. . .)’’
(Sherif 1994: 136)
(25) ‘‘Watashi tte, tomodachi i-nakatta
na. (. . .)’’
I
T friend
there.was-neg ip (Yoshimoto 1992a: 150)
(26) ‘‘You know, I never have really had any friends. (. . .)’’
1994: 131)
(Sherif
Kare in (21) and otoosan nante in (23) are translated in a similar manner into he
and my father, respectively. The effect tte brings in (25) is mildly reflected in the
English translation of you know in (26). Because tte identifies the nominal as a
quotative topic voiced by the speaker, perhaps English translation uses you know,
a topic pre-announcement gambit. Availability of different topic presentations in
Japanese illustrates its functional significance. In the Japanese text, different types
and degrees of the speaker’s attitude, feelings, and emotion are presented with
topic strategies more explicitly than in English.
Linguistic Emotivity
. Floating topics
We now turn to the cases where topics appear independently without particles or
particle-like phrases. In this regard, Terakura (1997) provides an interesting
observation. After examining three conversations, Terakura concludes that zeromarked topic NPs function to draw the hearer’s attention to a particular referent
in two ways, discourse-initially and interjectionally. Terakura’s study also confirms
that the more informal the speech level, the greater the frequency of zero-marked
topic NPs. Following but exploring further, I approach this phenomenon focusing
on its emotivity associated with its vocative characteristics.
In our data, examples of marker-less topics abound. Let me start by focusing
on (27) taken from a romance novel. Remi, the heroine, tells the story in a
confessional tone. In the novel, certain segments contain features of direct
quotation, while others manifest reportive discourse. At this point in the novel,
Remi narrates the situation where she and her boyfriend burst into laughter
although they are not supposed to do so. Here, one recognizes the difference in
the narrative voice between (27.1) and (27.3), where (27.1) contains a topic
without a marker. (27.3), on the other hand, contains a topic marked with tte.
(27.1) Atashitachi, kao o miawasete,
fukidashichatta.
we
face O look.each.other burst.into.laughter
‘We looked at each other and burst into laughter.’
(27.2) Aa. Waratteru baai
ja-nai noni.
oh laughing situation be-neg despite
‘Oh, it’s not the right situation to be laughing.’
(27.3) Atashitachi tte, hontoni fukinshin!!
we
T really careless
‘We are really careless!!’ (Kobayashi 1998: 193)
In (27.1), the presentation of atashitachi ‘we’, without anchoring it to a specific
marker, is significant. This strategy resembles a vocative, through which the
speaker calls attention to the target. The topic is simply thrown out into discourse
as an object of attention and emotion. Let me call the topic without a marker a
‘‘floating topic.’’ In (27.1), Remi takes the position as if she were located within
the event, without grounding the topic specifically. In contrast, in (27.3), when the
topic marker appears, the floating topic is anchored in specific perspective, i.e., a
‘‘grounded topic.’’ In (27.3) Remi takes a step further away from the event and
grounds the topic with tte. This extra step leads to the interpretation of (27.3) that
suggests a reflecting thought process. Here it is possible to recognize the perspective change Remi goes through. Utterance (27.2) serves as a bridge connecting
these two different narrative perspectives.
Vocatives and topics
It is entirely possible not to attach tte after atashitachi ‘we’ in (27.3) just as in
the case of (27.1). However, emotivity differs. Atashitachi remains floating in
discourse, as if it were a vocative target. Atashitachi in (27.1) may be accompanied
with particles (e.g., wa and tara), in which case the speaker’s specific attitude is
expressed, and the 〈topica〉 undergoes changes accordingly. Admittedly, the
perspective shifts are expressed by a variety of linguistic devices, and therefore, I
am not saying that the topic strategy by itself changes the perspective. I am saying,
however, that the use and the non-use of topic markers help create different
perspectives which inevitably are associated with different emotivity.8
(28.1) and (28.2) taken from an identical novel provide another case where
differences in topic strategy contrast sharply. Note that between (28.1) and (28.2),
Remi speaks the following in direct quotation as if carrying on a conversation:
‘‘Why am I such a helpless idiot? This year is quickly coming to an end, and I am
harboring this regret in my heart. But, it cannot be helped now, this is what is
meant to be.’’ (Kobayashi 1998: 182, my translation)
(28.1) Dooshite, atashi, sunaoni nare-nai
n
daro.
why
I
accepting become-neg nom be
‘Why can’t I come to accept things as they are?’
(. . .)
(28.2) Atashi wa, jibun ni iikikaseru.
I
T self IO say
‘I say to myself.’ (Kobayashi 1998: 182–3)
In (28.1), Remi questions her own behavior. She asks in the 〈narrated place〉 why
she cannot accept the kindness from the boy she secretly loves. The floating topic
faintly resonates with the vocative, and calling oneself atashi ‘I’ adds a sense of
childishness and the feeling of amae ‘dependence, indulgence’.9 Then in (28.2),
Remi, now speaking as a narrator, shifts the perspective and describes the situation in the 〈narrating place〉. Here the use of wa clearly grounds the topic and
reinforces the narrator’s perspective.
It should be noted that in this romance novel the author assigns a colloquial
style to Remi, the heroine/narrator. Remi frequently uses the self-referencing term
watashi ‘I’ without topic markers. Likewise, in reference to her boyfriend Jun’ya,
the topic marker wa is rarely used. Wa, partly because it represents less colloquial
style, gives an impression that the perspective is shifted to a 〈narrating place〉. This
is further illustrated by (29).
(29.1) Soo omotta shunkan, atashi wa, kao o somuketa kedo.
so thought moment I
T face O turned.away but
‘At that moment I turned my face away from him.‘
Linguistic Emotivity
(29.2) Jun’ya wa sono furiageta te
o gyutto jibunde nigirishimeta.
Jun’ya T that swung hand O firmly by.oneself made.a.fist
‘Jun’ya made a fist of his hand that he swung up.’
(29.3) ‘‘Naguritainara nagureba ii
de . . .’’
if.want.to.hit if.hit
good be
‘‘‘If you want to hit me, go . . .’’ ’
(29.4) Iikakete,
hattoshita.
began.to.say was.taken.back
‘As I began to say so, I was taken back.’
(29.5) Jun’ya no hitomi ni namida ga hikatteita kara. . .. . .
Jun’ya lk eyes in tears S glittered because
‘That’s because I saw tears glittering in Jun’ya’s eyes.’
(29.6) ‘‘Ore, Remi no koto honki datta n
da zo’’
I
Remi lk fact serious be nom be ip
‘‘‘I was really serious about you, Remi.’’’
(29.7) Jun’ya, sore dake yuu to.
Jun’ya that only say when
‘Jun’ya just said so, and’
(29.8) Da-tt.
dash
‘Dash!’
(29.9) Atashino yoko o surinukete, kakedashita.
my
side O pass.through began.to.run
‘He passed through beside me, and ran away.’
1998: 180–1)
(Kobayashi
(29.1) and (29.2) take grounded topics, which enhance the shift to the 〈narrating
place〉. In (29.7), a floating topic appears. This topic, unlike the one in (29.2),
gives the impression of ‘‘floating’’ in discourse. It gives an impression that Jun’ya
is called out by Remi in a manner not unlike a vocative.
In addition to the point discussed above, the choice between floating and
grounded topics directs attention toward different 〈emotive meanings〉 in the
following sense. The overall linguistic emotivity differs between the style where
grounded topics versus floating topics consistently appear. In a romance novel
Shiro no Sunooranto ‘The White Snow Dance Princess’ (Orihara 1998), a dancer
named Saara, who is hypnotized to assassinate the prince, consistently refers to
herself as Saara wa. For example, Saara wa, Yuujin ga daisuki ‘Saara loves Yuujin
a lot’ (Orihara 1998: 81) and Demo, Saara wa Yuujin no oyomesan ni nare-nai ‘But
Vocatives and topics
Saara cannot become Yuujin’s bride’ (Orihara 1998: 82). Saara is the only character in the novel who consistently refers to herself as Saara wa, giving the impression that, unlike an ordinary girl, she speaks in a childish yet somewhat formal
narrating voice. This peculiar speech style is fitting to Saara’s character in that she
is a beautiful and mysterious dancer presented as a ‘‘gift’’ from an enemy empire.
As seen in this example, the 〈emotive meaning〉 foregrounded by the topic strategy
is far-reaching. The stylistic feature marked by the grounded topic helps identify
particular characteristics portrayed throughout the novel.
Admittedly, the difference of effects between the floating and grounded topics
pointed out above is subtle. Again, when translated into English, the difference
seems to dissipate. Compare the following segments taken from Yoshimoto
(1992a) and its English translation by Sherif (1994).
(30.1) ‘‘Datte watashi koko de wa nijussai
tte koto ni natte n
but
I
here in T twenty.years.old qt fact as become nom
desho. Shooshinmono!’’
be
coward
(30.2) Watashi wa waratta.
I
T laughed
(Yoshimoto 1992a: 6)
(31) ‘‘Just remember that I’m supposed to be twenty and a newcomer,
okay?’’ I smiled. (Sherif 1994: 3)
Watashi in (30.1) and watashi wa in (30.2) are translated into the same expression
‘I’.10 The varied strategies available in Japanese are unavailable in English, and
therefore, the subtle differences among emotive topics remain unreflected across
two languages.
. Where vocatives and topics merge
As alluded to earlier, vocatives and topics are functionally similar. This section
explores this point further. Vocatives and topics are both used for identifying the
items of emotional concern. By calling out the partner in interaction to receive
appropriate attention, and by presenting the intended topical choice, the speaker
attempts to foreground the specific 〈emotive meaning〉.
Curiously, the forms often used for vocatives and topics in Japanese resemble
each other. This is particularly true for marker-less vocatives and floating topics.
Observe the following examples again taken from the romance novel. (32) is a
direct quotation of Remi’s speech, the heroine/narrator of the story, while (33) is
a narrative sentence Remi speaks in the 〈narrating place〉.
Linguistic Emotivity
(32) ‘‘. . . Jun’ya. Oshoogatsu, doko itta no’’
Jun’ya new.year’s.day where went nom
‘‘‘Jun’ya. For the New Year’s, where did you go?’’’(Kobayashi 1998: 187)
(33) Jun’ya, katatede
gin’iro no booru ni tamago o watteiku.
Jun’ya with.one.hand silver lk bowl into egg
O break
‘Jun’ya breaks eggs into a silver bowl with one hand.’ (Kobayashi
1998: 195)
In (32) and (33), Jun’ya appears independently. Cotextually, based on the type of
sentence in which it appears, one distinguishes its use, either primarily as vocative
or topic. Jun’ya in (32) serves to call his attention (i.e., vocative), and Jun’ya in
(33) offers something that katatede gin’iro no booru ni tamago o watteiku ‘breaks
eggs into a silver bowl with one hand’ is linked to (i.e., the topic).
A similar phenomenon is observed when vocatives and topics are accompanied with certain markers as shown in (34) and (35). At the point (34) and (35)
appear in a romance novel, Ako’s mother teases Ako who is in love with her
boyfriend by withholding the information that the boy is on the phone.
(34) ‘‘E, yada, moo, mama tteba, sonna taisetsuna koto wasure-naide yo.’’
what no ip
mom T
such important fact forget-neg ip
‘‘‘What, oh no, Mom, don’t forget such an important fact.’’’
(Koizumi 1998: 63)
(35) Hahaoya tteba, ‘‘ara ara’’ nante itchatte, Ako wa futatabi haha ga
mother T
oh my such say
Ako T again mother S
jibunde tanoshinderu koto o kakuninshita.
by.oneself enjoy
fact O confirmed
‘My mother said ‘‘Oh, my,’’ and Ako confirmed again that her mother
is enjoying (the incident) at Ako’s expense.’ (Koizumi 1998: 64)
In (34) and (35), tteba ‘(lit.) if saying so’ marks noun phrases referring to Ako’s
mother. Given that (34) is presented as Ako’s direct speech addressed to her
mother, mama tteba ‘mom’ is most appropriately interpreted as being a vocative
calling out for her mother. Ako’s request is addressed to her mother who, alone,
is able to perform the desired action. Sentence (35), however, is the narrator’s
(i.e., Ako’s) description of the situation, and hahaoya tteba ‘mother’ is most
appropriately interpreted as being a topic. Additionally, the chosen use of the term
mama ‘mom’ versus hahaoya ‘mother’ (used for descriptive purposes only) offers
evidence that (35) is interpretable only as a topic.
When the vocative phrase is followed by a marker such as tteba as in (34), the
speaker’s attitude is explicitly specified. According to Koojien (1955), tteba is a
Vocatives and topics
final particle used (1) to ‘‘present a topic’’, (2) to ‘‘emphasize vocative expressions’’, and (3) to ‘‘emphatically present claims, requests, and demands’’
(1955: 1658). Instead of using the phrase mama alone, mama tteba expresses Ako’s
emphatic request and demand. Ako’s feelings are multiple, i.e., criticism, dissatisfaction, familiarity, and perhaps anger all supported by a sense of amae. Likewise,
tteba appearing in (35) presents the topic with Ako’s emotional attitude toward
her mother, adding a teasing note of criticism. In both cases, when tteba is used,
the speaker’s personal, often emotional, attitude is explicitly specified, ultimately
resulting in the foregrounding of the 〈feeling self 〉. The speaker’s voice, otherwise
left unspecified, is identified and reverberates in the 〈topica〉.
The similarities observed above between vocatives and topics are not limited
to the identical proper noun Jun’ya or the identical marker tteba. Grammatically
both vocatives and topics take the form of an independent noun phrase, and they
frequently appear in the sentence-initial position. Jun’ya appears at the sentenceinitial position, and so do mama tteba and hahaoya tteba.11 Although the sentenceinitial position is obligatory neither for vocatives nor for topics, the relative
preference for the sentence-initial position is recognized in both. Furthermore, in
both cases one interprets the noun phrase as vocative or a topic based on the type
of sentence in which it appears. In other words, both vocatives and topics function
in close association with cotextual and contextual features. The interaction-based
features of vocatives and topics suggest that these strategies are best understood in
terms of their use in the 〈interactional place〉.
I take the position that the similarities in strategies observed between (32)
and (33) as well as (34) and (35) are not coincidental, but rather, they originate
in the expressive necessity. Certain types of person-related vocatives and topics
share similar functions linked to a common thread of expressivity. Vocatives
help identify the participants and, in addition, varied vocative markers convey
the speaker’s attitude toward them. Person topics facilitate identification of the
topic and, in addition, varied topic markers make it possible to express the
subtleties of the speaker’s emotivity toward these topics. As examined in this
chapter, in many cases person vocatives and topics do not so much provide
information regarding the participants as they present in 〈topica〉 the persons
with whom the speaker’s emotions are stirred, thus guiding how 〈emotive
meanings〉 are to be negotiated.
The close resemblance between vocatives and topics is evidenced in situations
where it is practically impossible to distinguish whether the noun phrase functions
as a vocative or topic. Given that both vocatives and topics identify targets of
emotion and lead to the futaku effect, certain uses of noun phrases may be
interpreted as a vocative and/or as a topic. For example, observe (36) taken from
Chibi Maruko-chan. Maruko addresses (36.2) to her best friend Tamae.
Linguistic Emotivity
(36.1) Yamada: 〈Honto da mon/ honto da mon/ sannenmaeni/
true
be ip
true be ip
three.years.ago
yama
no hooni/ ittara/ ita
mon〉
mountain lk direction went there.were ip
‘It’s true. It’s true. Three years ago, when I went to the
mountain area, they were there.’
(36.2) Maruko: 〈Tama-chan/ shinjirareru?/ imadoki hotaru/ nante
Tama
can.you.believe now
fireflies such
nee〉
ip
‘Tama, can you believe it? (Can Tama believe it?) Fireflies,
nowadays?’
(36.3) Tamae:
〈. . . Un/ ikura/ sannenmae
demo/ nee〉
hum however three.years.ago although ip
‘Hum, although it might have been three years ago, I am not
sure.’ (Sakura 1995: 150)
Common nouns and pronouns often appear both in vocative and topic forms and
it is not uncommon to use noun phrases instead of pronouns for anaphoric and
addressing purposes. As in (36.2), Tama-chan may appear as a vocative, but
Tama-chan may also be interpreted as a floating topic, which gives the reading,
‘‘Can Tama (that is, ‘‘you’’) believe it?’’12
Similarly, when the person is not located in the place in physical terms, one
may use a person’s name as a target of emotion. Jun’ya in (37.2) can be interpreted as a topic phrase and/or a vocative. At this point of the story, Remi tries to
figure out what kind of a boy Jun’ya is, and Remi, as a narrator, presents (37) as
a confessional narrative. In her heart Remi focuses her attention on Jun’ya, with
wonderment and tenderness. Jun’ya is the object to which her feelings are linked,
i.e., a case of a floating topic, and at the same time Jun’ya is someone who Remi
secretly cries out for, i.e., a case of an inner vocative.
(37.1) (. . .) ironna hito ni au koto ga ooi Fukamachi-san ga, soo
various people IO meet nom S many Fukamachi
S so
omounara . . .
if.think
‘If Mr. Fukamachi thinks so, who has many occasions to meet with
various kinds of people . . .’
(37.2) Jun’ya.
Jun’ya
‘Jun’ya.’
Vocatives and topics
(37.3) Yappari, ii yatsu na no kamoshirenai.
after.all nice person be nom may
‘After all, he may be a nice guy.’ (Kobayashi 1998: 131)
In sum, vocatives and topics share a functional commonality which facilitates the
identification of emotional targets, a critical ingredient for the futaku effect. This
is most evident when these two strategies take an identical form as examined in
(36.2) and (37.2). Partly because the grammar of the Japanese language allows it,
and partly because the resemblance of forms is pragmatically motivated, Japanese
vocatives and topics project on to the 〈topica〉 in a similar manner, providing the
means for marking emotive topics.
.
Reflections
This chapter has explored a case of linguistic emotivity that is realized by two
related but often distinct strategies, vocatives and topics. Both express the
speaker’s emotional attitude toward persons involved. In the case of vocatives, by
calling out to a person (including oneself) as an object of one’s emotion and by
using a variety of particles, the speaker projects on to the 〈topica〉. In the case of
topics, by presenting a person as an object of one’s emotion as grounded and
floating topics, the speaker and partner further define the relevant 〈topica〉.
At the foundation of these two strategies lies the poetics of futaku. Both
vocatives and topics function to stimulate the futaku effect, because they are the
most direct and overt means for identifying the target of futaku. These linguistic
devices offer sources for one’s emotive expressivity not by directly stating it (as in
the case of descriptive emotion words), but by leading to the co-experience of
futaku, which requires the perspectives of ‘‘seeing’’ and ‘‘becoming.’’ The processes of ‘‘seeing’’ and ‘‘becoming’’ require identification of participants and what
participants talk about.
First, in order to ‘‘see’’ the world from the partner’s perspective, i.e., to
experience the 〈perspectivized appearance〉, an interpersonal relationship must be
firmly established, and the calling out of the partner’s name facilitates this
understanding. Second, in order to ‘‘become’’ a co-experiencing partner, i.e., to
take the 〈perspective of becoming〉, the place in which the partner is located must
be identified. Identification of topic helps the co-experience of viewing something
together from shared perspectives. In short, vocatives and topics offer, among
other things, a means for establishing a place where co-experience can emerge.
Co-experience of human events invites 〈empathetic conformity〉 through which
speaker and partner share the feeling of togetherness. The 〈negotiative meaning〉
brewing in such a place is inevitably tied to personal and interpersonal feelings.
Chapter 8
Emotive nominals
.
Introduction
In Chapter 7 I concentrated on cases where vocatives and topics refer to persons.
Chapter 8 expands the horizon and discusses topics referring to both persons and
objects. In this chapter I examine three related but distinct grammatical structures
for presenting emotive topics, i.e., exclamative nominals, nominals, and sentential
nominals. More specifically, I focus on the following three types of nominal
expressions, and argue that these nominal expressions, when appearing independently, function as ‘‘emotive nominals.’’
1. Exclamative nominals
[modification + nominal]
[clause + koto]
2. Nominals
with modification
without modification
3. Sentential nominals
[X ga NP]
[X wa NP]
The first type is the [modification + nominal] structure used for exclamative purposes. In these expressions, the modification often includes a quality of extremity,
and cotextually the phrase often appears with other exclamative signs such as
phonological prominence (often illustrated visually in comics, and/or provided
with an exclamation mark in novels). Included in this category is a [clause + koto]
structure also used for exclamative purposes. In this structure, koto appears at the
utterance-final position, and often co-occurs with other exclamative signs as well.
These independent nominal phrases appear without predicate and they present
emotive topics.
The second type is the independent nominal, with or without modification,
that do not appear in an explicitly exclamative context. Although these nominals
do not present concepts in as emotive a manner as in cases of exclamative
nominals, they nonetheless present nominals as emotive topics. The third is the
sentential nominal which appears as a nominal sentence but without the predi-
Linguistic Emotivity
cate. The sentential nominal takes either the [X ga NP] or [X wa NP] structure.
These nominal sentences without predicates are often called taigen dome ‘nominal
endings’ but their rhetorical effects have escaped close scrutiny. I discuss these
cases of nominals as emotive topics that ultimately help realize the poetics of
futaku.
Data analyzed in this chapter consist of various novels, including romance,
fantasy, and mystery novels. To explore the variability of the Rhetoric of Pathos in
Japanese novelistic text, in Section 4, contrastive analyses of emotive nominals are
conducted across these sub-genres.
.
Exclamative nominals
Exclamative nominals are independently appearing phrases which contain both a
modifying clause and a noun. For example, observe a case where such a nominal
phrase appears. (1) is a portion taken from an English translation of Kitchin by
Yoshimoto (1991) in which an exclamative nominal appears. An exclamative
nominal Taisetsuna taisetsuna koppu appears at the end of (1).
(1) Then she produced another package, this one wrapped round and
round with paper. When I opened it, I saw that it was a pretty glass
decorated with a banana motif.
‘‘Be sure to drink lots of juice, okay?’’ said Eriko.
‘‘Maybe we should drink banana juice,’’ said Yuichi with a straight
face.
‘‘Wow!’’ I said, on the verge of tears. ‘‘I’m so happy!’’
When I move out I’ll take this glass with me, and even after I move
out I’ll come back again and again to make soupy rice for you. I was
thinking that but wasn’t able to say it. What a special, special glass!
(Taisetsuna taisetsuna koppu, Yoshimoto 1991: 49), (Backus 1993: 31)
One interprets Taisetsuna taisetsuna koppu with a sense of exclamative emotivity.
Indeed, this interpretation is reflected in the English translation in an overtly
exclamative expression, i.e., What a special, special glass!, accompanied with an
exclamation mark.
In this and other examples to follow, emotive nominals are often cotextually
accompanied with repetition. Repetition, itself often functioning as an emotive,
has an effect of emphatically accentuating the relevant meaning.1 Cotextually,
emotive nominals and repetition are compatible, and together, they enhance
linguistic emotivity. As Fujitani (as explained in Nakada and Takeoka [1960])
stated long ago, emotion echoes through the entire utterance in what he called
uchiai ‘echoing’. While recognizing the emotive effect of repetition, I maintain
Emotive nominals
that certain independent nominals are emotive, capable of enhancing the exclamatory effect by themselves.
Recall that Yamada (1922) stated that the use of kantai is limited, and kandoo
kantai ‘vocative–emotive phrase expressing deep and surging emotion’ is rarely
used in spoken Japanese. However, in contemporary Japanese, a structure similar
to kandoo kantai, i.e., an independently appearing phrase which takes the structure
of the [modification + nominal], appears fairly frequently. In fact, in direct
discourse, the use of independent nominals as an exclamative expression is not
rare, as illustrated by additional examples given below. (2) is taken from a
romance novel where the heroine and her friend come up to the roof of the school
building, and the heroine is overwhelmed by the big blue sky.
(2.1) Ichimen no ao, ao, ao!
everywhere lk blue blue blue
‘Everywhere, blue, blue, and blue!’
(2.2) Nukeruyoona
shoka
no, aoi sora!
deep.and.transparent early.summer lk blue sky
‘Deep and transparent blue sky of early summer!’ (Asagiri 1992: 111)
Both (2.1) and (2.2) accompany modification and end with nominals; ichimen no
‘everywhere’ and ao ‘blueness’ in (2.1), and nukeruyoona shoka no aoi ‘deep and
transparent early summer’s blue’ and sora ‘sky’ in (2.2). Both appear with exclamation marks. (2.1) cotextually appears with repetition, further providing the
context for (2.2). These exclamative nominals express the speaker’s heightened
sense of admiration toward the blueness and the sky. Although the expression
consists of [modification + nominal] alone, and no additional explanation is provided, the meaning is negotiated in such a way that the speaker’s emotional
attitude is shared. Presenting nominals for the purpose of exclamation is, metaphorically speaking, like dramatically throwing the target of one’s own emotion
out into discourse, which constitutes a part of the 〈topica〉.
A similar example follows, again taken from the same romance novel.
(3.1) Utsukushii kao da to, watashi wa, omotta.
beautiful face be qt I
T thought
‘Beautiful face, I thought.’
(3.2) Soshite, osoroshii kao da to . . .
and
fearsome face be qt
‘And, a fearsome face. . .’
(3.3) Sono me ga, shizukani hirakareta.
those eyes S quietly were.opened
‘His eyes were opened quietly.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(3.4) Giragirato nikushimi ni moeru sono me!
glaringly hatred
for burn those eyes
‘Those eyes glaringly burning with hatred!’
(3.5) Yooshanonai me!
unforgiving eyes
‘What unforgiving eyes!’
(Asagiri 1992: 96)
Here again, exclamative nominals in (3.4) and (3.5) are used independently of the
propositional structure, and are thrown out into the 〈topica〉. By presenting
emotive topics as targets of futaku, the author successfully creates a place where
the author and the reader share the 〈perspectivized appearance〉. Through shared
perspectives, deep feelings of being moved are co-experienced.
Exclamative nominals often occur with the nominalizer koto ‘(lit.) fact’.
Generally, expressions ending with koto have been associated with exclamativity
and emotivity. For example, regarding the koto-nominal structure, i.e., [clause +
koto], Sunakawa et al. (1998) explain that it is ‘‘added to the phrase expressing the
state and characteristics of persons and objects, and it expresses the feelings of
surprise and deep emotion’’ (1998: 113, my translation).2 By citing an example
Kawaii akachan da koto ‘What a cute baby!’, they note that exclamative koto
expressions are used in feminine speech, but not usually among young speakers.
Saji (1993) briefly touches upon exclamative koto-nominals. Citing an example
Maa orikoo da koto ‘How clever!’, Saji explains that koto in this use functions like
a final particle, but provides no additional elucidation.
In the data examined, exclamative koto-nominals are used by young females
as shown in (4.1).
(4.1) Maa, Oseki no shaberu koto, shaberu koto.
wow Oseki S chatter nom chatter nom
‘Wow, Oseki goes on chattering, and chattering!’
(4.2) Shikashi, watashi ttee, sonnani tayorinasasooni mien no
but
I
qt so.much undependable appear nom
kashira . . .
wonder
‘But, me, I wonder if I really appear so undependable.’
(Asagiri 1992: 17)
In (4.1), through nominalization, the content is captured as a concept. And by
throwing it out into the 〈topica〉, it offers an emotive target. Recall Fujitani’s statement regarding koto yo, koto kana, and mono o. These are expressions that waka poets
(metaphorically) cast one’s exclamation out there with one’s heart along with it.3
Exclamative nominal phrases are sometimes accompanied by phrases such as
to wa and nante, instead of koto. For example, Masaka ano Imai-kun ga sonna koto
Emotive nominals
o suru to wa (Soono 1992: 133) ‘No way, that Imai would do such a thing!’ and
nante ‘such’, given in (5).
(5.1) Aan. Watashi tteba. Watashi tteba.
ah I
T
I
T
‘Ah. Me! Me!’
(5.2) Nan te rakkiina yatsu na no!!
what qt lucky person be ip
‘What a lucky person I am!’
(5.3) Konna sutekina sensei ni naraeru nante.
such wonderful teacher from can.learn such
‘To be able to learn from such a wonderful teacher.’
1991: 16)
(Aoyama
To wa and nante function as topic markers, and both include within themselves
the element of quotation (i.e., to and te of nante). As will be discussed in
Chapter 9, quotative elements assist the presentation of interaction-based topics,
which inevitably foreground the speakers and their feelings.
Japanese exclamatives are known to accompany (1) doredake/donnani ‘how
(to such an extreme degree)’, or (2) nan to/nan te/nan to yuu/nan te yuu ‘(lit.)
what to say’, expressing the degree that there are no words to describe the
situation. It is interesting to note that these exclamative elements often occur with
nominalizers (koto-nominalization for doredake/donnani and no-nominalization
for nan to/nan te/nan to yuu/nan te yuu) as illustrated below.
(6.1) Oyaji ga nakunatta toki mo, hitoride kokoni kita.
father S died
time also alone here came
‘When my father passed away, I also came here alone.’
(6.2) Doredake naita koto ka . . .
how.much cried nom q
‘How much did I cry then. . .’
(6.3) Soshite korekara
wa, kesshite naku-mai to chikatta n
da.
and
from.now.on T never cry-neg qt swore nom be
‘And I swore to myself that from now on I would never cry
again.’ (Kurahashi 1992: 210)
(7) Sono koto ga donnani watashi o kurushimetekita koto ka.
that fact S how.much I
O made.me.suffer nom q
‘How much did that fact make me suffer!’ (Tanaka 1992: 249)
In these sentences, the event nominalized by koto is further modified by an adverb
of extreme degree, doredake and donnani. This phenomenon illustrates that
Linguistic Emotivity
independent nominals are cotextually compatible with other emotive phrases.
Likewise, nan to/nan te-exclamatives often appear with no-nominalization. In
(8) and (9), the nominal predicate daroo appears, providing the comment.
(8) Aa. Nan te ii hi datta n
daroo.
ah what qt nice day be nom be
‘Ah, what a nice day that was!’ (Kurahashi 1992: 146)
(9) Nan to yuu tanjun de, nan to yuu junsui de, nan to yuu
what qt say sipmle be what qt say pure be what qt say
kiyorakana kokoro o, Sayo wa motteiru no daroo.
innocent heart O Sayo T has
nom be
‘What a simple, pure, and innocent heart does Sayo have!’ (Kurahashi
1992: 65)
A question may be raised: what motivates this combination of exclamative phrases
(doredake/donnani and nan to/nan te/nan to yuu/nan te yuu) and nominalization?
Nominalization encapsulates events, the process necessary for the topic–comment
dynamic. Events are encapsulated in stative concepts that readily become topics;
these two strategies are cotextually compatible, and they further increase the
potential for linguistic emotivity.
It should be noted that when the concept is presented as the target of emotivity, a reflective thought process is often necessary for its interpretation. This is
particularly evident in the case of koto-nominals. Koto-nominals create a discourse
where the speaker and the event described are distanced through a reflective
thought process. Observe the following for contrastive purposes. All of the
following sentences convey that a group went together to see someone.
(10) Minnade ai ni ikimashita.
altogether see to went
(11) Minnade ai ni itta no desu.
altogether see to went nom be
(12) Minnade ai ni itta koto desu.
altogether see to went nom be
(13) Minnade ai ni itta no deshita.
altogether see to went nom be
(14) Minnade ai ni itta koto deshita.
altogether see to went nom be
(10) is the closest to the [agent-does] structure in that it does not include
nominalization. No-nominalization and koto-nominalization both offer means
for topic presentation, although they differ in the degree of abstraction. It is
Emotive nominals
known that no desu takes on an explanatory tone, while koto desu takes on more
abstract distant description. Because of its stronger sense of distance from the
concrete event, koto-nominalization, more than no-nominalization, brings with
it a sense of a reflecting thought process. And the reflection is often suggestive
of deep emotion. When the predicate is in the past tense, this tendency is
further strengthened. Thus, (14), being the farthest from the straightforward
presentation of the proposition, opens up the possibility for thoughtful, often
emotive interpretation. Along with this, the person who reports the event is
foregrounded.
From the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation theory, exclamative
koto-nominals project on to the 〈emotive place〉, contributing to the 〈expression
of emotional attitude〉. Exclamative koto-nominals ultimately facilitate the
realization of Rhetoric of Pathos, partly because of their readiness for topic
presentation. Through the poetics of futaku, they become the sources of exclamation, surprise, admiration, and the feeling of being profoundly moved.
.
Nominals and sentential nominals
So far I have discussed exclamative nominals that appear independently as
nominal phrases. To understand the emotive significance of nominals in general,
further discussion is necessary. In Japanese, independent nominal phrases appear
fairly frequently and their uses are not restricted to exclamative nominals. These
independent nominals appear, with or without modification, as shown below.
(15) Yokujitsu.
next.day
‘The next day.’
(Yamazaki 1992: 7)
(16) Me nomaeni kuroguroto sobietatsu kumo.
eye in.front.of black
rise
clouds
‘Clouds rising black in the front.’ (Yamazaki 1992: 6)
Related to nominals are the more thought-completing sentential nominals. These
are nominal predicate sentences without the predicate da ‘be’. These sentences
may take [X ga NP] or [X wa NP] as shown in (17) and (18).
(17) Koibito o omou joonetsu koso ga ren’ai
no gendooryoku.
lover O love passion emph S love.affair lk driving.force
‘The passion of loving the lover is the driving force of a love affair.’
(Koizumi 1998: 6)
Linguistic Emotivity
(18) Haigo wa makkano
yuuyake.
behind T intensely.red evening.glow
‘Behind them, an intensely red evening glow.’
(Yamazaki 1992: 6)
In this section I concentrate on these uses of nominals in Japanese. I argue that
although independent nominal phrases and sentential nominals differ in function,
they are similar in basic rhetorical motivation. These nominal strategies present
emotive topics in such a way that they facilitate the presentation of the target of
futaku.
First, a brief review of previous studies on the rhetoric of Japanese nominal
sentences is in order. Nakamura (1991) discusses the rhetorical effects of nominal
sentences and nominal phrases as follows. Drawing examples from Osamu Dazai’s
novel, Nakamura mentions that Dazai uses a nominal sentence Miru to yuki ‘Yes,
I see it. Snow!’ to capture the shocking moment of discovering snow through
‘‘exclamative nominal ending’’ (kandoo no taigen dome) (1991: 216).
To elaborate further, Nakamura explains how he comes to interpret this
expression as an exclamative. The meaning of Miru to yuki, comes to life when we
understand the place where the expression is used. In other words, Nakamura is
saying that the context in which Miru to yuki appears must be taken into account.
The scene is set where the narrator’s dislike of Mt. Fuji is known to the daughter
of the tea house where the narrator is staying. One day, the daughter challenges
this by pointing out how beautiful Mt. Fuji looks when for the first time that
winter it is blanketed with snow. The narrator, in response to the daughter’s
suggestion, looks out and sees the snow. His response in that instant is expressed
when he blurts out Miru to yuki ‘Yes, I see it. Snow!’
Nakamura’s account is compatible with the Place of Negotiation theory. Note
that his interpretation requires the evoked place as well as the negotiation in that
place. The meaning of shocking admiration is negotiated in the place, through the
interaction between the narrator and the daughter. The narrator experiences
emotion by aligning the perspective with the daughter, and by sharing the same
〈perspectivized appearance〉. Furthermore, the process through which the reader
is led to interpret Miru to yuki is motivated by the 〈perspectivized appearance〉
and the 〈perspective of becoming〉. The interpreter of the text cannot help but see
the world through the narrator’s eyes, and is led to experience vicariously the
emotional surge the narrator experiences.
Nakamura (1991) continues. Miru to yuki may be interpreted as an ellipted
version of Miru to yuki dearu ‘As I see it, it is snow’. But not all uses of nominal
endings can be explained in this manner. For example, Nakamura cites Dazai’s
expression, Sorekara no hibi no, jibun no fuan to kyoofu ‘Since those days, my own
anxiety and fear’. Nakamura calls this type of nominal sentence ‘‘nominal presentation’’ (meishi teiji), and suggests that it brings to discourse a ‘‘dry touch’’ (kawaita
Emotive nominals
tatchi) (1991:217). Although it is unclear to me exactly what Nakamura means by
the expression ‘‘dry touch/tone,’’ Nakamura’s characterization does not seem to
contradict my position. Particularly relevant is his expression that nominal presentation is a case where the narrator ‘‘throws out the noun in silence’’ (tada, damatte
meishi o nagedashita kanji) (Nakamura 1991:217). The noun thrown out serves a
rhetorical purpose, that is, the presentation of the target of futaku. As implied by
Nakamura’s statement, the nominal strategy in Japanese has generally been
associated with linguistic emotivity. However, its characterization and his explanation of the interpreting process remain anecdotal, and empirical evidence for the
emotive effect based on a broad range of data has been lacking.
Let me now turn to nominals and sentential nominals appearing in different
kinds of novelistic texts and examine their uses. The first example is taken from
the initial pages of a romance novel. (In this section, due to its extensiveness,
some portions are presented in my English translation only, although relevant
portions are presented in Japanese with gloss and translation.)
(19.1) Koibito o omou joonetsu koso ga ren’ai
no gendooryoku.
lover O love passion emph S love.affair lk driving.force
‘The passion of loving the lover is the driving force of a love affair.’
(19.2) And.
(19.3) Ren’ai
no jumyoo to wa, joonetsu o ijidekiru kikan.
love.affair lk lifespan qt T passion O can.sustain duration
‘The lifespan of a love affair is the duration while one can sustain the
passion.’
(19.4) And.
(19.5) This passion does not last forever.
(19.6) Passion, without fail, will end.
(19.7) Ryuukoo no yoofuku, kamigata, neiru ga mansai no,
fashionable lk clothes hair.style nail S filled.with lk
tiinshi
no ‘‘ren’ai repooto’’.
teen.magazine lk love.affair report
‘‘‘Report on love affair’’ in a teens’ magazine filled with fashionable
clothes, hair styles, and nail care.’
(19.8) Ikkagetsugo
ni wa, atarashii goo ga dete
one.month.later in T new
issue S come.out
suterareteshimau yoona zasshi.
are.thrown.away as
magazine
‘A magazine to be thrown out in a month as soon as a new issue comes
out.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(19.9) Besides, those are not words spoken by great teachers.
(19.10) Kao wa mita koto aru
kedo,
namae wa shira-nai,
face T saw nom there.is although name T know-neg
sonna tarento ga intabyuu de katatta ren’airon.
such celebrity S interview in told discussion.on.love.affair
‘An article discussing love affair based on an interview with a celebrity
whose face I’ve seen, but whose name I don’t know.’
(19.11) But Ako couldn’t help but think.
(. . .)
(19.12) Kawamura Ako.
Kawamura Ako
‘Ako Kawamura.’
(19.13) Shinchoo 158 senchi.
height
158 sentimeters
‘158 sentimeters tall.’
(19.14) Taijuu, hyoojun purasu 2 kiro.
weight average plus 2 kilograms
‘Weighing two kilograms over average.’
(19.15) Kamigata wa, sutoreeto no semirongu, shagiiiri.
hair.style T straight lk semi-long shaggy
‘Hair style is straight semi-long and shaggy.’
(19.16) My hair is a bit brownish with hair coloring.
(Koizumi 1998: 6–8)
In (19) we observe different types of nominal strategies; (1) nominals with modification in (19.7) and (19.8), (2) nominals without modification in (19.12), and (3)
sentential nominals, including [X ga NP] and [X (wa) NP] in (19.1), (19.3),
(19.10), (19.13), (19.14), and (19.15). What are the differences, if any, between
nominals and sentential nominals? Overall, both contribute to the futaku effect by
encapsulating events and by presenting them as targets. In the case of nominals
with modification, the target of emotion is captured as a nominal phrase, and
presented as a source of emotion. In the case of [X ga NP] or [X wa NP], the content of the proposition is summarized and self-contained. In sentential nominals,
partly because they contain within themselves the propositional information, the
writer emerges in the 〈interactional place〉 more prominently than in other
nominals. Despite some differences, the fundamental function of these emotive
nominals serves to provide the target of futaku. The narrator successfully throws
out an item toward which the narrator’s emotions are disclosed.
Emotive nominals
Let us take another type of novelistic text. (20) is taken from the beginning of
a fantasy novel.
(20.1) (A-tt, uma no kubi.)
oh horse lk head
‘(Oh, the head of a horse.)’
(20.2) Me nomaeni kuroguroto sobietatsu kumo.
eye in.front.of black
rise
clouds
‘Clouds rising black in the front.’
(20.3) Haigo wa, makkana
yuuyake.
behind T intensely.red evening.glow
‘Behind it, an intensely red evening glow.’
(20.4) Clouds rising cumulatively from the middle of the black cloud covering
from the horizon to the center of the sky, they are forming the head of
a horse.
(20.5) Although the red burning clouds are moving, the horse’s head is still.
(20.6) (Hum, the horse is bleeding. Oh, this is a sign of good luck. Maybe,
that is a bit too convenient.)
(20.7) Kawa nisotte fuitekita tsumetai kaze ni, zokutto miburuisuru Sooji.
river along blow
cold
breeze in chilly shiver
Sooji
‘Sooji, who shivers in the cold wind blowing along the river.’
(20.8) At that moment, from the horse’s ear, like running black ink, clouds
began to move.
(20.9) Soon the entire horse’s head transformed, and after repeatedly forming
some shapes, black clouds spread over the entire sky.
(20.10) Daremo i-nai
kawara.
anyone there.is-neg river.bed
‘The river bed, where no one else is.’
(20.11) Sooji pulls out his sword.
(20.12) He runs.
(20.13) Migini hidarini ken o haratte, tonde, saigo wa tokui
right left
sword O swing jump final T favorite
no tsuki no kata.
lk push lk form
‘To the right and to the left, he swings his sword, jumps, and finally
thrusts his sword to the front, his favorite fighting form.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(20.14) (Tomorrow, for sure I will kill Lord Ii.)
(20.15) Sono yo.
that night
‘That night.’
(20.16) They say that some sensitive Japanese, for some unknown reasons,
spent a restless night, and were awoken time and time again.
(20.17) Yokujitsu.
next.day
‘The next day.’
(20.18) Ansei nananen (1860 nen) sangatsu mikka.
Ansei 7th.year
March 3rd
‘The seventh year of Ansei (1860 ad), March 3rd.’
(20.19) To Sooji’s eyes, sliding doors looked strangly white.
(20.20) Mada, mimei.
still before.dawn
‘Before dawn, still.’
(20.21) Totally calm.
(20.22) Deeply still.
(Yamazaki 1992: 6–7)
In this example, nominals appear for the purpose of presenting the locative and
temporal setting of the narrative. For example, (20.10) uses a nominal with
modification (Daremo inai kawara ‘The river bed, where no one else is’) which
defines the place where action is to take place. By using the nominal, the place is
dramatically presented with a sense of anticipated excitement. Compare (20.10)
with the verbal predicate sentence such as Kawara ni wa daremo i-nai ‘There is no
one in the river bed’. In this case, although the location is introduced, it is not so
exclusively and independently focused as is the nominal presentation. Rhetorically
speaking, it does not bring forth the futaku effect as nominals do.
Use of nominals and sentential nominals also helps maintain the rhythm of
the text. Sentences from (20.17) through (20.22), along with other short sentences,
give the impression that the narrator is actually telling a story, both rhythmically
and dramatically.
Establishing the locative and temporal framework for narratives through
nominals and sentential nominals is a strategy observed in novels other than
fantasy novels. Let me cite the opening sentences of two mystery novels where the
location and time of the story are given by a nominal phrase as in (21.1) and a
nominal sentence as in (22.1).
Emotive nominals
(21.1) Chiisana morikage
no bochi . . .
small
shadow.of.woods lk cemetery
‘Small cemetery in the shadow of woods.’
(21.2) Vegetable gardens all around are covered by snow.
(Tanaka 1992: 6)
(22.1) Asami Mitsuhiko no notta soara ga Shima e mukatta no wa,
Asami Mitsuhiko S rode Soara S Shima to headed nom T
nigatsu nijuugonichi.
February 25th
‘The day when Soara driven by Mitsuhiko Asami headed to Shima was
March 25th.’
(22.2) It was a calm morning after the northwestern wind quieted down,
which seemed the last cold front of the winter. (Uchida 1997: 5)
Although limited in frequency, mystery novels contain nominal sentences as well.
(23.2) is an example of [X ga NP]. Again, it is interpreted as a dramatic presentation of information.
(23.1) Hisago was originally a small eating place with counters, and there were
six chairs with low backs arranged neatly.
(23.2) L jigata to yuu ka, sono kauntaa nonaka ga chooriba.
L shape qt say q that counter inside S kitchen
‘Inside the L-shaped, should I say, counter, is the kitchen.‘
(23.3) The owner of the place whom Seiichi and others called ‘‘Mrs.’’ had
retired ten years earlier, and as a result a small guest room became
available, the room Seiichi and others called ‘‘back tatami room.’’
(Shimizu 1998: 8)
. Emotive nominals and text genres
So far I have presented the use of independent nominals in different kinds of
novelistic texts. The reader may raise a question as to how pervasive these emotive
nominals (i.e., exclamative nominals, nominals, and sentential nominals) appear
in different types of sub-genres of novelistic text. Three different sub-genres,
romance novels, fantasy novels, and mystery novels, are examined. For romance
novels, Kobayashi (1998), Koizumi (1998), Kurahashi (1995), Morimoto (1995)
and Orihara (1998) are chosen, while for fantasy novels, Kikuchi (1991), Okano
(1991), Tanaka (1992), Wakagi (1991), and Yamazaki (1992) are selected. Five
mystery novels, Ayatsuji (1992), Kotani (1997), Nishimura (1998), Soono (1992),
Linguistic Emotivity
tand Uchida (1997) represent the mystery novel category. I examined emotive
nominals appearing in the initial 200 sentences (excluding prologues) taken from
these 15 novels, totaling to 3000 sentences.
Table 1. Frequency of emotive nominals in three genres
Emotive
nominals
(%)
Romance novels
Fantasy novels
Mystery novels
208
117
38
(20.8%)
(11.7%)
(3.8%)
Total
363
(12.1%)
Other
(%)
Total
792
883
962
(79.2%)
(88.3%)
(96.2%)
1,000
1,000
1,000
2,637
(87.9%)
3,000
P 2=136.08; p < .001 (2 d.f.)
Table 1 shows that emotive nominals appear most frequently in romance novels.
Romance novels often carry a confessional tone, revealing the inner feelings of the
narrator. The melodramatic nature of the text in the romance novel is compatible
with a high frequency of emotives, including emotive nominals. This is enhanced
further by the fact that the narrator is also the heroine, and therefore, narrative
sentences take on the character of direct discourse, echoing the heroine/narrator’s
voice in the 〈narrating place〉.
In mystery novels, the overall frequencies of emotive nominals are low.
Mystery novels develop along complex plots, and communicating information
becomes primary. Partly for this reason, verb-ending sentences are preferred, and
emotive nominals are avoided. The narrator in mystery novels normally does not
appear in the 〈narrated place〉 as a dramatic person, and therefore, opportunities
for using emotives are diminished. Emotions associated with dramatic persons are
often expressed in direct quotation, which are excluded from the current discussion. Fantasy novels rank somewhere between romance novels and mystery novels
in the possibility of the narrator being the dramatic person. The narrative style is
generally more colloquial than mystery novels, and the fantasy genre carries in
some novels a strong sense of story-telling (e.g., Soono 1992). The use of nominals
falls between romance and mystery novels.
The distribution of the two types of emotive nominals (exclamative nominals
and nominals with and without modification versus sentential nominals) are
shown in Table 2.
In the overall novelistic discourse we observe that nominals occur significantly
more frequently than sentential nominals. This tendency is particularly strong in
romance novels. It is possible to speculate its reason as the following. Romance
novels are compatible with not only emotives, but the kind of emotives that leave
much of the expression unspecified. The narrator of the romance novel is most
Emotive nominals
Table 2. Frequency of nominals and sentential nominals in three genres
(%)
Exclamative
nominals and
nominals
Sentential
nominals
(%)
Total
Romance novels
Fantasy novels
Mystery novels
161
68
26
(77.40%)
(58.12%)
(68.42%)
47
49
12
(22.60%)
(41.88%)
(31.58%)
208
117
38
Total
255
(70.25%)
108
(29.75%)
363
P2=13.39; p < .01 (2 d.f.)
often a heroine, and addresses the reader as a friend. Not saying everything is an
effective strategy in reminding the reader that the narrator finds no need to spell
everything out because she is talking to a friend (i.e., the reader). A sense of amae
‘dependence, indulgence’ is expressed by the narrator, which encourages an
emotional bond. Narrator and reader experience 〈empathetic conformity〉, and
through shared perspectives they co-experience profound emotions, such as a
thrill of first love, disappointment, heartbreak, excitement, and so on.
The relatively low frequency of sentential nominals in romance novels seems
to be influenced by the structures themselves (i.e., [X wa NP] and [X ga NP]).
These structures suggest that the narrator is perhaps excessively judgmental. The
results above show genre-specific preferences toward emotive nominals and the
futaku effect. This illustrates that a preference toward the Rhetoric of Pathos
differs across sub-genres within a single language.
.
Reflections
This chapter has examined three types of nominal expressions, i.e., exclamative
nominals, nominals, and sentential nominals. Kinds of the 〈emotive meaning〉
foregrounded by these emotive nominals include exclamation, surprise, admiration, and most of all, the feelings of being deeply moved. And it is in this sense
that I think it appropriate to characterize certain kinds of nominal expressions as
being emotive topics.
Unlike cases where the event is described by a proposition, presenting an item
as an emotive topic necessitates participants to take certain perspective in the
〈interactional place〉. Through the topic–comment dynamic, the writer and the
reader are expected to co-experience shared perspectives based on the common
〈perspectivized appearance〉 of the target of futaku. The 〈emotive meaning〉 is
instantiated in this 〈topica〉, ultimately reaching the 〈negotiative meaning〉
accentuated with linguistic emotivity.
Chapter 9
Quotative topics
.
Introduction
This chapter examines another kind of emotive topic, the quotative topic. By
quotative topic I mean the tte-marked topic which is, again, associated with the
futaku effect. Tte used for the purpose of topic presentation appears independently
without overt reportive verbs, and yet because of its quotative nature, tte-marked
elements provoke multiple places where multiple voices are negotiated. Although
this independent tte gives the impression that it is merely a topic marker, tte occurs
in contexts where it cannot be used interchangeably with wa, suggesting its particular function. In the course of this chapter I argue that tte-marked topics engender
seemingly contradictory feelings of ‘‘closeness’’ and ‘‘distance.’’ Associated with
these feelings are the speaker’s assertiveness and hesitation expressed in the utterance-final tte. The utterance-final tte, because it qualifies speech acts associated with
emotive topics, is also under investigation in this chapter.
Quotation reveals a curious aspect of the nature of language. The quotation not
only refers to a verbal action but also simultaneously provides information about the
very action. The action is captured as an observed and reportable event. When the
quoter quotes, this act belongs to one 〈interactional place〉, and at the same time the
quoted words echo in another 〈interactional place〉. Quoted words, attributable to
other sources, belong to another, and therefore, they enhance the sense of separateness and distance. Quoting is a creative act which integrates someone else’s voice
into one’s own, and consequently, quoting communicates a sense of connectedness
and closeness. In practice, quotation constructs heterogeneous discourse by integrating into itself another piece of discourse. This juxtaposition holds true even when
one quotes oneself. Quotation and quotation-like expressions provoke multiple
images of place where multiple voices are heard, manipulated, and negotiated. In
this manner, these expressions project a particular dimension on to the 〈topica〉.
Quotation in Japanese takes the linguistic form of the quotative particle to (and
its colloquial variant tte) and the verb yuu ‘say’ along with a number of verbs related
to saying and thinking.1 In this chapter, following my earlier work (Maynard
1997c), I focus on a certain use of tte, which I refer to as a ‘‘quotative topic’’
marker. When tte is followed by a reportive verb, it is considered a quotative marker
in a strict sense, and is excluded from the current discussion. And naturally, the tte
appearing in the sense of ttemo ‘even’ as well as tte appearing as a part of the verbal
Linguistic Emotivity
and adjectival te-form fall outside the scope of my analysis. The kind of tte under
investigation is observed frequently in face-to-face interaction, and therefore, this
chapter draws data from Long Vacation (see Appendix for a brief description of the
story) and from romance comics.
In what follows, I first argue that tte functions somewhere between quotation
and topic, with varied degrees between them. I concentrate on cases where tte
marks an element that overtly appears in prior discourse. These cases of tte
incorporate multiple voices, to be integrated into its 〈emotive meaning〉. This use
of tte overtly illustrates a case for 〈interactional negotiation〉 and enhances, along
with other strategies, emotions such as disbelief and acknowledgment. And
ultimately, the topic presentation marked as a quotative topic offers another
means to facilitate the futaku effect.
Second, I examine tte-marked nominals that present topics anew, in the
context where no overt corresponding elements are found in prior discourse. The
topic presentation achieved through tte, although similar, differs from cases of the
wa-marked topic presentation. Taking up the quotative nature of tte, I argue that
in contrast with wa, tte-introduced topics echo others’ and one’s own voices
viewed from different perspectives. Incorporating voices affords an opportunity
for a speaker to present a topic in such a way as to express closeness and distance,
which in turn foreground the 〈feeling self 〉. The quotative tte functions for the
purpose of 〈expression of emotive attitude〉 in a broad sense. In addition, this
emotive tte indexically signals the speaker’s desire to borrow and integrate others’
voices, thus enhancing the 〈communication of attitudes toward others〉.
Third, I investigate utterance-final tte signaling the speaker’s emotive attitude.
The assertiveness and hesitation associated with this tte are explained in terms of
the speech act qualification. I argue that utterance-final tte is also a case of quotative
topic marker and it ultimately offers a means for foregrounding the 〈feeling self〉.
Overall, the use of tte reveals the heterogeneous nature of language, where
multiple voices are not only heard but also manipulated for the expression of a
particular sense of emotivity. Fundamentally, quotative topics operate where the
self and the other meet. When quoting, one recognizes the other, and therefore, it
implies separation and distance. At the same time, when quoting, one integrates the
other’s voice into one’s own, and therefore, it implies connectedness and closeness.
Between this seemingly contradicting psychological/emotional distance and closeness, and between 〈you〉 and 〈your you〉, quotative topics function as emotives.
.
Background
Kinds of quotations most frequently investigated in the past are those in which the
quoter and the quotee are different, i.e., other-quotation. In most of these cases
Quotative topics
the quoter is able to identify the quotee responsible for the quotation content.
Researchers have generally assumed that two distinct and separate voices are
represented in quotation, and therefore, in the case of direct speech, verbatim
reproduction is possible. Consequently, past linguistic analyses on Japanese
quotation have tended to concentrate on the syntactic mechanism such as direct
versus indirect speech (e.g., Endoo 1982; Inoue 1982; Mikami 1972 [1953]; Ross
1976/77). Although these traditional studies have revealed important mechanisms
of Japanese quotation especially in terms of 〈informational meaning〉, they largely
represent a logos-based approach to linguistics, and they often ignore or only
marginally touch upon 〈emotive meanings〉.
Although linguistic studies on quotation in languages other than Japanese
have also centered around direct, indirect, and free indirect speeches, more recent
studies have revealed expressive functions of various modes of speech. For
example, Macaulay (1987) examines quoted direct speech of southwest Scotland
and proposes a variety of social and interactional functions. Besnier (1993)
examines reported speech on Nukulaelae Atoll as he focuses on the affective
meaning. He argues that Nukulaelae speakers communicate ‘‘affect’’ through
prosody, deictic adverbs, as well as the particular rhetorical style which occurs in
their direct quotation.
Tannen’s (1989) concept of ‘‘constructed dialogue’’ offers a useful source for
my approach. According to Tannen, the term ‘‘reported speech’’ is a misnomer
since quoted dialogues are not ‘‘reported’’ as usually assumed. In her words:
(. . .) I am claiming that when a speaker represents an utterance as the words of
another, what results is by no means describable as ‘‘reported speech.’’ Rather it
is constructed dialogue. And the construction of the dialogue represents an active,
creative, transforming move which expresses the relationship not between the
quoted party and the topic of talk but rather the quoting party and the audience
to whom the quotation is delivered. (Tannen 1989: 109)
Tannen lists a variety of constructed dialogues; dialogue representing what wasn’t
said, dialogue as instantiation, summarizing dialogue, choral dialogue, dialogue as
inner speech, the inner speech of others, dialogue constructed by a listener,
dialogue fading from indirect to direct, dialogue including vague referents, and
dialogue cast in the persona of a nonhuman speaker. Tannen’s work reminds us
that quotation is ultimately a tool available to the speaker to play with multiple
voices and to achieve whatever 〈negotiative meaning〉 desired. Once language is
analyzed as a situated talk carried out in the 〈interactional place〉, its potential for
expressing emotivity reveals itself. Tannen identifies the function of constructed
dialogues in terms of the broad-based concept of ‘‘involvement.’’2 In this chapter,
from the perspective of the Place of Negotiation theory, I add specificity to this
approach by analyzing tte and identifying emotivity associated with its use.
Linguistic Emotivity
Of the many studies on quotation available in the field of Japanese linguistics,
those relevant to my approach include the following. Kamada (1988) asserts that
the function of direct quotation is not merely to parrot the quotee’s utterance but
rather to offer dramatic effect by introducing one ba ‘place or situation of talk’
into another. Kamada (2000) proposes a Theory of Quotation as Creation (In’yooku Soozoosetsu) and emphasizes that ultimately quotation is a creative strategy that
the quoter uses for self-expression. Quotation takes the kind of linguistic form
based on the interaction among the speaker, the listener, the referents, deictic
information as well as social deixis. The notion of a clash of place matrixes is
pursued in Sunakawa’s work (1988, 1989). Sunakawa examines the functional
differences between the quotative clause to and nominal clause marker koto along
with the types of co-occurring predicate verbs, and concludes that they differ in
terms of their usage in expressing the dual places. In a similar approach I have
discussed functions of to and koto-o (Maynard 1984, 1986c) in Japanese written
discourse and have pointed out that to may mark both so-called direct and
indirect speeches, and enables fluid shifts and maintenance of points of view in the
Japanese literary style.3
.
From quotation to topic presentation
. Between quotation and topic
To understand how tte operates as a marker for a quotative topic, let me begin by
citing an example taken from Long Vacation. Responding to Ryooko’s phone call
that she urgently wants to see him, Sena visits Ryooko’s apartment in the dead of
night. To his disbelief, Ryooko confesses to Sena that she is in love with someone
else. (In this chapter, tte functioning as a quotative topic marker is glossed as
qtt.)
(1.1) Ryooko:
Gomennasai. Atashi hokani sukina hito ga iru.
sorry
I
other love person S there.is
‘I’m sorry. I have someone else I love.’
(1.2) Sena:
Sukina hito tte?
love person qtt
‘Some person you love, you say?’
(1.3) Ryooko:
(silence)
(1.4) Sena:
Sukina hito tte dare?
love person qtt who
‘Who is he, this person you love?’
Quotative topics
(1.5) Ryooko:
(silence)
(1.6) Sena:
Hanashi tte sooyuu koto datta no ka.
talk
qtt such fact be nom q
‘You said you wanted to have a talk, and this is what it is,
I see.’ (Long Vacation, episode 6)
For convenience, I refer to the element taken up by the partner as a potential topic
as NP2, and the corresponding element appearing in the prior discourse as NP1.
Let me focus on quotative topics where NP1 and NP2 overtly appear in discourse.
In (1), Ryooko’s sukina hito ‘someone I love’ is NP1, which in turn is repeated by
Sena as NP2 twice in (1.2) and (1.4) with the quotative topic marker, i.e., sukina
hito tte. In addition, Sena introduces another quotative topic in (1.6), hanashi tte
‘the talk’. The NP1 for (1.6) appears earlier in the drama and is shared by Ryooko
and Sena (Ryooko told Sena that there is something she wanted to talk about). The
three cases of tte indexically signal different psychological processes with different
inclinations toward quotation and topic presentation as specified in Figure 1, with
the closest to quotation on the top and the closest to topic at the bottom.
Function associated with quotation:
(1.2) NP2 tte?
By quoting other, it expresses an echo-questionlike disbelief. This quotative topic marker is used
for echo question.
(1.4) [NP2 tte + question]
By presenting a quotative topic, the speaker asks a
question regarding that topic. This quotative topic
presents a transitional inner topic.
(1.6) [NP2 tte + comment]
By quotative topic, the speaker presents a topic,
and by offering a corresponding comment, the
speaker further advances the topic.
Function associated with topic:
Figure 1. Functions of the quotative topic marked by tte in association with quotation and topic, as exemplified in (1)
An identical device tte functions across quotation and topic presentation. Additional gradations also exist between quotation versus topic presentation (this point
to be elaborated later). Taking up on an item of information from the partner’s
prior discourse and integrating it into one’s thought reveals the speaker’s keen
interest in the partner. Engaging in an interaction based on common interest opens
up possibilities for the 〈emotive meaning〉. This is because responding to and
focusing on the partner’s information reveals the desire for 〈empathetic confor-
Linguistic Emotivity
mity〉 on the part of the speaker. In terms of interpretation, through the shared
topic, both speaker and partner share the target of futaku experienced from the
same 〈perspectivized appearance〉. Tte is a device encouraging just such emotive
interpretive process. In this way, quotative topics bridge between quotation and
topic through which one’s own and someone else’s voices are integrated into topics.
Curiously, tte is interchangeable with the topic marker wa only in certain
cases. As expected, the closer to quotation the use of tte is, the more awkward the
interchange, and the closer to topic the use of tte, the less awkward. For example,
interchanging tte with wa in (1.2) is awkward, but less so in the case of (1.4) and
(1.6); Sukina hito wa dare ‘Who is this person that you love?’ and Hanashi wa
sooyuu koto datta no ka ‘The talk you mentioned, this is what it is, I see’. The
observed difference in the degree of naturalness/awkwardness of the tte/wa
interchange provides evidence for the claim that tte is associated with the topic
marking in varying degrees.
It should be mentioned here that the utterance with the [NP2 tte?] structure
differs from the so-called echo question. The echo question, in the most expected
form, appears as a mere repetition of (a portion of) the partner’s speech as shown
in (2).4
(2.1) Sugisaki: Demo saa // ano, uso o tsuka-naide.
but ip
uh lie O tell-neg
‘But, don’t tell a lie.’
(2.2) Minami: Uso?
lie
‘A lie?’
(2.3) Sugisaki: Mensetsu.
interview
‘(About) the interview.’
(2.4) Minami: Haa // shitteta n
su ka.
yes
knew nom be q
‘Yes, so you knew.’ (Long Vacation, episode 6)
(2.2) is the plain echo question, indicating that Minami does not quite understand
what Sugisaki means by uso ‘lie’. She is seeking information, and this interpretation is supported by (2.3) where Sugisaki supplies additional necessary information in response.
Now, compare (2.2) with (3).
(3) Uso tte?
lie qtt
‘A lie, you say?’
Quotative topics
If (3) is used, possibly Minami understands what Sugisaki means. Minami quotes
Sugisaki’s word, uso ‘lie’ and then asks how it is so. Her doubt is expressed not
toward the unclear information, but rather, toward Sugisaki’s action. Perhaps
Minami takes Sugisaki’s comment as an accusation, and mildly protests it.
Obviously, this interpretation requires appropriate cotextual and contextual
information, but when tte is added to an echo question, the quotative nature is
foregrounded, increasing the possibility that the quoted information itself is
already known and shared. In other words, the question is raised not about
information in the 〈cognitive place〉, but rather, about interaction in the
〈interactional place〉.
The quotative nature of tte is evident in the case presented in (4), taken from
a comic book, where the direct quotation overtly appears. NP1 is nome ‘drink’
which is repeated as NP2 in direct quotation ‘‘Nome ’’. As made obvious by this
example, tte functions, in part, as a quotation marker. Note, however, that tte is
also a topic marker; tte is independently used, and the consequent utterances
comment on the idea of drinking.
(4.1) Kuraki:
〈Iikara/ nome〉
anyway drink
‘Drink it anyway.’
(4.2) Nanachi: 〈‘‘Nome’’ tte/ omae naa . . .〉
drink
qtt you ip
‘‘‘Drink it,’’ you say, but you (realize) . . .’
(4.3)
〈Miseinen no/ kuseni/ doodooto〉
under.age lk despite daringly
‘Despite the fact that we are under age, you dare (to order
me to drink).’ (Itsuki 1998: 93)
When in (4.2) Nanachi repeats Kuraki’s utterance with the quotative topic
marker, this quotative topic is not directly presented to Kuraki, but rather it is
self-addressed. Nanachi is struggling with the idea of drinking which Kuraki
demands, and this psychological process is revealed, in part, by the quotative
topic. Although ‘‘Nome’’ tte ‘Drink it’ becomes the topic of Nanachi’s utterance
(4.3), it fills in the space somewhere between quotation and topic presentation,
illustrating the transitional process.
. Transitional inner topic
This section further explores the idea that certain quotative topics signal the
transitional process during which one organizes one’s own thought. In (5) taken
from a romance comic, Tamaki is shocked to find out that her boyfriend is leaving
Linguistic Emotivity
for New York on Friday. (5.4) presents Tamaki’s inner thought, where kin’yoo
‘Friday’ is quoted from the prior discourse (kin’yoobi ‘Friday’ in [5.1]), and at the
same time it serves as a topic for the following utterance, Hayasugiru yo ‘That’s
too early’.
(5.1) co-worker: 〈Moo/ kondono kin’yoobi ni/ Nyuuyooku e
already next
Friday
on New.York to
itchau n/ da tte nee〉
go
nom be qt ip
‘I hear that he is going to New York next Friday.’
(5.2) Tamaki:
〈Kin’yoo . . . !?〉
Friday
‘Friday?’
(5.3) co-worker: 〈E-tt??/ chigatta!?〉
what wrong
‘What? Am I wrong?’
(. . .)
(5.4) Tamaki:
Kin’yoo tte . . . / Hayasugiru yo!
Friday qtt
too.early ip
‘Friday, you say. That’s too early.’
(5.5)
Dooshite/ sonnani/ isogu no!?
why
so.much hurry nom
‘Why do you hurry so much?’ (Hayasaka 1995: 18)
Note that the quotative topic in (5.4) does not address the partner. Rather, this
quotative topic illustrates that the speaker engages in the inner thought process
in order to grasp the new information offered by someone else. More specifically,
tte signals, in self-addressed utterances, the speaker’s psychological processes of
disbelief, rethinking, acknowledgment, and acceptance. Linguistic emotivity
associated with these processes is multiple, e.g., doubt, surprise, suspicion, and
so on.
Let me hasten to add that although (5.4) is not directly addressed to the
partner, voicing this utterance in the 〈interactional place〉 results in the speaker’s
self revelation as well. After all, Tamaki utters Kin’yoo tte ‘Frinday’ in front of the
partner. This self-revealing utterance, partly because it enables the partner to
take a peek at the speaker’s inner feelings, encourages a sense of closeness
between them.
The quotative topic may be intentionally addressed to the partner, in which
case it fills in the conversational space; it functions as a turn-transitional filler.
Quotative topics
Two examples illustrating this phenomenon follow, both taken from Long
Vacation. In (6.4) Minami utters nande tte ‘how come, you say’ at the moment of
transition, in search of a response to Sena’s question. Although nande appears as
NP1 in Sena’s utterance in (6.3), NP2 in (6.4) does not so much present a topic to
be developed in ensuing interaction as it fills in the conversational space. Minami
is struggling to find an answer in the space somewhere between Sena’s voice and
her own.
(6.1) Sena:
Maji?
serious
‘Are you serious?’
(6.2) Minami: Maji.
serious
‘Yes, I am.’
(6.3) Sena:
Nande?
how.come
‘How come?’
(6.4) Minami: Nande
tte.
how.come qtt
‘How come, you say, but. . .’
(6.5)
Dakara, rikonshite batsuichi
de, sono maeno okusan
so
divorced one.time.divorcee be that ex-wife
tonoaidani, kodomo ga ita
n
desho.
between
child
S there.was nom be
‘So, he is divorced, and is a one-time divorcee, and there is
this child between him and his ex-wife, I guess.’ (Long Vacation, episode 8)
In (7), Sena is amazed at Minami’s mention of resignation from her job. As in the
case of (6), NP2, jihyoo tte ‘resignation, you say’ itself does not result in a topic.
Instead it fills in the turn-transitional period between jihyoo ‘resignation’ and kubi
‘being fired’, which is presented in (7.2). The idea of kubi ‘being fired’ is then
taken up by Minami in (7.3).
(7.1) Minami: Kore kara mooikkai mawattemite, soredemo nakattara
now from once.more go.around
even.so if.be-neg
ayamatte, jihyoo
dashitekuru.
apologize resignation turn.in
‘I’m going around one more time, and if I can’t find it, I am
going to apologize and turn in my resignation.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(7.2) Sena:
Jihyoo
tte, ja // kubi?
resignation qtt then being.fired
‘Resignation, that means you are being fired?’
(7.3) Minami: Kubi
desho, mochiron.
being.fired be
of.course
‘Being fired, of course.’ (Long Vacation, episode 7)
Interestingly, the self-revealing quotative topic tte (functioning as a trun-transitional
filler) in (6.4) and (7.2) is not interchangeable with wa. This provides evidence
supporting the claim that the transition filler tte is functionally closer to quotation
than to topic. Uttering NP1 as [NP2 + tte] is fundamentally a quotation, yet, NP2
still maintains its characteristics as an emotive topic. Ultimately, the quotative topic
functions as the target of futaku, encouraging a sense of co-experience.
. Quoting other’s voice in topic presentation
Perhaps the example which most clearly illustrates the interactional nature of the
quotative topic is the situation where a speaker takes the partner’s word and
successfully presents it as a topic. Such is the case in (8) taken from Long Vacation.
Here Sena pretends he is a somewhat successful pianist, and Minami in response
focuses on two points. The two cases of quotative topic are verbatim expressions
of the two NPs mentioned in Sena’s turn.
(8.1) Sena:
E-tt betsuni
ano taishita koto ja-nai n
desu
uh not.particularly well great fact be-neg nom be
kedo.
but
‘Oh, well, there’s nothing particularly great about it. ‘
(8.2)
Tamani,
jibunno risaitaru yattari toka ato
wa,
occasionally my
recital do
or otherwise T
taigai renshuushiteru ka na, ie
toka gakkoo toka de.
mostly practice
q ip home or school or at
‘Occasionally I have my own recital, and otherwise, I mostly
spend time practicing at home or at school.’
(8.3) Minami: Gakkoo tte daigaku?
school qtt university
‘School, you mean university?’
(8.4) Sena:
Iya daigakuin
desu.
no graduate.school be
‘No, it’s the graduate school.’
Quotative topics
(8.5) Minami: Sugee.
wow
‘Wow!’
(. . .)
(8.6) Minami: Risaitaru tte dokode yan no?
recital qtt where do nom
‘‘‘Recital’’ (you say); where is it held?’
(8.7) Sena:
E-tt, ano tookyoo dattara, santoriihooru toka.
uh well Tokyo if.be
Suntory.Hall or
‘Uh, well, if it’s in Tokyo, at Suntory Hall and places like
that.’ (Long Vacation, episode 1)
(8) illustrates how effectively the quotative topic guides the talk toward a negotiation of meaning. Two cases of NP1, i.e., gakkoo ‘school’ and risaitaru ‘recital’
appearing in Sena’s turn in (8.2), are taken up as NP2 at different points in
Minami’s turns. Gakkoo and risaitaru appear as quotative topics now addressed
back to Sena. Both become effective topics for creating consequent interaction. By
quoting a portion of the partner’s prior text, Minami creates the kind of interaction where two people’s thoughts and emotions are intimately connected. By
focusing on the very topic selected from Sena’s voice, Minami and Sena share the
similar 〈perspectivized appearance〉, co-experiencing the emotivity associated with
the verbal exchange. The feelings shared here exemplify a kind of closeness and
intimacy being nurtured through casual conversation.
I should add that tte marks not only noun phrases but also nominal clauses in
a variety of ways, with or without nominalizers. In (9.3), taken from a romance
comic, tte marks the verb without a nominalizer.
(9.1) Tsubaki: 〈Onnanoko o ubaiau
yoona〉
girl
O fight.to.possess as
〈Toshigoro ni natchatta no nee . . .〉
age
as became nom ip
‘They have grown up to the point that they fight to possess
girls.’
(9.2) Akiko:
. . . . . . (These dots appearing in the original indicate a long
pause.)
(9.3)
Ubaiau
tte/ chotto chigau to/ omou kedo
fight.to.possess qtt a.little different qt think but
‘I think fighting to possess is a bit different from (what’s
happening), though.’ (Kamio 1994: 145)
Quotative topic sometimes quotes the overall content of the prior discourse. That
Linguistic Emotivity
is to say, tte may mark the prior interaction and the partner’s utterance itself may
become the consequent topic. An example from Long Vacation follows.
(10.1) Sena:
Moteta?
popular
‘Were you popular (among men)?’
(10.2) Minami: Un?
uh
‘Uh?’
(10.3) Sena:
Otoko ni.
man to
‘(Were you popular) among men?
(10.4) Minami: Sore tte shinpaishitekureten no?
that qtt are.worried.about.me nom
‘You mean, you are worried about me?’
(10.5) Sena:
Jakkan ne.
a.little ip
‘Just a little.’
(Long Vacation, episode 5)
Sore in (10.4) refers to Sena’s preceding speech act. This tte, in contrast to wa,
indexes Sena’s voice more clearly. By incorporating the act of speaking into
discourse through a quotative topic, Minami realizes a metalinguistic approach to
interaction. Presenting the partner’s speech act as a quotative topic is a strategy
that encourages shared perspectives. Here the focus is placed on the partner’s act
itself, and commenting on it inevitably expresses the speaker’s evaluative attitude,
revealing his or her feelings.
The type of discourse created, in part, by quotative topics both reflects and
enhances the negotiation of meaning, which incorporates the multi-voiced nature
of quotation. Quotative topics connect the speaker and partner by way of combined voices. Overt cases of connecting two discourses through the act of quoting
as examined so far bear testimony to the view that meaning is indeed interpreted
negotiatively.
. Quotative topic as an emotive
Having discussed the interactional nature of the quotative topic, this section
examines tte that introduces topic anew where no corresponding NP1 is found in
prior discourse. This tte functions primarily as a topic-introducing device initiated
Quotative topics
solely by the speaker. Despite the absence of NP1 in the prior discourse, tte is
inherently quotative, and the sense of multi-voicedness survives.
Bakhtin (1981, 1986) once pointed out that language is essentially social, more
specifically, interactional and dialogic, and language cannot simply escape from
reflecting multiple voices simultaneously. The meaning of a word is shaped and
interpreted dialogically with the addressee, and with the society that endorses its
very existence. In Bakhtin’s words, ‘‘(E)ach utterance is filled with echoes and
reverberations of other utterances to which it is related by the communality of the
sphere of speech communication’’ (1986: 91).
Philosophically speaking, every utterance is dialogic and heterogeneous.
Wertsch (1991: 13) aptly states that ‘‘human communicative and psychological
processes are characterized by a dialogicality of voices’’ and that they always
represent ‘‘multi-voicedness.’’ Although every aspect of language displays
dialogicality more or less explicitly, always in relation with the voice of the other,
quotation is a strategy which overtly signals multi-voicedness of discourse. By
inviting others’ voices, quotative topics with tte evoke the sense of heterogeneity
in the 〈topica〉.
Even in the case where tte introduces a new topic, the heterogeneous voices
echo. As suggested by Vygotsky (1962 [1934]) in his concept of ‘‘inner speech,’’
heterogeneous voices evoked by quotation are internalized, although these
quotative topics do not really quote someone’s words. The same heterogeneity
applies when one quotes oneself. Regardless of whether real or phantom voices of
others’ or one’s own, the quotative topic borrows multiple voices for expressing
the speaker’s feelings. Multiple voices echo in the 〈interactional place〉 essentially
for the purpose of realizing the speaker’s own emotivity.
. Tte versus wa
To understand how tte functions as an emotive, it is useful to contrast it with wa.
Although many cases of tte that introduce new topics are interchangeable with wa,
their functions are not identical. Observe (11) taken from a romance comic.
Makoto and Tomoka Morishita (who secretly loves Makoto) engage in conversation where Makoto comments on how unusual it is for a girl to be interested in
judo.
(11.1) Makoto: 〈Morishima tte/ kawatteru〉
Morishima qtt different
‘You are different, Morishima.’
(11.2) Tomoka: 〈Ee?!〉
what
‘What?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(11.3) Makoto: 〈Juudoo/ sukina onna tte/ mezurashii yo na〉
judo
like girl qtt rare
ip ip
‘Girls who like judo are rare, you know.’
(11.4) Tomoka: 〈Datte/ atashi/ tsuyoi hito tte/ sukida mon〉
but
I
strong person qtt like nom
‘But, because, I like strong people.’
(11.5)
〈Soreni/ kuroobi shiteru hito tte/ tayore
soode/
besides black.belt wear person qtt depend.on seem
kakkoii/ desho〉
cool be
‘Besides, people wearing black belts seem to be dependable
and they are cool, aren’t they?’ (Fujii 1994: 141)
Although all occurrences of tte in (11) are interchangeable with wa, the degree of
interchangeability differs. In the case of (11.4), wa is less expected than in other
cases. Tte in Datte atashi tsuyoi hito tte sukida mon ‘But, because, I like strong
people’ is interchangeable with ga as well, although it is not so in the other three
occurrences of tte. What are the differences, if any, between tte and wa in topic
marking?
It is not completely unexpected to consider tte a replacement of to/tte yuu no
wa ‘the one that I say’. As indicative of the expression to/tte yuu no wa, tte defines
the topical context differently, and therefore, it can occur only when this reading
is possible. It is recognized that in Japanese the topic marker wa most often,
although not always, marks given information (Maynard 1980, 1987b). Perhaps
wa can be characterized as a broad topic marker often marking given information
as it guides the participants to focus their attention on the kind of information
necessary for the interpretation process. In contrast, tte is a specialized topic
marker, reflecting the attitude of the speaker along the lines of ‘‘the one that I’m
saying.’’ At the same time, tte, by the token that it implies ‘‘the one that I’m
saying,’’ may introduce new and focused information as well. This is why tte in
Datte atashi tsuyoi hito tte sukida mon ‘But, because, I like strong people’ in (12.4)
is interchangeable with ga; tsuyoi hito is new information put into focus.5
Now, to/tte yuu no wa contains within it a reference to the act of saying, and it
also contains no-nominalization. Therefore, to/tte yuu no wa literally encapsulates
the process of the speech event in itself (i.e., the speech event is conceptualized
within the quotation). Through this two-step reference to the actual speech event,
tte while referring to a concrete act of speaking, anticipates a new interaction.
Consequently, the kind of information tte indexes is broader than that marked by
wa, including new or near-new information. The quotative topic communicates
simultaneously an increased level of conceptualization and interaction.
Quotative topics
The fact that tte and wa are not entirely interchangeable and that tte includes
in itself the meaning of tte/to yuu no wa are evidenced by the following example as
well.
(12) Koko
a. de wa tenjikai
ga yoku aru
ne.
here in T exhibition S often there.is ip
b. *de tte
in qtt
c. wa
T
d. tte
qtt
‘There are many exhibitions here, aren’t there?’
When the topic is accompanied by a locative particle, i.e., de in (12), tte cannot
co-occur. The inappropriateness of (12b) can be traced to the fact that tte contains
in itself the quotative particle to as a part of tte/to yuu no wa, which cannot cooccur with the locative particle (i.e., *de to).
Topic presentation with tte, because it includes in itself the sense of quotation,
brings to the expression a particular sense of 〈interactional meaning〉. It facilitates
the introduction of topic and insertion of unexpected topic, because the speaker
is able to give an impression that it echoes someone else’s voice as well.
. Emotivity of tte: Distance and closeness
The ability associated with tte to introduce a topic is useful at the time when the
topic-introducing interaction is negotiated so that an unexpected topic is
accepted by the partner. Observe (13), again taken from Long Vacation. Minami,
at the driver’s seat in a car she borrowed from her friend, asks Sena a question in
(13.3). Obviously, Minami’s driving experience is dangerously limited, to say the
least. Minami is supposed to give Sena, who is already late for work, a ride.
(13.1) Minami: Sena-kun.
Sena
‘Sena.’
(13.2) Sena:
Hai.
yes
‘Yes.’
(13.3) Minami: Hasshin tte doo yaru n
da kke?
start
qtt how do nom be ip
‘What did we do to start the car engine?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(13.4) Sena:
//Anoo, kii // kii.// Sore desu.
well
key key that be
‘Well, the key, the key. That’s it.’
(13.5)
Sore o, sashite, mawashitekudasai.
that O insert please.turn
‘Insert the key and please turn it.’
(Long Vacation, episode 5)
To legitimatize the insertion of an unexpected topic, one may borrow the other’s
as well as one’s own phantom voices. The quotative topic invites new information
into discourse, and at the same time, presents it as a new point of discussion, all
in one sweep. Although the 〈potential meaning〉 of quotation is to cite someone’s
words, its 〈negotiative meaning〉 is extended to include this manipulation of
voices. Quotative topic adds to the 〈interactional place〉 a sense of familiarity; it
engenders in interaction a sense of acceptance. As a result, quotative topic
encourages the sense of 〈empathetic conformity〉. Put differently, tte is a device to
introduce an unexpected topic as if it were reflecting someone else’s voice, and
therefore, as if it were already familiar. This intention agrees with the quotative
topic’s rhetorical effect, i.e., to provide a target of futaku, which enhances opportunities for shared perspectives.
The ridiculousness of asking about how to start the engine of a car in (13.3) is
suited for the kind of topic presentation only tte can bring. Although it is not impossible to interchange tte with wa in (13.3), tte, because it presumably echoes someone
else’s voice, gives an impression that it is psychologically distant from the speaker.
Here as Suzuki (1998) points out in her characterization of tte and nante as markers
for psychological distance, tte enables Minami to distance herself from the topic.
At the same time, by using the quotative topic marked by tte, Minami
manages to squeeze in an unexpected topic as if it were accepted by someone else.
By the token that the topic is borrowed (although in disguise) from someone else,
Minami is closely connected to that voice. That is to say, Minami is presenting the
topic as if it were endorsed by someone else. In this distancing and connecting
process, Minami manages to present a ridiculous topic hoping that it is more
likely to be accepted than otherwise. It should be added that contextually the
inappropriateness of introducing hasshin ‘starting (the car engine)’ as a new topic
is substantiated in the interaction itself. Immediately after Minami’s utterance of
(13.3), Sena giggles in disbelief; he thought obviously Minami must be joking. But
realizing that Minami is serious, Sena utters (13.4).
The unexpectedness associated with a quotative topic is illustrated in the
following interaction, also taken from Long Vacation. In (14) Minami, confronting
the reality that on her wedding day she was jilted, suggests to Sena that a toshi no
hanareta kappuru ‘couple with significant age difference’ is not so unusual.
Quotative topics
(14.1) Minami: Aatashi chotto omoitsuita n
desu keredo.
I
just thought.of nom be but
‘I just thought of something.’
(14.2) Sena:
Hai?
yes
‘Yes?’
(14.3) Minami: Ima //
toshi no hanareta kappuru tte, sonna
nowadays age S apart
couple qtt so
mezurashiku-nai to omou n
desu yo.
unusual-neg
qt think nom be ip
‘I think that nowadays a couple with significant age difference is not so unusual.’
(14.4)
Konoaida
ano Takanohana to nan deshita kke
the.other.day uhh Takanohana and what be
ip
ano, anaunsaa no onnanohito.
that announcer lk woman
‘The other day, uh, Takanohana and who was that woman,
that person who is an announcer. . .’ (Long Vacation, episode 1)
Subsequent to this segment, Sena, impatient with Minami’s indirect approach,
asks her Dakara nan desu ka? ‘So what is it?’ And the conversation continues
about the introduced quotative topic, i.e., a couple with significant age difference.
As indicative of Minami’s utterance ‘‘I just thought of something’’ in (14.1), the
topic is introduced out of nowhere into the 〈interactional place〉. The quotative
topic is useful when an unexpected topic is thrown into discourse. Unlike wa, tte
carries with it the real or phantom voice of someone else, and incorporating this
voice legitimatizes (at least, so the speaker hopes) the acceptance of the topic.6
The voices reflected in the use of tte may come from a single individual, single
in physical terms, but representing different perspectives. This often occurs in an
utterance where the speaker defines oneself. (15) is such an example, where Sena,
over-drinking after an awkward date with Ryooko, suddenly reveals his worries to
Minami.
(15.1) Minami: Chotto wa yoi
sameta?
a.bit T drunkenness recovered
‘Are you feeling a bit better recovering from overdrinking?’
(15.2) Sena:
Boku tte hontoni ikujinashi deshoo ka.
I
qtt really coward be
q
‘Me, am I really a coward, do you think?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(15.3) Minami: Haa?
what
‘What?’
(Long Vacation, episode 4)
When the self-referencing term boku ‘I’ is followed by tte, it brings into discourse
a sense of another voice. In this case, Sena quotes himself; two senses of self are
involved here, the self who quotes and the self who is quoted. In other words,
Sena distances his quoting self from another sense of self, and refers to the self as
if it were referred to from someone else’s perspective. At the same time, Sena
introduces boku ‘I’ as a topic, foregrounding the quoting self. (Note that the
unexpectedness is contextually evidenced in Minami’s reaction in [15.3] as well.)
Instead of using wa, using tte helps integrate two kinds of selves residing in two
different dimensions of the 〈interactional place〉. Here the meaning of tte/to yuu
no wa comes into play. Tte adds a sense of conceptualization, leading to a distancing effect. At the same time, through the topic presentation, tte encourages
〈empathetic conformity〉 and shared perspectives, resulting in a sense of
connectedness. Because of this dual effect, the quotative topic indexically signals
a particular sense of emotivity, i.e., the speaker’s distance and closeness toward the
topic, and consequently, toward the interaction itself. When the speaker manipulates the topic presentation with tte, by that act, the speaker communicates to the
partner the relative importance the speaker places on the interaction as well as on
the partner, which foregrounds linguistic emotivity.
Traditionally, the distinction between tte and wa has been characterized in
terms of style (i.e., tte in colloquial informal speech, wa elsewhere). It is possible
to trace the reason for this characterization as the following. When tte is used,
partly because tte implies ‘‘that’s what I’m saying’’ and ‘‘that’s what someone else
is saying,’’ one senses the person manipulating the quotation more immediately
than otherwise. It invites the quoter into the 〈interactional place〉, and as a result,
the discourse comes to bear interactional (often colloquial) characteristics. Wa, on
the other hand, is a general topic marker comparatively more closely associated
with the interpretation of information. In this sense tte evokes the 〈emotive meaning〉 related to but distinct from wa.
.
Utterance-final tte: Assertiveness and hesitation
We now turn to certain cases of tte that occur at the utterance-final position.
These cases of tte qualify the speaker’s speech act itself, and through this process
they lead to the 〈emotive meaning〉 of assertiveness or hesitation. It is also possible
to understand this tte as a quotative topic marker in that it presents the entire
utterance as a topic. Similar to other cases of tte, the utterance-final tte nom-
Quotative topics
inalizes the preceding clause and encapsulates the event as a concept. And as in
the case with other nominals, the nominalized event is presented as a target for
the futaku effect.
In what follows, I discuss two different kinds of 〈negotiative meaning〉
associated with the utterance-final tte, i.e., assertiveness and hesitation. To
elucidate how these two seemingly contradictory emotive meanings are associated with a single linguistic strategy, cotextual and contextual information must
be taken into account. Included in the cotextual information is a phonological
prominence, such as ttee with elongated vowel in comics, or with prominent and
clear pronunciation of tte in drama, which suggest an interpretation of assertiveness. In comics, tte may accompany exclamation marks as well. Repetition is
another cotextual information that adds to the assertiveness interpretation of the
utterance-final tte.
Being as important as cotextual information, contextual information must
also be heeded. For example, if tte marks an utterance in the speaking turn
expected of a strong assertive opinion, and if such is suggested cotextually as
well, it is negotiated as a case of assertive tte. On the other hand, if assertion is
not expected contextually, and it is cotextually uttered without phonological
prominence, tte is interpreted as a marker of hesitation. The hesitation tte also
often co-occurs with the question marker ka. Both cotextual and contextual
information project on to the 〈topica〉 and help approximate and instantiate
particular 〈negotiative meaning〉.
The assertive tte occurs in the place where emphatic assertion is expected, for
example, when repetition occurs. (16) and (17) are such cases, the former taken
from a romance comic and the latter, from Long Vacation. (16) occurs after a
scene where Himeko is told by Erika that she can transform back to her real self
(in the story Himeko is magically transformed into a princess). Daichi, having
overheard the discussion, assures Himeko that indeed it will happen.
(16.1) Daichi:
〈Daijoobu!!〉
sure
‘That’s for sure!!’
(16.2)
〈Zettaini/ modoreru tte!!〉
absolutely can.return qtt
‘Absolutely, you can return (to your self) (I’m telling you)!!’
(16.3) Himeko: 〈Nani o konkyoni/ sono jishin/
tappuri no/
what O based.on that confidence filled lk
hatsugen wa . . .〉
utterance T
‘On what basis do you say that so confidently?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(16.4) Daichi:
〈Ore ga/ itteru n
da kara/ machigai nai!!〉
I
S say nom be since mistake be-neg
‘I’m saying it; so there’s no mistake about it!!’ (Mizusawa
1992: 15)
The use of tte in (16.2) is emphatically assertive. The emphatic context is evident
not only in the visual signs of the comic but also cotextually in double exclamation marks accompanying the utterance. Also to be noted is the cotextual use of
the adverb zettaini ‘absolutely’ that reinforces the assertive interpretation. Additionally, Himeko’s response in (16.3) comments on how confident Daichi sounds,
and indeed Daichi repeats his strong belief in (16.4). These features offer sufficient
contextual cues for interpreting tte as a means for emphatic assertion.
Now, in the scene prior to (17), Minami discovers that Sena had lied about
his job, and consoles him by saying Ano saa atashi ni usotsuiteta koto dattara
kinishi-nai de ii yo ‘Don’t worry about that you lied to me’. Sena gets angrily
defensive and utters (17.1), to which Minami responds with assertive utterancefinal tte. It should be noted that immediately after (17.3) Minami continues to
explain that in fact she had known about Sena’s lie, and she thinks nothing of it.
Again, the repetition cotext is compatible with the emphatic interpretation of tte.
(17.1) Sena:
Anta ni kankei nai
desho.
you to relation be-neg be
‘That has nothing to do with you.’
(17.2)
Hottoite yo.
leave.alone ip
‘Leave me alone.’
(17.3) Minami: Nee, kinisuru koto nai
tte nee.
say be.worried nom be-neg qtt ip
‘Say, don’t worry about it (I’m telling you).’
tion, episode 1)
(Long Vaca-
Another case of repetition, this one taken from a romance comic, follows. In
(18.1) Rui asks Tsukushi to laugh. Tsukushi in (18.2) responds with visually
obvious uncertainty. Then in response to this response, Rui repeats his request. In
(18.4), for the third time, Rui requests Tsukushi to laugh, with tte. Consequently,
Tsukushi laughs and Rui’s playful comment follows in (18.6). As in (16) and (17),
(18) illustrates that tte appears in the context where emphasis is expected.
(18.1) Rui:
〈Shi/ warae〉
quiet laugh
‘Be quiet. Laugh.’
Quotative topics
(18.2) Tsukushi: 〈Ha??!〉
what
‘What?’
(18.3) Rui:
〈Ii
kara/ warae〉
all.right so laugh
‘It’s OK, so (just) laugh.’
(18.4)
〈Warae . . . tte〉
laugh
qtt
‘Laugh!’
(18.5) Tsukushi: Nihera
(description of the manner of a grin)
(18.6) Rui:
〈Bu/ sugee kao〉
boy terrible face
‘Boy, what a terrible face!‘
(Kamio 1994: 100)
Beyond the context of repetition, assertion tte appears in the 〈interactional place〉
where strong opinion, often an oppositional view, is expressed. Perhaps two
examples, one taken from a comic book and one from Long Vacation will suffice.
(19), taken from a romance comic, depicts a situation where Kaho cannot believe
that her boyfriend-to-be has become the target of Mana-chan’s love and admiration.
(19.1) Kaho:
〈E-eett?/ Joodan desho〉
what
joke be
‘What? You must be joking.’
(19.2)
〈Gakunen ichi
no bishoojo/ ‘‘Mana-chan’’ ga
grade
number.one lk pretty.girl Mana
S
Masato o-oo?〉
Masato O
‘Mana, who is the prettiest girl in our grade, is in love with
Masato?’
(19.3) Kuni-chan: 〈Ho-oonto da tte!!〉
true
be qtt
‘It’s true (I’m telling you).’
Linguistic Emotivity
(19.4)
〈Ninen
ni natte/ onaji kurasu ni/ natta toki
eighth.grade as became same class as became when
kara/ sukidatta n
da tte〉
since loved
nom be qt
‘I heard that she has liked him ever since she became the
eighth grader and was in the same class with him.’
(Orihara 1992: 26)
(19.3) is an emphatic utterance whose interpretation is supported by the elongated
vowel of the word honto ‘true’, the quotative topic marker, and double exclamation marks. Kuni-chan’s utterance in (19.3) is presented against Kaho’s disbelief,
and is followed by additional information in (19.4).7 The assertive utterance-final
tte is effective in this oppositional 〈topica〉.
Likewise, (20) takes place when Sena doubts the legitimacy of the love
Minami finds in her new boyfriend, Sugisaki. Sena opposes Minami who evidently
wants to trust her new lover.
(20.1) Minami: Nande soo yatte Sugisaki-san ni ichiichi
why so do Sugisaki
to everything
kechitsukeru no?
be.critical
nom
‘Why are you so critical of everything about Mr. Sugisaki?’
(20.2) Sena:
Datte sa hanashi umasugiru tte.
because ip talk
too.good qtt
‘’Cause, it sounds too good (I’m telling you).’
(20.3)
Sonna urekko no kameraman ga sa Haruo ni
such popular lk photographer S ip Haruo IO
hitomeboresuru nante.
love.at.first.sight such
‘Such a popular photographer falling in love with you,
Haruo, at first sight.’
(20.4) Minami: Cho chotto sore dooyuu imi?
wait wait that what meaning
‘Wa-wait, what do you mean by that?’
(20.5) Sena:
Itta toori no imi
desu yo.
said as.is lk meaning be ip
‘It means literally what I just said.’
Quotative topics
(20.6)
Aayuu sa kakkoii kameraman nante sa, moo baribari
such ip cool
photographer such. ip very actively
onnanohito to asonderu tte.
women
with fool.around qtt
‘Such a cool photographer is very actively fooling around
with a lot of women (I’m telling you).’
(20.7)
//Anata mo sonota oozei no hitori na n
ja-nai no?
you
also other many lk one be nom be-neg nom
‘Aren’t you just one of his many women?’ (Long Vacation,
episode 8)
In (20.2) and (20.6) Sena argues that Sugisaki is not serious about Minami. He
insists on his points emphatically, realized, in part, by the use of tte.
Curiously, tte at the utterance-final position may also be used to mark
hesitation. For example, observe (21) and (22), both taken from romance comics.
(21.1) Honda:
〈Akira-chan wa/ chigau no?〉
Akira
T different nom
‘Do you feel differently, Akira?’
(21.2) Akira:
〈. . . tte/ yuu ka . . ./
qt
say q
‘Uh, what should I say. . .’
(21.3)
Atashi de/ hontoni/ ii
no ka naa tte〉
I
be really
all.right nom q ip qtt
‘Is he really all right (happy) with me (I wonder)?’
(21.4) Honda:
〈Nani itten no/ fuman
ga attara/ bando ni
what say nom dissatisfaction S if.there.is band to
nante/ sasowa-nai yo/ ore mo/ Michio mo〉
such invite-neg ip I also Michio also
‘What are you talking about? If we were unsatisfied, we
wouldn’t invite you to join our band; neither I nor Michio
would do that.’ (Fujii 1994: 71)
(22.1) Yuu:
〈Moo/ kotchi no koto/ wasureteshimatta/ n
ja-nai
already this.way lk fact forgot
nom be-neg
ka tte〉
q qtt
‘(I wonder) maybe he already forgot about this place.’
(22.2) Mine:
〈Isogashii n
ja/-nee ka?〉
busy
nom be-neg q
‘Isn’t it (because) he is busy?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(22.3) Yuu:
〈Un〉
yeah
‘Yeah.’
(22.4) Mine:
〈Shinpaisun-na〉 〈Daijoobu da yo〉
worry-neg
all.right be ip
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.
1994: 174)
(Tsumugi
In (21.3) and (22.1), utterances end with tte, which can be interpreted as a part of
the expression tte/to omou ‘think that’.8 The context in which this expression is
used shows, both visually and verbally, a sense of hesitation. A notable hesitant
atmosphere is created in the comic. The cotext of this tte is such that no explicit
graphological mark accompanies it, i.e., the absence of phonological prominence.
It is also relevant that cotextually this tte appears with an interrogative expression,
i.e., ii no ka naa tte in (21.3) and ja-nai ka tte in (22.1). Contextually, the hesitation conveyed by the question is further substantiated by the partner’s consequent
speech. Both in (21.4) as well as in (22.2) and (22.4), the partner reassures that
such hesitation is not warranted. All these features guide the interpretation that tte
marks a sense of uncertainty and hesitation on the speaker’s part.
As observed, depending on the cotextual and contextual features, the utterance-final tte may add to the meaning of assertion or hesitation, both of which
project on to the 〈emotive place〉. These two opposing effects are negotiated in the
〈topica〉 so that either one is foregrounded. Fundamentally, the utterance-final tte
achieves what Lakoff (1980) calls ‘‘Speech Act Qualification.’’ Lakoff (1980) takes
the position that performative speech acts themselves can be qualified by their
users, for example, through hedges. Lakoff (1980: 33) recognizes three different
kinds of hedges in English: (1) sentential, using a verb combining speech act and
mitigation as in I guess John is short, (2) lexical hedge, using a particular word to
mitigate the force of the entire sentence as in You might leave, and (3) the substitution of one type of speech act for another as posing a question John is short, isn’t
he? for the declarative. Tte functions in a similar way, except that it reinforces or
mitigates the force of the utterance, depending on its 〈topica〉.
Before closing this section, I should mention an additional effect that
quotative topic brings to discourse, that is, its feature associated with direct
discourse. For example, in Ho-oonto da tte ‘It’s true (I’m telling you)’ in (19.3)
and Atashi de hontoni ii no ka naa tte ‘Is he really all right (happy) with me (I
wonder)?’ in (21.3), the utterance marked by tte takes on features of direct
discourse. Ho-oonto ‘true’ features a vowel elongation, and ii no ka naa ‘is he all
right’ features an elongated interactional vowel naa, both of which are normally
associated with direct discourse.
Quotative topics
It is known that this direct-quotation-like use of tte achieves more than simple
quotation. For example, Mayes (1990) points out that direct quotation in spoken
English adds affective effects. In Mayes’ words; ‘‘(. . .) indirect quotation is used
when the speaker wants to convey factual information (propositional content)
clearly. This contrasts with the use of direct quotation to present affective elements rather than factual information’’ (1990: 358). The Japanese case of tte
discussed above marks direct quotation, and it brings with it the emotivity, or
what Mayes (1990) refers to as ‘‘affective elements.’’
. Reflections
The use of tte realizes meaning as it construes human experience in a way special to
quotation. Quotation is a strategy involving not only the reference to a speech event
but also the reference to the very reference to the speech event. Discourse is created
by another piece of discourse, revealing the heterogeneous nature of tte. Similar to
the case I examined elsewhere in regard to the to yuu expression (Maynard 1994c,
1996a), it is the creative use of other’s and self ’s voices that quotation enables. The
quotative topic tte incorporates someone else’s (real or phantom) or self’s voices. In
this process, because the quoted voice is integrated into one’s own, it expresses
closeness; and at the same time because the voice is someone else’s, it suggests
distance. Utterance-final tte also functions as an emotive quotative topic and it
foregrounds the speech act itself. Because tte purposefully qualifies one’s own
speech act of quotation, it suggests assertiveness or hesitation.
In broad terms, the use of tte, because it invites others’ voices echoing in
multiple dimensions of place, brings to discourse a particular stylistic effect, what
Satake (1995) calls a ‘‘softening’’ effect. According to Satake (1995), the speech style
of contemporary Japanese youth is characterized by ‘‘softening’’ phrases. These
include (1) ‘‘half-question,’’ i.e., phrase-final rising intonation in non-interrogative
sentences, (2) insertion of ja-nai desuka ‘isn’t it the case’ when introducing a topic,
(3) utterance-final markers such as nante ‘like’, among others. Satake suggests that
Japanese youths express their feelings directly, yet add these softening phrases as a
means for self-defense. If the partner raises doubts regarding what one says, the
softening phrases help defray a possibly threatening confrontation.
One specific feature of the softening process is to describe oneself as if it were
someone else. For example, when one speaks of one’s own character as Atashi tte
igaito akarui n desu ‘Surprisingly [to my surprise], I’m quite optimistic and easy
going’, one escapes from making too explicit a statement about one’s own view.
Leaving some room for doubt for different opinions is exactly what a softening
phrase does. Although Satake does not specifically discuss the use of the quotative
topic tte, I contend that the use of tte facilitates this softening process. The topic is
Linguistic Emotivity
presented not by the speaker alone, but together with someone else’s real or
phantom voices, leaving the impression that the speaker’s voice were someone else’s.
The relatively frequent use of quotative topic tte in romance comics and
youth-depicting television drama series does not contradict the interpretation
above. Partly because of the direct, casual interaction depicted in comics and
drama, perhaps there is even more need for a softening effect. Or, more appropriately, the more intimately one reveals one’s thoughts and feelings, the more
significant the softening function of tte becomes.
Common to all of the phenomena associated with tte examined in this chapter
is the heightened sense of the 〈interactional self 〉, as symbolized by the interpretation ‘‘that’s what I’m saying.’’ In her work cited earlier, Tannen (1989) points out
that the quotation (i.e., her constructed dialogue) represents an active move which
expresses the relationship between the quoter and the partner. Functions of tte
discussed in this chapter also define the interactional relationship between the
quoter and the partner. Tte is a device that helps navigate through interaction, by
presenting a topic originating in the partner, by presenting a topic as if echoing
other’s voices, and by qualifying one’s own utterance. And along the way, the
speaker adds the sense of distance and closeness to the topic and the interaction.
Presenting topics through tte is motivated by the particular need for Japanese
expressivity of pathos existing as an undercurrent in Japanese cultural discourse.
Quotative topics, like exclamative and emotive nominals examined in Chapter 8,
package events, with an added feature linked to the act of saying. Quotative topics
encapsulate events into conceptualized units, which in turn are presented as
targets of futaku. Ultimately, as in the cases of other emotive topics, quotative
topics facilitate the practice of the Japanese preference toward the Rhetoric of
Pathos, where the topic presentation plays a critical role.
Chapter 10
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
.
Introduction
In the preceding three chapters, three emotives (i.e., vocatives, nominals, and
tte-marked elements) were discussed in terms of how they present emotive topics.
This chapter analyzes a phenomenon different in nature, although it is also a
strategy for presenting an emotive topic, or more accurately, a pseudo emotive
topic. The Japanese wh-question word nan(i) ‘what’ is the issue.
Unlike other emotives thus far discussed, nan(i) ‘what’ itself lacks a referent
and its interpretation is indexically linked to the interactional context defined by
the place. In certain contexts, nan(i) functions primarily as an interrogative
pronoun, i.e., as an ‘‘informational nan(i).’’ However, in what follows, as I did in
Maynard (2000b), I argue that nan(i) also appears in a non-interrogative
context, and functions as an ‘‘emotive nan(i)’’ that signals varied types and
intensities of 〈emotive meanings〉. The case of nan(i) illuminativey illustrates the
polysemous nature of the linguistic sign, i.e., meanings are multiple, they emerge
in gradation, and they cross over among them. Hidden in the 〈potential meaning〉 of nan(i) are emotion-filled meanings indexically linked to the 〈topica〉 in
varying ways. In this chapter, for identifying nan(i)’s 〈negotiative meanings〉, I
first discuss its characteristics as an anti-sign, and then, its functions as an
〈expression of emotional attitude〉 and as a strategy for the 〈management of
participatory action〉.
Nan(i) often appears cotextually in non-interrogative utterances, in expletives
and exclamatives, in particular. Given that the non-interrogative nan(i) appears in
emotion-filled discourse, data to be analyzed in this chapter are drawn primarily
from comics, particularly Kookaku Kidootai (Shiroo 1991), as well as from novels.
I also refer to published English translations as supporting evidence for a particular interpretation of 〈emotive meaning〉. I also discuss one example taken from a
television drama.
Let us now turn to two examples of nan(i), appearing in interrogative and
non-interrogative contexts. Examples (1) and (2) are taken from Kookaku Kidootai
and its published English translation Ghost in the Shell, respectively.
(1.1) Batoo:
〈Ochitsui/ta ka?〉
calmed.down q
Linguistic Emotivity
(1.2) Togusa:
〈Daijoobu da〉
all.right be
(1.3)
〈Yatsu wa/ nan to/?〉
he
T what qt
(1.4) Batoo:
〈Kumichoo ga Tomuri ni/ osowareta n
de/ shikaketa
gang.boss S Tomli by was.attacked nom be set.up
hannin
ni/ hoofukushita n
da to . . .〉
perpetrator IO revenged
nom be qt (Shiroo 1991: 132)
(2.1) Batou:
〈You/ okay/ now?〉
(2.2) Togusa:
〈Yeah . . .〉
(2.3)
〈So/ what’d/ he say?〉
(2.4) Batou:
〈Says his gang boss/was attacked by/a Tomli, and he/was
getting/revenge on the/guy who set up/the attack.〉 (Schodt
and Smith 1995: 134)
In (1.3) nan ‘what’ occurs in an interrogative sentence. This becomes evident
when one observes what precedes and what follows. Question (1.3) and its
response (1.4) are cotextually delivered without heightened emotion (without
graphic or visual signs indicating so). Here the question and answer mutually
form an adjacency pair (Schegloff 1968; Schegloff and Sacks 1973); if the answer
(i.e., the second pair-part) is missing, it is ‘‘officially absent’’ (Schegloff 1968:
1083). Utterance (1.3) falls into the category of information-seeking interrogative
(see Goody [1978] and Athanasiadou [1991] for question types).
Curiously, the use of nan(i) in information-seeking interrogative sentences
in Kookaku Kidootai is rather limited. Instead, cases of nan(i) occurring in
expletive and exclamatory expressions abound. Out of 76 occurrences of nan(i)
(including cases of nani, nan, nan to and nan te), nan(i) appeared in the information-seeking context 29 times (38.16%), while the remaining 47 cases
(61.84%) occurred in expletive, exclamative, and otherwise emotive contexts. In
addition, there were 30 cases of nani ka ‘something’ and nani mo ‘(not) anything’
in non-interrogative sentences.
Representative cases of expletive and exclamatory expressions follow in (3.3)
and (3.5). All utterances in (3) are made by one of Major Kusanagi’s subordinates. As reflected in the English translation, nan te (a combination of nan ‘what’
and the quotative marker to/te) in (3.3) appears in an exclamatory expression,
and nani in (3.5), in an expletive utterance. In the comic, in terms of cotext, both
(3.3) and (3.5) appear with visual signs that support such emotionally charged
interpretation.
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
(3.1) 〈Arya/ Ishikawa no/ Fuchikoma ja-/nee ka〉
that Ishikawa lk Fuchikoma be-neg q
(3.2) 〈Doo/ natte n
da!?〉
what become nom be
(3.3) 〈Nan te/ aimaina/ shoojunsoochi
o/ tsukatteyaga n
da〉
what qt ineffective sighting.mechanism O use
nom be
(3.4) 〈Ishikawa/ Ishikawa!〉
Ishikawa Ishikawa
(3.5) 〈Nani/ nebokete/ yagaru!!?〉
what be.half.asleep (Shiroo 1991: 36–7)
(4.1) 〈Hey!/ Isn’t that/ Ishikawa’s/ Fuchikoma?〉
(4.2) 〈What/ the/ hell’s/ going on?〉
(4.3) 〈Now that’s/ one shitty/ Goddamn/ sighting/ mecha-/ nism. . .〉
(4.4) 〈Ishikawa!/ Ishi/kawa!〉
(4.5) 〈What/ the hell/ are you/ doing?!〉
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 40–1)
In (3), an answer to (3.5) is notably absent. Note the use of the verbal suffix
-yagaru (i.e., tsukatte-yaga in [3.3] and nebokete-yagaru in [3.5]) expresses an
attitude of hatred and disdain. Nan te and nani, co-occurring with this attitudinal
suffix and not followed by a relevant answer, suggest that these phrases are
associated with emotivity. The emotion-involving interpretation of nan(i) is
enhanced by various linguistic and pragmatic factors, and thus nan(i) by itself
does not guarantee the expletive and exclamatory interpretations as reflected in
(4.3) and (4.5). It is also true, however, that nan(i) plays a major role in bringing
about the said effect. In other words, nan(i) projects on to the 〈emotive place〉
forcing certain 〈emotive meaning〉 to be integrated into appropriate 〈negotiative
meaning〉. I focus on nan(i) and its limited variants (i.e., nani, nan, nan to, and
nan te) occurring in a number of expressions other than as information-seeking
interrogatives.
I should hasten to add that here I am not saying that there are two distinct
words, informational nan(i) and emotive nan(i). Rather, the meaning of nan(i) is
negotiated in the 〈topica〉 based on the intended 〈potential meaning〉 of nan(i), as
well as on cotextual and contextual information, and the end result may lead to a
primarily informational or emotive interpretation.
Nan(i), when occurring as peremptory interrogatives and when not followed
by the partner’s answer, indexically signals the moment when one finds no
information-conveying signs. For this reason, I characterize nan(i) as an indexical
Linguistic Emotivity
sign that functions as an ‘‘anti-sign.’’ Despite, and because of, this lack of referent,
emotive nan(i) affords a significant expressive function. Nan(i) identifies undefinable items and is used for replacement; it also functions to signal the speaker’s
psychological process, such as anticipation and recognition. More importantly, I
propose that emotive nan(i) projects on to the 〈emotive place〉 by indexing
feelings such as surprise, exclamation, confrontational attitude, and critical
attitude. It also projects on to the 〈interactional place〉 by adding a sense of
vocative, by replacing utterances, and by marking negative responses.
Although emotive nan(i) is an anti-sign, because it is actually uttered, it
points to something that participants pay attention to. This something, although
empty, functions as a target of futaku, encouraging the futaku-like effect. In a
broad sense, it is possible to characterize what is presented by nan(i) as a pseudo
emotive topic, a case of the floating topic that anticipates comment. By suggesting
the target of futaku, and by prompting the topic–comment dynamic, nan(i)
contributes to the interpretation of 〈emotive meaning〉 to be interpreted through
shared perspectives.
.
Background
The discussion on nan(i) falls within the broad context of interrogativity and
exclamativity. It is well recognized that wh-question words appear in both
interrogative and exclamatory sentences (e.g., nan(i) in Japanese; what and how in
English). In addition, it is known that in English there are striking syntactic
parallelisms between interrogatives and exclamatives. For example, Grimshaw
(1979) points out the similarity in form between interrogative and exclamatory
complements. In many cases, the interrogative and exclamatory complements are
completely identical in form. This results in the semantic ambiguity of a sentence
such as Fred knows how tall John is. According to Grimshaw (1979), differences
between interrogatives and exclamatives are found in terms of determinacy/indeterminacy in the value of the variable represented by the wh-question
word. When the value associated with the wh-question word is presupposed (with
some sense of extremity), an exclamatory reading is appropriate. Indeterminacy of
the wh-question word, however, forces an interrogative reading. Although the
pragmatic condition introduced here is only suggestive of the inherent connection
between interrogatives and exclamatives, it offers a hint for further consideration.
Sperber and Wilson (1988) also mention, though briefly, similarities between
interrogatives and exclamatives. They note that although interrogatives and
exclamatives differ in traditional speech-act terms (requests for information and
emphatic assertions, respectively), from the perspective of the Relevance Theory,
they are similar. This is because, ‘‘exclamatives, like interrogatives, are specialised
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
for interpretive rather than descriptive use’’ (1988: 253). In these utterances,
language is used not for descriptive purposes, but for the expression of thought.
Sadock and Zwicky (1983) comment that exclamations resemble declarative
sentences, although ‘‘exclamations are intended to be expressive whereas
declaratives are intended to be informative’’ (1983: 162). They also add that in an
exclamation, the speaker emphasizes his or her strong emotional reaction to what
is taken to be factual. Exclamatory sentences are often similar in form to declarative sentences (e.g., That’s so tacky!). Yet, at the same time, since exclamations are,
like interrogatives, non-assertive, they often resemble interrogative sentences in
form (e.g., How tacky that is!). Interestingly, Sadock and Zwicky (1983) also add
that English has an exclamatory type that resembles yes-no questions (e.g., Boy,
does he ever have beautiful legs!).
Criticizing Sadock and Zwicky (1983), Wierzbicka (1998) points out that
declarative sentences do not have to be intended as informative. In order to
overcome the problems surrounding Sadock and Zwicky’s characterization of the
relationship between declaratives and exclamations, Wierzbicka (1998) proposes
that declaratives and exclamations can be defined ‘‘with reference to the semantic
configurations ‘I know’ and ‘I feel’, respectively’’ (1998: 174). Given that exclamatives and interrogatives are similar in form, and given that nan(i) appears in both
utterance types, the relationship between exclamatives and interrogatives remains
an intriguing point. I will return to this issue in Section 6.
Perhaps at this point a brief review of studies on Japanese interrogative
sentences is in order. I limit my discussion to nan(i) since a more extensive review
is given in Chapter 12 where interrogativity becomes the main theme. Although a
number of studies in Japanese interrogative expressions are available (e.g., Maynard
1995a, 1995b; Minami 1985; Miyaji 1979; Nakada 1984; Nitta 1987; Yano 1989),
most pertinent to the issues surrounding nan(i) is the recognition of two related
but different elements in interrogativity, the speaker’s (self-) doubt (utagai) and the
speaker’s asking (other-addressed) questions (toikake). These two elements have
been identified in some way or other by most previous Japanese studies, and have
been connected to the Japanese word for question, i.e., gimon, comprising two kanji
characters, one meaning ‘‘doubt’’ and the other meaning ‘‘inquiry.’’
Most significant is a series of studies by Yamaguchi (1983, 1986, 1990).
Yamaguchi’s position is similar to Sperber and Wilson’s (1988) in that the
semantics of interrogatives require an interpretive process. Predating the Relevance Theory, Yamaguchi (1986) suggests that interrogatives mark psychological
stages of doubt and inquiry, and more specifically, embedded within the interrogatives themselves are the relevant possible answers. Concepts of doubt and
inquiry are then placed in the interactional relationship of who-speaks-to-whom.
Such pragmatic understanding of interrogativity offers insight as to how one
proceeds to understand the meaning and functions of nan(i). Yamaguchi (1986)
Linguistic Emotivity
also characterizes nan(i) in terms of ootoogo ‘answering words’, kandoogo ‘emotive
words’, and yobikakego ‘vocative words’. Yamaguchi’s study suggests a broadbased usage of nan(i) including nan(i) as an emotive (his emotive words) and as
interactional strategies (his answering words and vocative words).
Listing examples from both classical and modern Japanese written texts,
Yamaguchi provides descriptive terms for various uses/functions of nan(i). Under
answering words, Yamaguchi (1990) includes nan(i)’s functions of negative
response and refusal; under emotive and vocative words are functions of exclamation, surprise, confrontation, and disappointment. Incorporating Yamaguchi’s categorization, in this chapter from the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation theory,
I discuss 〈negotiative meanings〉 of nan(i) evidenced in concrete data analyses.
.
Nan(i) as an anti-sign
So, what is nan(i)? According to the Koojien dictionary, nani is a pronoun and its
〈potential meaning〉 is that it ‘‘points to things without clearly defining what they
are,’’ or also ‘‘points to things for which words are unknown or unavailable’’
(Monogoto o donna mono da to wa, hakkiri sadame-zuni sashi, mada na ga wakaranai monogoto o sasu no ni mochiiru) (1955:1799). The Koojien entry lists other uses
of nan(i), but particularly significant is that nan(i) is an indefinite pronoun which
may be used for non-interrogative purposes, similar to the English something.
Unlike English what, nan(i)’s use is not limited to interrogative nor exclamatory
sentences. Given this broad distribution, what is this sign that points to things
without defining them? I call nan(i) an ‘‘anti-sign’’ and as I argue in what follows,
the anti-sign is functional in projecting intensely on to the 〈emotive place〉 thus
facilitating the emotive instantiation of the consequent 〈negotiative meaning〉.
. Characteristics of nan(i) as an anti-sign
Two exerpts taken from two different mystery novels will help illustrate how nan(i)
functions as an anti-sign. (5) is an utterance made by Asami, a free-lance writer,
addressed to Chief Detective Takebayashi. In the prior text, both are guessing who
the murderer is, and Asami insists that the murderer is unrelated to a gang of
mobsters. Asami uses the phrases nan nara ‘(lit.) what if ’, without referring to
anything specific.
(5) ‘‘Ee, soo omoimasu. Nan nara kaketemo ii
desu yo.’’
yes so think
what if.be bet
all.right be ip
‘‘‘Yes, I think so. Well if you’d like (lit. if something), I’ll bet with
you.’’’ (Uchida 1997: 60)
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
Immediately following (5), Takebayashi says ‘‘Aho ka, keisatsunai de gyanburu o
suru yatsu ga aru ka ne’’ ‘Foolish you, who would get involved in betting at the
police station?’ Asami is likely to be aware that gambling is not an activity he
should encourage, and perhaps because of this sense of hesitation, nan nara is
inserted. Here nan nara is a pre-announcement conversational filler that often
functions to lessen the impact of the statement to follow. Inserting verbalization
without a specific reference creates an interpersonal space, rendering the conversation less abrasive. Nan(i) is a kind of delay device and as Pomerantz (1984: 70)
states, ‘‘(I)ncorporating delay devices constitutes a typical turn shape for disagreements when agreements are invited.’’ Levinson (1983) lists the characteristics of
the dispreferred seconds within the preference organization by features such as
delays, prefaces, accounts, and declination component. Nan in (5) constitutes a
part of the preface necessary before starting the dispreferred turn.
Similarly in (6), use of nani ne ‘(lit.) what, you know’ has no specific referent.
At this point in the novel, Tsuzuki, the hero, asks Coleman, a shady tycoon, why
Coleman became involved in the dangerous business deal. Coleman answers by
(6) that a man’s greed knows no end. When Coleman starts his answer with iya,
nani ne ‘(lit.) no, what, you know’, a conversational space is opened, giving the
impression that in that space he is forging a thoughtful response.
(6) ‘‘Iya, nani ne. Ningen
no yoku ni wa kiri ga nai.
no what ip human.beings lk greed in T limit S be-neg
Bijinesu ni seikooshitara, tsugini kenryoku toitta guaini ne.’’
business in if.succeed
next power
such manner ip
‘‘‘No, well, you know. There is no end to human greed. If you succeed in
your business, next you go after power, and so on.’’’ (Tsuge 1996:262)
In (5) and (6), nan(i) substitutes for the expression that one finds no appropriate
specific words for. Nan(i) takes up the conversational moment otherwise occupied
by topics that neither speaker wishes to explicitly articulate.
In the classical Saussurean understanding of sign (de Saussure 1966), the
sign’s internal structure is dyadically characterized, through a signifier (or, soundimage) and a signified (or, concept). In this understanding, analogous with the
relationship between the two sides of a coin, a sign is a sign because it is mutually
supported by a signifier and the signified. Interestingly, in the case of nan(i), the
signified is definable only by its absence. Although every sign is expected to be
held in oppositional relationships with other signs (i.e., Saussurean syntagmatic
and associative relationships) within the system of the particular language, nan(i)
lacks such relationships. Nan(i) has no supporting concrete concept (such as the
concept of a ‘tree’ corresponding to the signifier tree).
This, of course, does not mean that nan(i) is an empty sign rendering it
useless. On the contrary, nan(i) is a sign that signifies the situation in which one
Linguistic Emotivity
cannot or does not find an appropriate signifier. One may characterize such nan(i)
as being in an oppositional relationship with the entire network of signs. What
nan(i) signifies is the refusal of the use of a signifier. Failing to function as a sign
in the Saussurean sense, nan(i) signifies the unsignifiable in discourse, and
functions as an anti-sign.
I have just characterized nan(i) as an anti-sign. I must warn the reader,
however, that nan(i) is not the only anti-sign in the language. Certain function
words, such as particles and interjections, are not associated with referential
meanings either. Yet, nan(i), by its very token, represents the absence of reference
most vividly. It is a prototypical anti-sign.
. Functions of nan(i) as an anti-sign
Let me illustrate further the idea that nan(i) functions as a prototypical anti-sign.
I propose that emotive nan(i) acquires meaning when it ‘‘stands in’’ for the
moment when no appropriate referential words are found. Nan(i) operates in two
ways; (1) by referring to undefinable items (which include unidentifiable and
unisolatable), and (2) by offering fill-ins. Examples (5) and (6) discussed earlier
are examples of the anti-sign nan(i) functioning as fill-ins.
Segment (7), taken from a romance comic, illustrates cases where nan
appears as a way of mentioning the unidentifiable and the unisolatable. At this
point in the comic, Ryoosuke confronts Masato for seducing Ryoosuke’s girlfriend
Akiko. Masato challenges this by uttering Nan da yo ‘(lit.)What is it?’, and
Ryoosuke then answers Nan demo nee yo-tt ‘(lit.) It’s not anything’. Ryoosuke
punches Masato while exclaiming (7.4).
(7.1) Ryoosuke: 〈Oi〉
hey
‘Hey.’
(7.2) Masato:
〈Ee?〉
hun
‘Hun?’
(7.3)
〈Na〉 〈Nan da yo/ kimi wa〉
wh what be ip you T
‘Wha . . . What the heck are you?’
(7.4) Ryoosuke: 〈. . . Nan demo〉 〈Nee yo-tt〉
what even be-neg ip
‘Nothing!’ (Momoi 1994: 101–2)
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
The entire exchange depicted in (7) consists of verbalization without reference. Nan
in utterance (7.3) is unidentifiable; nan demo in utterance (7.4) is unisolatable.
Although nan in (7.3) appears as a wh-question word, there is no reasonable way to
answer this question. Any of the possible information-providing answers, such as
Otoko da yo! ‘I’m a man!’ or Ningen da yo! ‘I’m a human being!’, would be ridiculous. The fact of the matter is that (7.3) does not really expect an answer, and
therefore, all answers are anomalous, and most likely to be interpreted as uncooperative and therefore, confrontational.
Note also that nan ‘what’, instead of dare ‘who’, appears in (7.3), referring to
the unidentifiable situation as a whole. Choosing dare instead presupposes that
the unidentified item is a person. Nan(i) is the least specific among all
wh-question words. Utterances with specific references would produce disengaged conversation. In the situation depicted by (7), the information is muted,
and only the confrontational acts themselves (of saying something, or just about
anything) are significant. The non-interrogative nan(i) as an anti-sign exhibits
its effectiveness most clearly under these circumstances as it occupies an interpersonal space.
Another example taken from Chibi Maruko-chan follows. Here, Maruko’s
classmate Fujiki is forced to exchange his pottery with Yamada’s broken pottery.
Fujiki gives up convincing Yamada that he doesn’t want such an exchange, and
utters (8).
(8) 〈. . . Aa/ nan demo/ ii
yo/ moo . . .〉
ah what even all.right ip any.more
‘. . . Ah, anything is fine, I don’t care any more.’
(Sakura 1996: 110)
The use of nan demo refers to an inclusive category that is unisolatable. Fujiki’s
abandoning attitude is reflected in his generalizing attitude, that is, an abandonment of specificity. As one’s desire for persuasion wanes, so does one’s will for
informational specificity. This iconic resignation from one’s desire for persuasion
as well as specific words illustrates the usefulness of nan(i) as an anti-sign.
Perhaps one of the most illustrative cases of anti-sign nan(i) is observed in the
following interaction appearing in a television drama.1 In this scene, a married
couple (Okatsu and Kumaichi) start a verbal fight, which ends up in a physical
fight at the point of (9.5).
Linguistic Emotivity
(9.1) Okatsu:
Danna, uchino yadoroku ya Hassan ni sonna
master my
husband and Hassan for such
tenokonda uso ga tsukeru yoona sainoo ga aru
complicated lie O tell
as
talent S there.is
mono desu ka. Moshi attara
konna
shoobai
nom be q if
if.there.is this.kind.of business
nanzo yatteyashima-sen yo.
such do-neg
ip
‘Dear Master, if my husband and Hassan were talented
enough to tell such a complicated lie, they wouldn’t be engaged in this kind of business.’
(9.2) Kumaichi: Koitsu, konna
shoobai to wa nan dai?
you
this.kind.of business qt T what be
‘You, what do you mean by this kind of business?’
(9.3) Okatsu:
Nan da to wa nan dai?
what be qt T what be
‘What do you mean by what do you mean?’
(9.4) Kumaichi: Nan da to wa nan da to wa nan dee?
what be qt T what be qt T what be
‘What do you mean by what do you mean by what do you
mean?’
(9.5) Okatsu:
Nani itte n
da yo, omae-san?
what say nom be ip you
‘What are you talking about, dear?’
cast in 1992)
(Oooka Echizen broad-
Particularly interesting in this example is the absence of a referent for all uses of
nan(i). Still, the 〈emotive meaning〉 of nan(i) comes across clearly. By uttering
nan(i) expressions, the interaction is accomplished, and the emotion-involving
conflict is enacted. By saying something, or anything, one engages in emotional
interaction, and the anti-sign nan(i) is a device suited for that purpose. With these
features, as I explain in Sections 4 and 5, nan(i) contributes significantly to
emotive and interactional meanings.
In sum, in certain cases nan(i) is an emotive, functioning as an anti-sign not
because it provides information, but precisely because it does not supply nor seek
specific information. Unlike informational nan(i), because it lacks (interest in)
specific referent, emotive nan(i) becomes a significant sign, foregrounding
emotive and interactional meanings. In traditional linguistics, signs without
referential meanings have often been ignored and pushed outside the theoretical
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
domain. The anti-sign nan(i) is testimony to the fact that an emotivity-dedicated
sign not only exists in language but also offers a means for expressing the richness
of linguistic emotivity.
One may raise a question why a single sign nan(i) expresses so many emotive
meanings. Unlike signs with clear referents, nan(i) is more susceptible to multiple
interpretations. This is because the interpretation of nan(i) is indexed to varying
cotextual and contextual information more strongly than other signs. Nan(i)
strongly bears characteristics of indexical signs, whose interpretation heavily
depends on the process of the Peircean interpretant. Nan(i)’s 〈potential meaning〉,
particularly when it functions as an emotive sign in non-interrogative contexts, is
open and undefined, leading to an instantiation of more varied 〈negotiative
meanings〉.
. Nan(i) and psychological processes
Although I concentrate on the non-interrogative nan(i), ironically, the very
interrogativity associated with nan(i) also adds to nan(i)’s function. That is to say,
emotive nan(i) often appears as an interrogative in disguise, with a question
seemingly addressed to the partner and yet not expecting an answer. Such
peremptory nan(i) refuses the expected sequencing of conversation moves, and
consequently, the speaker’s position is often interpreted with exclamative and
emphatic effects.
At this point I should mention those cases of nan(i) closely associated with
information, but whose appearance in contexts where ordinary question-answer
interactions are unexpected. These cases of nan(i) index the speaker’s psychological processes in the following sense. First is the anticipation nan(i) which marks
the speaker’s attitude of eager curiousness, and the anticipation of an imminent
and relevant event. The speaker is about to learn some information, as illustrated
in (10) taken from Chibi Maruko-chan. Here Maruko is about to read a letter
addressed to her. She expresses her readiness to face something new by uttering
nani nani ‘(lit.) what what’. Hajime mashite ‘How do you do’ is the first sentence
appearing in the letter.
(10) Maruko: 〈Nani nani/ . . . Hajime/mashite〉
what what
how.do.you.do
‘Well, let’s see. . . How do you do.’
(Sakura 1996: 5)
Another example of anticipation is presented in (11). Utterances in (11), taken
from an action comic, appear as part of one of the character’s internal monologue.
Nanachi, surprised at the strange power of the sword, cannot quite come to grips
with the situation. Nanachi doubts what is happening and utters (11), clearly with
Linguistic Emotivity
no expectation of an answer. Nanachi anticipates his own forthcoming comprehension of the situation.
(11) Na/ nan da/ kore . . .!? Shinken
ga . . .!!
what what be this
sacred.sword S
‘Wha, what’s happening!? The sacred sword . . .!!’
(Itsuki 1998: 173)
Nan(i) is also associated with information in another way, that is, recognizing
(and acknowledging) a piece of information that has particularly puzzled the
speaker. For example, in (12) taken from a mystery novel, Mizuhara has been
worried about what happened to his friend, Jan. Mizuhara discovers that a young
woman came to pick up Jan, and by nan da ‘(lit.) what is’, he expresses that he
now understands the situation. This nan da is indexed to Mizuhara’s situation,
i.e., he recognizes and acknowledges the information.
(12) Nan da. Sooyuu koto ka.
what be such fact q
‘Oh, I got it. That’s just so, I see.’
(Nishimura 1998: 104)
In (13), taken from a romance comic, Masato, a boyfriend-to-be of the heroine,
Kaho, being disappointed, also uses the nan(i) expression. In this scene Masato,
noticing Kaho’s light brown hair, wonders if she is a foreigner, and pulls Kaho’s
hair from the back. As Kaho turns around and Masato realizes that Kaho is a
Japanese girl, Masato utters (13).
(13) 〈Naan da/ jun
nihonjin kaa〉
what be genuine Japanese q
‘Ah, I got it, you are a genuine Japanese.’
(Orihara 1992: 9)
Naan da in (13) (with an elongated vowel for expressing emphatic recognition
that the answer to the puzzling question was simpler than expected) marks the
speaker’s cognitive process of recognition. Enhanced by the cotextual information
(Masato’s facial expression showing dissappointment), it is possible to interpret
Masato’s recognition as accompanied with a sense of disappointment.
Because nan(i) in (12) and (13) focuses on the psychological and cognitive
aspects of communication, referential specificity is avoided. As in the case of an
English expression such as Oh, that’s (what) it (is), nan(i) successfully characterizes the speaker’s cognitive process without specificity. Anticipation and recognition functions have much to do with the speaker’s 〈recognition of objects〉.
Although these functions project on to the 〈cognitive place〉, certain levels of
emotivity are expressed as well. That is, by revealing one’s inner psychological
state, the speaker reveals oneself to the partner, which inevitably expresses a sense
of familiarity, trust, and perhaps intimacy between them.
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
. Nan(i) and emotive meaning
Nan(i) projects on to the 〈emotive place〉, functioning primarily in the 〈expression
of emotional attitude〉, including the following. Nan(i) for surprise expresses the
speaker’s surprise when faced with unexpected and/or extraordinary facts. Nan for
exclamation (in nan to; nan te . . . nan da!) expresses the speaker’s amazement
toward unusual, unexpected, extraordinary situations. Nan(i) for confrontational
attitude (nani? with a higher pitch and a prominent stress at ni and nani yo!, nani
ga . . . da! and nan da with the phonological prominence on na) is used to
challenge the partner’s action and speech in conflict situations. Nani for critical
attitude expresses the speaker’s critical and/or accusatory attitude while giving an
impression that the utterance is offered as a complaint.
Before proceeding, I must remind the reader that each occurrence of nan(i)
may foreground more than one type of meaning. After all, nan(i) is a single lexical
item, negotiated to mean in multiple ways, and therefore, the attitudes and
feelings mentioned above are identified in terms of tendencies. This point will be
explicitly discussed later regarding example (26).
Nan(i) for surprise indexically signals the speaker’s unpreparedness toward
certain available facts. The speaker’s focus is directed toward the 〈emotive place〉
rather than the 〈cognitive place〉. Observe examples (14) and (15), both taken
from comics.
(14.1) 〈Nan da tte!/ Watanabe-san tachi o/ koroshita hannin
wa〉
what be qt Watanabe
others O killed
perpetrator T
‘Wha, what! The murderer who killed Watanabe and others.’
(14.2) 〈Keruberosu/ ja-nai tte/ !?〉
Keruberosu be-neg qt
‘That’s not Keruberosu!?’ (Amagi, Kanai and Satoo 1998: 119)
(15.1) Hayasaki: 〈Honami-san/ kyoo hookago/ hima desu ka?〉
Honami
today after.school free be q
‘Honami, are you free after school today?’
(15.2) Honami: 〈E-tt. . ./ ee〉
huh
‘Huh. . . Yes.’
(15.3) Hayasaki: 〈Jaa kyoo/ isshoni kaerimashoo〉
then today together go.home
‘Then, let’s go back home together today.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(15.4) Honami: E-tt!? Nan desu tte . . .-tt!?
huh what be qt
‘Huh? What are you saying?’
(15.5) Hayasaki: 〈Yoji
ni koomon toko de/ mattemasu〉
four.o’clock at school.gate place at wait
‘I’ll be waiting for you at the school gate at four.’
(15.6) Honami: 〈A! Chotto. . .〉
ah wait
‘Ah! Wait.’ (Orihara 1992: 72)
In both (14.1) and (15.4), the feeling of surprise is expressed, in part, by the use of
nan in Nan da tte! and Nan desu tte ‘(lit.) What’s that, you say?’. In both cases, it
is impossible to answer these questions, and as evident in (14) and (15), they are
not answered. Note that in (15.5), Hayasaki completely ignores Honami’s words
(15.4), and continues on with his agenda. Here the use of nan indicates the
emotional response based on the inability to immediately accept the available
information. The speaker cannot quite acknowledge nor accept the relevant
information given in the prior text, and therefore she refers to that information by
nan. Although it is possible to use nan(i) independently (e.g., Eh, nani. Sore honto?
‘Uh, what. Is that true?’), for the surprise effect, the quotative to/te often follows
nan da/desu. The quotative marker helps define the source of surprise attributed
to someone else. Cotextually, the surprise nan(i) in comics is often accompanied
by graphic and visual information, which further supports its interpretation.
I have mentioned the exclamative use of nan(i) earlier in example (3.3). For
the exclamative use, nan is combined with the quotative to/te, producing nan to
and nan te, represented by (16) and (17), respectively. (16), taken from a mystery
novel, represents the narrative voice commenting on a married couple involved in
the murder case. Sentence (17), from a romance comic, appears outside the
speech balloon, graphically indicating Akiko’s (the heroine of the comic) internal
monologue. Akiko is amazed at her own mistake and says (17) to herself.
(16) Nan to utsukushii fuufuai
dewa-nai ka.
what qt beautiful love.of.married.couple be-neg q
‘What a beautiful love relationship of a married couple!’
1997: 281)
(Uchida
(17) Nan te/ bakana koto/ shita no/
what qt foolish fact did nom
‘What a foolish thing I did!’ (Momoi 1994: 54)
Nan to may also appear as an interjection as illustrated in (18) and (19). (18)
appears in the narrative segment of a novel, expressing the narrator’s amazement
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
about how things are developing. This interjectional nan to encourages the reader
to experience the narrator’s story-telling; the reader anticipates that something
extraordinary is about to happen. Nan to in (19) appears in direct quotation,
echoing the voice of the speaker.
(18) Nan to sannin ga tazunetekita koichijikan hodo maeni, Suzuki
what qt three S visited
one.hour about ago
Suzuki
Masataka ga purehabu kenchiku no Toohitsu honsha
ni
Masataka S pre-fab builder lk Toohitsu main.office at
shachoo no Kusaka Keizoo o tazunetekiteita no datta.
president lk Kusaka Keizoo O visited
nom be
‘To one’s amazement, about an hour before the three of them came for
a visit, Masataka Suzuki had visited Keizoo Kusaka, the president, at the
main office of the pre-fab builder, Toohitsu.’ (Shimizu 1998: 136)
(19) ‘‘(. . .) Sooshitara, nan to, sono aite
no kuruma ni Hakamada
then
what qt that partner lk car
in Hakamada
tachi ga notteita. (. . .)’’
others S rode
‘‘‘Then, to my amazement, Hakamada and others were in the partner’s
car.’’’ (Uchida 1997: 197)
The use of nan to/nan te in both narrative text and quotation is made possible, due,
in part, to the quotative to. Nan to and nan te ‘(lit.) to say what’ perhaps originate
in the expression nan to ittara ii ka ‘what would be good to say’ or nan to yuu ka
‘what to say’. Nan to and nan te literally index the moments without words.
Nan(i), in the context of an emotionally charged conflict/argument, serves to
mark the speaker’s confrontational attitude. Observe (20) taken from a comic. In
the prior text, Fuuko, the heroine destroys her opponent in a fight. The opponent
screams (20.1), using nani yo as an expression of confrontation. Again, nani yo
‘(lit.) what’ does not expect an answer, as evidenced by her continued speech. (20.1)
is accompanied with graphic and visual cues typical of a confrontational encounter.
(20.1) 〈Na, nani yo,/ hanashitekureru!?〉
wha what ip release
‘Hey, what’re you doing! Let me go!’
(20.2) 〈Moo shoobu wa/ owatta no yo!!〉
already fight T ended nom ip
‘The fight is already over!’ (Anzai 1998: 61)
A similar use of nani is observed in (21) taken from a novel. At this point in the
novel Yuusaku confesses to Keizoo that he has decided to quit his job. Amazed
and outraged, Keizoo blurts out (21).
Linguistic Emotivity
(21) Keizoo:
‘‘Nani. Bakana koto o yuu-na.’’
what foolish fact O say-neg
‘‘‘What! Don’t tell me that!.’’’ (Shimizu 1998: 306)
Immediately following (21), the narrative text reads; Bikkurishite Keizoo ga
donarikaeshita ‘Being surprised, Keizoo yelled back in anger’. This description
offers evidence supporting the confrontational interpretation of nan(i). The
contextual information provided by the narrator projects on to the 〈topica〉, which
guides the instantiation of nan(i)’s appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉.
Although nani appears as an independent interjection in (20) and (21), the
confrontational nan(i) also appears in the sentence structure as presented in (22).
(22) is taken from an action comic where Joker, Koganei’s opponent in the fight,
calls out Tanma ya-tt ‘Time out!’ Then Koganei barks out (22.1). Immediately
following (22.1), Joker responds in (22.2), not by answering, but by directing
attention to what happens next. In (22.3) Joker points out that there is someone
else who needs to be gotten rid of, and he lifts Fuuko up with a pitchfork.
(22.1) Koganei: 〈Nani ga tanma da-tt,/ bakkyaroo-tt!!〉
what S time-out be
idiot
‘What, time out? You, idiot!!’
(22.2) Joker:
〈Yoo/ mitemii,/ hore〉
closely look
here
‘Look closely, here.’
(22.3)
〈Mikoto ga/ mada/ orimasu/ yaro〉
devil
S still is.here ip
‘A devil is still here, isn’t she?’ (Anzai 1998: 96)
Curiously, the negotiation of confrontational meaning is predicated not upon the
speaker or language alone, but rather upon the participant’s consequent action (or
lack of it) as well. Obviously, the linguistic strategy itself supplies the 〈potential
meaning〉 which encourages a certain interpretation, but that is not sufficient. The
speaker’s own intended meaning is confirmed on the basis of the partner’s
response. In this reciprocal negotiation in the place, the 〈negotiative meaning〉 of
emotive nan(i) takes form.
Recall (3.5) mentioned earlier in this chapter. Nani neboketeyagaru is an
expletive, strongly criticizing and/or accusing one’s partner. In (23), taken from
Chibi Maruko-chan, witnessing her clumsy father tripping over an electrical cord,
Maruko’s sister expresses (23.1). As evidenced by Maruko’s utterance (23.2)
appearing in the same frame, the elder sister does not expect an answer. Nani yatten
no ‘What are you doing!’ is not really an interrogative. By voicing an unanswerable
question, the nani expression serves as a criticism, accusation, or scolding.
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
(23.1) sister:
〈Chotto/ ya da/ otoosan/ nani yatten no〉
hey
no be father what do
nom
‘Hey, oh, no, Dad, what are you doing!’
(23.2) Maruko: 〈Daijoobu?〉
all.right
‘Are you all right?’
(Sakura 1995: 78)
Likewise in (24), an example taken from a mystery novel, the free-lance writer
Asami, hero of the story, responds to a journal editor’s invitation. The editor
requests that Asami visit the Shima peninsula to write a report on women divers
(for pearls). Asami, misunderstanding the word ama, comments in the prior
speech; You mean nuns? I am not too comfortable with religious circumstances.
The editor, in (24), criticizes Asami’s lack of understanding by uttering Nani itten
no sa ‘What are you talking about!’ Obviously no answer is expected.
(24) ‘‘Nani itten no sa. Ama-san tte ittatte, atama no marui
what say nom ip ama
qt say
head lk round
ama-san ja-nakute, ama no ama yo.’’
ama
be-neg ama lk ama ip
‘‘‘What are you talking about! Me mentioning ama, I don’t mean a nun
with a shaved head, I mean the ama, the diver.’’’ (Uchida 1997: 7)
The criticism nani frequently appears with the verb yuu ‘say’ and suru ‘do’. It
seems reasonable that criticism and accusation are linked to these verbs since they
replace specific verbs. Similar to nani, yuu and suru are used as replacing proverbs, representing the situation without specificity.
Four kinds of 〈emotive meanings〉 mentioned above, i.e., surprise, exclamation, confrontational attitude, and critical attitude, are negotiated in the 〈topica〉,
and express varied levels of emotional attitude.
.
Nan(i) and interactional meaning
Nan(i) projecting on to the 〈interactional place〉 functions primarily in the
〈management of participatory action〉 as a vocative, replacement of utterance, and
negative response. Nan(i) as a vocative (e.g., Nan da yo ‘(lit.) What is it?’, said
invitingly) is used for gaining the partner’s attention. Nan(i) for replacing
utterance is used when the speaker avoids specificity, and instead fills in the
interactional space, often functioning as a conversation filler. Nani as a negative
response mildly negates the information relevant to the situation.
Nan(i) may appear as a vocative where the speaker requests attention. (25), a
situation where Koo has invited Miku to dinner, Koo, observing Miku not eating
Linguistic Emotivity
much, starts the conversation by calling out to her. Obviously, Nan da yo ‘(lit.)
What is it?’ is not a question; rather, it prefaces his speaking turn.
(25.1) Koo:
〈Nan da yo/ moo/ ii
no ka?〉
what be ip already enough nom q
‘Hey, did you already have enough?’
(25.2) Miku:
〈N/ moo/ onaka ippai〉
yes already belly full
‘Yes, I’m already full.’ (Itsuki 1998: 32)
A similar case taken from Kookaku Kidootai is depicted in (26), along with its
translation given in (27). While conversing with Batoo, Major Kusanagi pauses,
deep in thought. The close-up of her face with eyes cast downward invites such
interpretation. Her pensive expression is reflected in her gesture which places her
cheek resting on her hand. Batoo senses that Major Kusanagi is absorbed in
thought, and is perhaps struggling to decide if she should share those thoughts
with him. The next frame pulls out to a wide shot of a futuristic space-age office
complex, where the reader is able to spot the two small figures of Major Kusanagi
and Batoo inside the window of a brightly lit office. Finally, Batoo utters (26).
When Batoo starts his turn with Nan da yo ‘(lit.) What is it?’, as evidenced by his
immediately following ie yo ‘tell me’, he does not wait for an answer.
(26.1) 〈Nan da yo/ ie yo.〉
what be ip say ip
(26.2) 〈Ore ni/ horeta/ ?〉
me IO fell.in.love
(Shiroo 1991: 280)
(27.1) 〈C’mon. . ./ tell/ me!〉
(27.2) 〈You fall/ in love/ with/ me?〉
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 282)
Although one may interpret (26.1) as an information-seeking question where
nan operates as a wh-question word, which is not entirely impossible, it seems
reasonable to interpret this use of nan as functioning like a vocative. In fact the
question (26.2) is somewhat out of context, perhaps offered as a joke in order to
add levity to the situation. (26.1) is a way of catching attention from the partner
through which Batoo tries to pull Major Kusanagi out of her pensive trance.
And indeed, this is reflected in the translation given in (27.1). It is perhaps
reasonable to consider the use of Nan da yo in (26.1) as functioning in multiple
ways, partly as an information-seeking question, but primarily as an emotive
with a vocative quality.
I have already presented cases of nan(i) functioning as fill-ins in (5) and (6).
Nan(i) in these examples functions as a conversation filler, purposefully occupy-
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
ing an interactional space. This nan(i) used for replacing utterances also functions
in duplication contexts as shown in (28) and (29). Nani in ryookai mo nani mo
‘permission or whatever’ in (28) and nan in joseiyoo no sukii da nan da ‘ski for
women and what not’ in (29) both appear in duplication contexts.
(28) ‘‘Ryookai mo nani mo, watashi wa shinpu-san ni otodokesuru
permission T what T I
T priest
IO deliver
koto o yakusokushita n
desu.’’
nom O promised
nom be
‘‘‘Permission or whatever, I promised that I would deliver that to the
priest.’’’ (Kotani 1997: 176)
(29) ‘‘(. . .) Hoteru de wa joseiyoo no sukii da nan da to, ooawatede
hotel at T women lk ski be what be qt in.a.rush
soroeteimashita kke.’’
prepared
ip
‘‘‘At the hotel, they were getting things ready in a rush, ski for women
and what not.’’’ (Tsuge 1996: 41)
In (28) and (29), by adding nan(i), the speaker points to other unspecified possibilities. Like nan(i) used as a conversation filler, nan(i) in the duplication context
not only fills in an interactional space, but also functions to avoid specificity by
generalizing the category.2 In these examples, avoiding specificity makes the
utterance less shocking and less offensive, and as a result, the interaction becomes
more pleasant. And as Chafe (1982) noted, the use of vagueness expressions and
hedges manifests (high) involvement.
Nan(i) marks the speaker’s negative response related to the relevant situation
as illustrated in the following. (30) is taken from a romance comic, where Kaho
talks to her grandmother, both of whom live somewhere near the ocean away
from Tokyo. The use of nan in the grandmother’s response marks the negation of
the partner’s statement. This use is considered a dialect of central Japan on the
Pacific coast (attributed to Nihon Kokugo Daijiten 1975: 391).
(30.1) Kaho:
〈Arigato/ baachan〉
thank.you grandmother
‘Thanks, Grandma.’
(30.2)
〈A . . . demo/ kore tsukuru no ni/ baachan/
ah
but
this make nom to grandmother
murishita
n
ja . . .〉
worked.too.hard nom be
‘Ah, but, Grandma, didn’t you work too hard making
this for me?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(30.3) Grandmother: 〈Naan no!〉
what nom
‘No, no problem, dear.’
(Orihara 1992: 127)
(31.2), a direct quotation taken from a mystery novel, shows the use of nani in
negative response.
(31.1) Asami:
‘‘Jaa, shoobai ga joozuna n
desu ne’’
so business S good nom be ip
‘‘‘So, they are quite good at business, right?’’’
(31.2) Storekeeper: ‘‘Nani, are wa ungayokatta no desu yo.’’
what that T was.fortunate nom be ip
‘‘‘No (not really), they were just fortunate.’’’ (Uchida
1997: 244)
In (30.3) and (31.2), naan no and nani are what Yamaguchi (1986) calls ootoogo
‘answering words’ used to negate the content or the action of prior discourse.
Naan ‘(lit.) what’ in (30.3) and nani ‘(lit.) what’ in (31.2) have no referent.
They simply enact a response and index the speaker’s attitude. In contrast with
other negative interjections such as iie ‘no’ and iya ‘no’, nan(i), being less
specific and functioning as a filler, nuances a gentler negation. In other words,
nan(i) speaks for the negative answer that cannot be verbalized in strong and
specific terms.
Three functions, i.e., vocative, replacing utterance, and negative response, all
function in the 〈management of participatory action〉. These are interaction-based
functions, and through their participation in the exchange, they express 〈interactional meanings〉 as specified above.
. Between interrogativity and exclamativity
As reviewed earlier, similarities between interrogativity and exclamativity have
been raised by scholars including Grimshaw (1979) and Yamaguchi (1986).
Following a similar line of thinking, this section addresses the issue with the
specifics of nan(i) in mind.
To start with: Why do interrogativity and exclamativity employ similar
linguistic forms? Let me answer this question in the following way. Interrogativity
and exclamativity are similar in that when voiced, the speaker refuses to fully
recognize and accept given information. In either case, the speaker harbors doubt
and indeterminacy. Under interrogativity, one doubts the yet unavailable information, while under exclamativity, one doubts, or more accurately, harbors a feeling
of bewildering doubt. In both situations, the speaker has not yet psychologically
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
nor emotionally accepted the information, or, in any case, the speaker conveys
that he or she has not.
Depending on how one deals with such doubt, different interactions result.
For one, if the speaker addresses doubt in such a way as to invite an answer, interrogativity emerges. On the other hand, if the speaker does not seek an answer
while harboring doubt toward the extraordinariness of the topic, exclamativity
emerges. Here, Yamaguchi’s (1990) idea of self-doubt and other-addressed inquiry
becomes useful. Exclamations and interrogatives focus on different aspects of
doubt-related psychology, primarily self-doubt and other-addressed doubt,
respectively.
Recall that questions are questions because they expect answers. When a
question poses a challenge within the interrogative context, the partner is given an
opportunity to respond. However, as revealed by many examples discussed in this
chapter, the speaker may not expect an answer at all. In such peremptory interrogatives, the speaker refuses to express other-addressed doubt, and harbors selfdoubt, which may result in an exclamative interpretation.
The significant point is that interrogative and exclamative meanings arise
from the very interactional expectation (or the lack thereof) among relevant
participants located in a particular place. What the speaker does and does not
expect from other participants in the 〈interactional place〉 largely triggers the
difference between the interrogative and exclamative interpretations. In this sense,
meanings are negotiated between participants, or more accurately, meanings are
emergent in the very process of negotiation.
When the speaker has doubt toward information and expects a relevant
answer from others, nan(i) projects on to the 〈cognitive place〉. When the speaker
doubts the information but does not expect an answer, and instead, expresses how
he or she may resolve the doubt, nan(i) projects on to the 〈emotive place〉. And
exclamative expression may result when one’s doubt is internalized (i.e.,
Yamaguchi’s [1990] self-doubt). Thus nan(i) functioning in the 〈emotive place〉
refuses others’ answers, although on the surface it may give an impression of being
an interrogative. And when the speaker experiences little doubt (toward information or toward oneself) and, instead, shows concern to others, nan(i) functions in
the 〈interactional place〉. In this way, nan(i), functioning as an anti-sign, indexically signals the speaker’s psychological states and emotive expressivity.
Naturally, the close association between interrogativity and exclamativity is
observed in English as well. Expressions such as What an idiot! and How beautiful!,
as well as the expression or what? in sentences such as Are we the most pathetic
family on the planet, or what? illustrate my point. Lighter (1998) calls this or what?
‘‘peremptory’’ or what?, characterizing it as most typically featuring a pause before
the or and emphatic stress on the what. The peremptory or what? does not expect
an answer; instead it communicates linguistic emotivity.
Linguistic Emotivity
.
Reflections
Regarding English interjection what?, Goffman (1981: 81) once stated that it is
interpreted as a ‘‘rebuke to conduct,’’ rather than a ‘‘request for rerun.’’ Indeed, a
whole group of utterances, what Goffman calls self-talk, imprecations, and
response cries, are public blurtings used with specific purposes. Here the semantics of these phrases are not so significant. Instead these blurtings make a claim
that ‘‘our inner concerns should be theirs, too’’ (Goffman 1981: 121). One’s
psychological and emotional concerns are expressed not through descriptive
words, but rather through impulsive, spontaneous outbursts. The anti-sign nan(i)
in Japanese, because it does not supply nor seek specific information, often
operating as an interjection, provides for just such expressive needs. In fact nan(i)
may be thought of as a device intentionally provided by the language to fill the
need for saying something when no words can be found, or, to convey the lack of
(interest in) specific reference.
The multiple 〈emotive meanings〉 of nan(i) discussed in this chapter resonate
with the Japanese Rhetoric of Pathos. The pervasive use of nan(i) as an anti-sign
seems to be indicative of a communication preference for the relative unimportance of the (propositional) 〈informational meaning〉, precisely one of the
characteristics of the Japanese Rhetoric of Pathos. In addition to propositional
devices, Japanese language is coded with many devices for linguistic emotivity, and
the use of nan(i) as an emotive is simply one case among many that provide
supporting evidence for such preference. This polysemous nature of nan(i) also
resonates with the Knowledge of Pathos.
I take the position that nan(i) facilitates the experience of 〈perspectivized
appearance〉 and 〈perspective of becoming〉. What nan(i) offers is significant for
aligning perspectives. Nan(i) facilitates helping the partner share the speaker’s
world, which, in turn, encourages the partner to gain empathetic understanding
of the speaker’s psychological and emotional attitudes. Both the poetics of futaku
and the theory of perspectives emphasize the importance of shared experiences
more than the borrowed target itself. In other words, the information necessitated by the target of futaku and the source of shared perspectives is important,
but less so compared with the participants’ resultant joint alignment of perspectives and experiences.
The case of nan(i), of course, presents a peculiar situation. Nan(i) itself does
not provide a concrete object (such as cherry blossoms, the moon, or a dewdrop)
that serves the target of futaku. However, because the indexical sign comes
pointedly into discourse, at minimum it encourages the participants to point their
views in the same direction. As in the cases of emotive topics explored in the
preceding chapters (i.e., vocatives/topics, emotive nominals, and quotative topics),
nan(i) avoids direct expression of emotion, and borrows the image of something
Emotive nan(i) ‘what’
else. Nan(i) evokes the futaku effect external to the proposition, and begs for the
comment relevant to the topic. By speaking at moments where specific words
cannot be found, nan(i) supplies an object and source for emotional co-experience. By taking a shared stance, speaker and partner find themselves in a common
place. In this process, the feelings one holds toward nan(i) become foregrounded,
ironically because the target of futaku remains unspecified.
The speaker’s participatory attitude is actually reflected through the incorporation of nan(i) in the utterance. Such attitudinal information defines the very
position where the speaker locates himself or herself relative to the 〈interactional
place〉. Just as with specific targets, in a roundabout way, nan(i) helps ‘‘recreate
the other’s feelings and emotions from that perspective’’ (Miyazaki and Ueno
1985: 103, my translation). Essentially, the non-interrogative nan(i) creates an
interrogativity in disguise, demands attention toward a reference in disguise, and
consequently, facilitates the creation of shared feelings among participants. Nan(i)
presents a pseudo emotive topic, and reinforces the topic–comment dynamic of
Japanese cultural discourse, leading to the futaku effect, while at the same time,
enacting the Rhetoric of Pathos.
Ultimately, functions of emotive nan(i) are dependent on the contextual and
cotextual information made available in Japanese cultural discourse. Goffman
(1981) reminds us that the use of an expression calls for the partner’s attention
toward the speaker’s cognitive, emotional, and interactional states, but also it
points to the very social situation that allows just such expression. Goffman
emphasizes that what is precipitous about self-talk, imprecations, and response
cries ‘‘is not the way they are emitted but rather the circumstances which render
their occurrence acceptable’’ (1981: 121). Emotive nan(i) continues to perpetuate
discourse renewing the preferred interaction style evident in contemporary Japan
as it revives varying shades of the emotivity-filled 〈negotiative meaning〉.
Part 4
Emotive comments
Chapter 11
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
.
Introduction
Part 4 examines linguistic emotivity expressed in comments, focusing on commentary strategies. They include the so-called copulative da (and ja-nai), interrogatives, and stylistic shifts. This chapter discusses certain uses of da and ja-nai
in an exploration of their 〈emotive meanings〉. Da and ja-nai function as predicates providing 〈informational meaning〉, and are considered critically important
constituents of proposition. However, if da and ja-nai turn out to function as
emotives as well, the case that I am making for the linguistic emotivity is that
much strengthened. Partly for this reason I choose da and ja-nai as commentary
strategies to be examined first in Part 4. Moreover, da and ja-nai normally appear
at utterance-final position, and the comment in the topic–comment dynamic
usually appears in the vicinity of the predicate, toward the end of the utterance.
It seems reasonable, then, to reexamine da and ja-nai as a part of the topic–
comment dynamic from the perspective of the Place of Negotiation theory.
Based on the analysis of data drawn primarily from romance novels and
comics (especially Kookaku Kidootai and its English translation), in the course of
this chapter, as I did in Maynard (1999a), I argue that in addition to providing
information, certain uses of da and ja-nai indexically signal the speaker’s feelings
and attitudes associated with assertiveness.
More specifically, I argue that da (and ja-nai) is a commentary strategy,
expressing assertion-related feelings and emotional attitude, due, in part, to da’s
stative and situational characteristics. Da expresses the speaker’s conclusive
assertion and a commitment to the utterance with regard to (1) the informational
content of the statement and (2) the relevant verbal performance. Let me call
these cases ‘‘informational da’’ and ‘‘emotive da,’’ respectively. Lest I mislead the
reader, I do not claim that there are two different kinds of da and ja-nai. Informational da and ja-nai project primarily on to the 〈cognitive place〉 and instantiate
the 〈informational meaning〉, while emotive da and ja-nai project primarily on to
the 〈emotive place〉, foregrounding the 〈emotive meaning〉. The cotextual and
contextual information also prompt specific cases of da and ja-nai as being
primarily informational or emotive.
Emotive da indexically signals an assertive attitude in favorable situations, that
is, the ‘‘telling-it-as-is’’ attitude of the speaker. The speaker finds the situation to
Linguistic Emotivity
be acceptable and favorable, and asserts that feeling strongly. Similarly, certain
cases of emotive ja-nai are used to express the speaker’s wish against the situation,
that is, the ‘‘telling-it-against-is’’ attitude. Emotive da and ja-nai function primarily in the 〈expression of emotional attitude〉, and because of this emotive function,
make prominent the speaker’s participation in the speech event, often involving
the will and desire for controlling the situation under discussion. As I explain in
what follows, the meanings of da and ja-nai, due to their indexical nature, are
intensely negotiated among participants in the 〈interactional place〉.
.
Background
The Japanese predicate da has often been identified as a copulative verb and is
customarily characterized as being comparable to be in English. Although da may
function as English be-verb in certain occurrences, this copulative characterization
is misleading. To begin with, Japanese dictionaries customarily list da as jodooshi
‘modal auxiliary verb’, and not as a verb. For example, according to Koojien, da is
a jodooshi, and its 〈potential meaning〉 is to ‘‘conclusively assert events and things’’
(jibutsu o danteishi), or to ‘‘explain them’’ (mata wa kaisetsusuru) (1955: 1433).
One reason da has been considered equivalent to the copula may be traced to
sentence typology. Japanese sentences of definition, often displayed as examples of
da-sentences, are characterized by the [NP wa NP da] structure, for example (1).
(1) Kujira wa honyuudoobutsu da.
whale T mammal
be
‘Whales are mammals.’
Sentences of definition give the impression that da is equivalent to the English be.
However, da is more complex than this practice has made us believe. First, instead
of (1), one may construct a sentence with two NPs taking the [NP wa NP]
structure, i.e., Kujira wa honyuudoobutsu ‘Whales are mammals’. If da is simply a
copula, how does one account for the fact that a statement without a copula is
similar in semantic terms?
Second, note another peculiar behavior of da given in (2).
(2) Doose noroma desu yoo . . . da.
anyway slow
be ip
be
‘I’m slow anyway, (I’m telling you).’
(Asagiri 1992: 173)
In (2) one notices two occurrences of da (i.e., desu and da). Da appears after a
complete sentence accompanied by an interactional particle yoo, an unlikely
place to appear. If da is a copula, what elements does it link together?
An earlier work that approaches da as being other than a copula is Daniels
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
(1973). Daniels claims that Japanese da is primarily a stylistic and aspectual marker.
Da used with adjectives, negatives, and nominals (such as no da and wake da) is not
a copula, and does not function as a linking device. Daniels (1973) insists on the
non-copulative nature of da, but fails to explain in detail what da communicates.
One of the earliest specific discussions on da appears in Mio (1942). Discussing spoken Japanese, Mio claims that da ‘‘helps make a predicate out of those
phrases without predicating capacities (such as nominals, na- and no- adjectives,
and others) to make them function like verbs’’ (1942: 197).1 In a sentence Ningen
mo doobutsu da yo ‘Humans are also animals’, da helps clarify the meaning, by
which Mio means a commitment the speaker expresses toward the content of the
utterance. Mio (1942) elaborates in the following manner. Da is used for the
judgment-expressing sentences such as ‘‘A is B’’ and ‘‘It is B that is A’’; da
possesses the power of expressing clear judgment ‘it is just so!’ In a sentence such
as Nihongun wa yuukan da ‘The Japanese army is brave,’ the speaker strongly
asserts that indeed the Japanese army is brave. This claim is presented not as a
mere opinion, but rather, as being factual and consistent with reality.
Mio (1942), describing this process, uses the word dantei (conclusive assertion); thus da is an indicator for a conclusive assertion. The term dantei (or
danteisuru ‘to conclude, to assert’) has been consistently associated with da’s
〈potential meaning〉 as reflected in the Koojien (1955) dictionary entry mentioned
earlier. Exactly what one means by dantei, however, is yet to be clarified. In my
view, an understanding of dantei in terms of fact and truth is insufficient. In the
course of this chapter, I identify the nature of conclusive assertion more explicitly.
Partly because of the uncertainty surrounding the term dantei, characterizing
da in the Japanese grammatical system has remained controversial. The category
of modal auxiliary verb, of which da is considered a member, has also been the
center of controversy. Thus, although a general agreement has been reached long
ago that da is best characterized as a modal auxiliary verb, confusion still persists.
The controversy over modal auxiliary verbs originates in the works of Tokieda
(1941, 1950) and Kindaichi (1978 [1953]). As reviewed earlier, Tokieda (1941,
1950) identifies two categories of Japanese words, i.e., shi and ji. Significantly,
Tokieda categorizes da as jodooshi ‘modal auxiliary verbs’, that is, ji, explaining
that ji expresses the speaker’s subjective (shutaiteki) attitude toward the nominal
clause. Compare the two sentences Tokieda discusses.
(3) Koko ni umenoki ga aru.
here at plum.tree S there.is
‘There is a plum tree here.’
(4) Kore wa umenoki de-aru.
this T plum.tree be-there.is
‘This is a plum tree.’ (Tokieda 1941: 253)
Linguistic Emotivity
According to Tokieda (1941), two senses of aru are represented in (3) and (4). In
(3), aru is an existential verb, and therefore it is shi, while aru in (4) is not. De-aru
in (4) may in fact be shortened to be da (and ja), thus producing Kore wa umenoki
da ‘This is a plum tree’. For Tokieda, de-aru, da, and ja associated with (4) are all
modal auxiliary verbs, and therefore, are ji; they express the speaker’s subjective
attitude. Sentences resembling Kore wa umenoki da (Tokieda lists Watashi wa
otoko desu ‘I am a man’, and Yama wa takai desu ‘The mountain is high’) qualitatively differ from (3).
Interestingly, Tokieda also includes (5) while making his point.
(5) Mizu wa nagareru desu.
water T flow
be
‘Water flows.’ (Tokieda 1941: 253)
Note that in (5) the sentence Mizu wa nagareru ‘Water flows’ takes a verbal
predicate without da. This contrasts with sentences taking nominal and adjectival
predicates (Watashi wa otoko desu ‘I am a man’, and Yama wa takai desu ‘The
mountain is high’, respectively). I will come back to sentence (5) later. The
important point here is that Tokieda maintains that da may appear in nominal,
adjectival, as well as verbal predicate sentences, and insists that da in all these cases
expresses the speaker’s ‘‘subjectivity.’’
Among critics of Tokieda’s view toward the modal auxiliary verb, Kindaichi
(1978 [1953]) is the most relevant to the issue of linguistic emotivity. Kindaichi
questions Tokieda’s characterization that modal auxiliary verbs (which include da)
as a whole are expressions reflecting the speaker’s subjective position (shutaiteki
tachiba no hyoogen). Kindaichi (1978 [1953]) claims that among modal auxiliary
verbs some are shi and others are ji. The modal auxiliary verbs without a change
in aspectual and temporal forms, i.e., -u, -yoo, and -mai, (fuhenka jodooshi
‘unchanging modal auxiliary verbs’, as Kindaichi names them) are ji, but others
(including da) are not ji, but shi. Shi-type modal auxiliary verbs represent not the
speaker’s subjective position, but objective facts. And Kindaichi’s position is that
da describes objective facts. For example, in a sentence such as Boku wa nihonjin
da, ‘I am a Japanese’, Kindaichi states that ‘‘da states objectively the fact that the
nationality of the person referred to is Japanese’’ (1978 [1953]: 230).2
As pointed out by Ookubo (1968: 335), and as I discussed earlier in Chapter 4
regarding Tokieda’s theory, the above controversy is caused in part by Tokieda’s
insistence that only ji expresses the speaker’s subjective attitude. Instead, if one
views that linguistic devices may function as both shi and ji to complete an
utterance, assigning shi or ji to the category of modal auxiliary verbs might have
been simply beside the point. In other words, one can settle with the idea that da
functions in two ways, to achieve objective shi-description and to express subjective ji-attitude.
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
More recently, Saji (1991) takes just such an open position, stating that da
functions both as shi and ji. Discussing da (along with dearu, nai, and irassharu),
Saji points out that da itself may be incorporated, as a pre-nominal form na, into
the so-called n(o) da sentences (e.g., Shachoo na no da ‘(It’s that he) is a president’). This implies that da functions similar to verbs that describe kyakutaiteki
kotogara ‘objective matters’. Thus, da carries with it a function of shi. At the same
time, the utterance-final da in the n(o) da sentence functions as ji, expressing the
speaker’s subjective attitude.
Based on Hayashi’s (1982) view on the linguistic hierarchy associated with the
speaker’s expressive intention, Kitagawa (1984) discusses a variety of uses for da
and desu, including fillers, as well as adjectival and nominal predicates. Kitagawa
(1984) characterizes da as being ji-like and its function is to express dantei no nen
‘(intention of) assertion’. According to him, sentence-final da and desu operate on
Hayashi’s handan ‘judgment’ level, while clause final da and desu function on
Hayashi’s hyooshutsu ‘expression’ or dentatsu ‘communication’ level. Significant in
Kitagawa’s (1984) work is his insight in identifying essentially ji-like characteristics
of da and desu, and in recognizing their multi-level functions.
Although the shi/ji controversy remains unresolved and an uncertain cloud
hangs over the study of da, the labeling controversy in and of itself is of minor
significance. Let me simply state that I take the position that da, like many other
modal auxiliary verbs, operates both as shi and ji. More important to the current
theme is to answer the question: Precisely in what ways does da function, in
addition to supplying information, as ji or ji-like strategy that projects on to the
〈emotive place〉? And more fundamentally, to what can one attribute da’s emotivity? As a preliminary step to answer these questions, in the next section I discuss
da’s two related characteristics.
.
Stativity and situationality
Two essential characteristics of da (and ja-nai) are relevantly associated with its
〈emotive meanings〉. These characteristics serve as sources for developing the idea
that da indeed functions as an emotive da. First, da communicates stativity
suitable for expressing the speaker’s evaluative attitude, and second, da is
indexically linked to the speech situation which leads to its 〈interactional meaning〉. I illustrate these characteristics of da as I contrast it with verbs.
. Stativity
Saji (1991) makes a clear distinction between (1) da sentences (i.e., nominal
sentences) and adjectival sentences on one hand, and (2) verbal sentences on the
Linguistic Emotivity
other. Saji offers the following grammatical evidence for this distinction; nominal
and adjectival sentences (6) and (7) appear with aru ‘there is’ when topicalized as
in (9) and (10), but the verbal sentence (8), when topicalized, appears with suru
‘do’ as in (11).
(6) Kare wa gakusei da. (nominal da-predicate)
he T student be
‘He is a student.’
(7) Kare wa ookii. (i-type adjectival predicate)
he T large
‘He is large.’
(8) Kare wa tsukuru. (verbal predicate)
he T make
‘He makes.’
(9) Kare wa gakusei de wa aru.
he T student be T there.is
‘Student, (yes) he is a student for sure.’
(10) Kare wa ookiku wa aru.
he T large T there.is
‘Large, (yes) he is (at least) large.’
(11) Kare wa tsukuri wa suru.
he T make T do
‘Makes it, (yes) he does make it.’
(Saji 1991: 30)
Furthermore, Saji (1991) argues that nominal and adjectival sentences appear only
as daijutsubun ‘topic sentences’, while verbal sentences may appear sometimes as
daijutsubun ‘topic sentences’ and at other times as songenbun ‘existential sentences’ (1991: 63). Saji’s daijutsubun are ‘‘those sentences containing topics and
explanatory portions,’’ while songenbun are ‘‘those that identify phenomena and
the existence of things’’ (1991: 68).3 Da, being a critical part of the nominal
sentence, functions within daijutsubun, which conveys the speaker’s explanatory,
and therefore, attitudinal meaning.
Another grammatical distinction one can draw between nominal and adjectival predicates on one hand and verbal predicates on the other is that the former
cannot take the progressive aspect while the latter can. As Saji (1991) points out,
the morpheme -tsutsuaru ‘is in the process’ cannot co-occur with (6) or (7)
(*gakusei de tsutsuaru ‘be in the process of being a student’ and *ookiku tsutsuaru
‘be in the process of being big’), but it can co-occur with the verbal predicate
(tsukuri tsutsuaru ‘be in the process of making’). This syntactic difference provides
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
further support for the division between nominal and adjectival predicates versus
verbal predicates.
The three points raised by Saji (1991) support the view that da, along with
adjectival predicates, implies stativity. Aru ‘there is’ associated with da is stative;
daijutsubun ‘thematic sentences’ associated with da is stative, and the ungrammaticality of the -tsutsuaru expression associated with da also implies da’s
stativity. Stativity associated with da sentences offers a ready means for enhancing the topic–comment dynamic which increases the potential for the futaku
effect.
The stativity recognized in da is not limited to Japanese. In fact, English
copulative verb be has also been characterized by its stativity. English copular
sentences have traditionally been divided into two main categories (as reviewed in
Declerk [1988]). These include ‘‘specificational’’ as represented by (12), and
‘‘predicational’’ as represented by (13).
(12) The one who stole the money is Fred.
(13) Bill is a good student.
(Declerk 1988: 2)
Declerk (1988) goes on to categorize these two types in more detail, but the two
basic types remain the primary identification method for copular sentences. The
specificational copular sentence specifies a value (Fred) for the variable ‘‘the X
who stole the money’’ and the predicational type predicates something of the
referent of the subject NP. In most cases this ‘‘something’’ is ‘‘a characteristic, a
role, a function, or an indication of class membership’’ (1988: 55). The predicational copular sentences identified here are functionally similar to the adjectival
predicate. The English predicate be, as in the case of Japanese da, offers a description of a certain state, indicating its essential stativity.
Closely associated with the English copula is the cleft sentence. Delin and
Oberlander (1995) point out that, because the cleft sentence contains a copula as
a main predicate, it expresses stativity. In their words:
Simple canonical noncleft sentences can be seen as presenting descriptions of
states, events, and processes. A cleft presentation of comparable content not only
conveys such descriptions (in presupposed form), but presents an additional state
description, due to the presence of copular be as the main verb. (Delin and
Oberlander 1995: 470, original emphasis)
Delin and Oberlander’s ‘‘additional state description’’ resembles that of the
nominal predicate in Japanese, the n(o) da expression, in particular. Although
similarities exist between the English be and the Japanese da, especially in its
potential for stative description, the emotive da is significant in Japanese, while
such use is limited in English.
Linguistic Emotivity
. Situationality
The interpretation of da has often been associated with the situation in which it is
used. This tendency is best illustrated by da substituting for other verbs. This view,
usually referred to as daiyoo-setsu ‘replacement theory’ is attributed to Okutsu
(1978). Okutsu (1978), in his discussion of the so-called unagi-bun ‘eel sentences’
as represented by (14), takes the position that da appears in place of other
semantically specific verbs.
(14) Boku wa unagi da.
I
T eel be
‘As for myself, eels.’
One may read (14) as ‘I eat eels,’ ‘I like eels’, ‘I catch eels’ and so on. Da substitutes for all possible specific verbs (taberu ‘to eat’, suki da ‘like’ and so on).
Okutsu explains the use of da in the following way.
There seems to be a correspondence between da and the verbs represented by da.
A verb, rather than da, is used when linguistic and paralinguistic contexts are not
provided and the meaning is not clear, or regardless of the context, when the
speaker wishes to explicitly specify the meaning of the verb. If the meaning is clear
in the context, da appears in place of the verb. Da, as a replacement of a verb,
constitutes the verbal predicate of a sentence.4 (Okutsu 1978: 20, my translation).
Although this replacement theory is not without some problems, one cannot deny
that da appears in a broad grammatical context and that the specific interpretation
of da depends on its particularity.5 Da is situation-dependent, especially in that its
use and interpretation depend on the information indexically linked to the verbal
interaction.
The situationality associated with da is further supported by other indexical
uses. For example, interjections such as A, soo da! ‘Oh, that’s it!’ and Aa, soo na n
da! ‘Ah, that’s what it is!’ are used when conveying that the speaker understands
the current goings on in a given situation. For example, see (15) and (16) taken
from a romance novel. (15) is presented as the inner thought of Chie-chan, the
heroine, and (16.1) as Chie-chan’s utterance. In (15.2) Chie-chan, all of a sudden,
realizes that it was Hirota who might have gone to a concert with Akemi. (16.1) is
used in the situation where Chie-chan recognizes and understands Nat-chan’s
explanation as to why Nat-chan and Yuu left the group for a while. In both cases,
da appears in reference to what is currently going on in Chie-chan’s mind.
(15.1) Nanika
ga hikkakatta, nan da kke?
something S bothered what be ip
‘Something bothered me, what was it?’
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
(15.2) Aa, soo da. Hirota senpai da.
ah so be Hirota senior be
‘Ah, that’s it. Mr. Hirota, that’s it.’
(Morimoto 1995: 42)
(16.1) ‘‘Soo na n
da . . .’’
so be nom be
‘‘‘That’s what it is, (now I understand it).’’’
(16.2) Watashi wa potsurito tsubuyaku.
I
T only.a.bit mumble
‘I mumble just that.’ (Morimoto 1995: 76)
The immediacy of expression realized by the blurtings of (15.2) and (16.1) suggest
that da is indicative of the current thought process. Note also that (16.2) provides
an explanatory description for (16.1), further supporting this interpretation, i.e.,
Chie-chan mumbled her inner thought.
Another indexical use of da appears as a phrasal division marker and filler.
Da, and desu, often accompanied by particles yo and/or ne, mark phrasal divisions
and fill in turn-internal pauses. For example, in (17) taken from a work of fiction,
da yo appears as a phrasal division marker. In (17.2), da appears after an adverb
yappa ‘after all’, indexically signaling the speaker’s assertive attitude.
(17.1) ‘‘Iya, Osamu wa sonna yobunna koto kangaetetara borogaderu.
no Osamu T such extra
fact if.think
weaknesses.show
‘‘‘No, Osamu, if you think of those extra things, your weaknesses will
show.’
(17.2) Yappa da yo sootoona kakugo
de yara-nai to, kore wa
after.all be ip much
determination with do-neg if this T
nandai
da kara na.’’
difficult.problem be since ip
‘So after all, you see, unless you face up to this with determination, this
difficult problem won’t be resolved.’’’ (Shimizu 1998: 114)
Normally, immediately after the interjection-like da (sometimes followed by a
particle), the speaker pauses. This da is indexed in that it punctuates the speaker’s
performance, and its meaning is directly linked to the 〈interactional place〉. At the
same time, this use of da projects on to the 〈emotive place〉, characterizing the
〈communication of attitude toward others〉 through assertiveness.
Phrasal division markers and fillers are interpersonally and thus situationally
motivated. Note that only da and desu (and no other verbs or modal auxiliary
verbs) function as phrasal division markers and fillers. This supports the position
that the use of da is indexically linked to the actual verbal performance. These
Linguistic Emotivity
cases of da and desu, when accompanied by phonological prominence, signal turninternal pauses with an assertive effect; otherwise they function as fillers, filling in
pauses and maintaining the conversational rhythm.
The stativity and situationality discussed above are connected in use and in
interpretation. Both are suited to express the speaker’s emotivity, foregrounding
the 〈feeling selfƒ〉. Consider that da does not foreground the [agent-does] action
captured in terms of a propositional construction apart from the 〈interactional
place〉. Instead, it opens up the potential for stative and situation-dependent
〈emotive meanings〉.
Notably, da’s potential expressivity cannot be predicted in and of itself, but
given sufficient situational information, an appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉
emerges. For this reason, analytical methods that focus on use rather than form
(e.g., conversation analysis, discourse analysis, and pragmatics) become critical for
understanding da. By casting a conceptual net such as the Place of Negotiation
theory around the phenomenon to capture the meaning indexically linked to the
place, we are able to more adequately understand da’s 〈negotiative meaning〉.
. Informational da and emotive da
This section discusses two aspects of da, primarily informational (associated with
the 〈cognitive place〉) and primarily emotive (associated with the 〈emotive place〉).
Da is a device with two primary functions; when da functions primarily as a
copula, it conveys information, and when da functions primarily as an emotive, it
foregrounds the 〈feeling selfƒ〉. Informational da and emotive da are identified as
the following.
Informational da has no restriction on conjugation, and it is instantiated
when da is interpreted primarily as being a part of a predicate when accompanying a nominal or an adjective. The informational da also appears as a copula
which functions to enhance the speaker’s conclusive assertion regarding either
implicit or explicit subject and/or topic. The speaker asserts the validity of the
propositional content. The informational da projects primarily on to the 〈cognitive place〉, promoting the informational negotiation among participants. Its
primary function is to engage in the 〈construction of proposition〉.
Emotive da takes limited aspectual forms, i.e., da, desu, and ja-nai only
(except that, in the past tense, negative as well as interrogative forms appear
immediately following a nominalizer). The emotive da is instantiated when da is
primarily used to convey the speaker’s conclusive assertive attitude with which the
speaker conducts his or her verbal performance. The propositional content
associated with the assertive attitude is usually represented by the copulative,
adjectival, or verbal predicate. The emotive da does not function as a part of this
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
predicate, and its use is limited to direct discourse. Emotive da’s primary function
is to express the speaker’s assertive attitude indexically linked to the situation at
hand. The emotive da projects primarily on to the 〈emotive place〉, functioning as
an 〈expression of emotional attitude〉.
At this point, I should briefly touch upon some pragmatic constraints of the
emotive da. Although informational da occurs in interrogative and negative forms,
the emotive da’s occurrence in interrogative and negative utterances is restricted.
When da is used primarily for emotive purposes, the interrogativity and negation
apply not to the propositional content, but rather, are interpreted in relation to
the verbal performance. Consider, for example, an expression such as Noroma da
yoo da? ‘(Are you saying) you are slow?’, which does not convey the question, Are
you slow? Rather, the question is raised regarding the verbal performance, i.e., Are
you saying so and so? This observation supports the interaction-based interpretation of the emotive da. (Similar constraints are discussed in Maynard [1992] as I
address distributional characteristics of the n(o) da expression.)
Observe (2) again, now reproduced as (2.4), in which both informational and
emotive uses of da appear. In this romance novel, the narrator, a teenage girl
named Konomi, tells a confessional story of how she fell in love with Naoyuki
Satoo. (From this point on, data examples in this chapter are marked either as IF
or EM for da, reflecting the primarily informational and emotive use, respectively.)
(2.1) Watashi ni oitsuku to, Satoo-kun wa, futto ookiku ikioshita.
I
IO catch.up when Satoo
T whew deeply breathed
‘When he caught up with me, Satoo breathed deeply.’
(2.2) ‘‘Anta, itsumo noroma na noni, kooyuu toki
dake hayai n
you always slow
if despite this.kind occasion only fast nom
da.’’
em
‘‘‘You are always slow, but only in this situation, you’re fast.’’’
(2.3) Ikinari kore da mono . . .
suddenly this if since
‘Suddenly he says this . . .’
(2.4) Doose noroma desu yoo . . . da.
anyway slow
if ip
em
‘I’m slow anyway, (I’m telling you).’
(Asagiri 1992: 173)
Da appears in two locations in (2.4), desu as a part of the nominal predicate
noroma desu, and da after the particle yo(o) at the sentence-final position. To
interpret the utterance-final da as informational is difficult. Note that there is no
Linguistic Emotivity
identifiable subject/topic (either explicit or implicit) to which one can link the
conclusive assertion. In this segment, Satoo catches up with Konomi, and tells
her that while Konomi usually runs slowly, only when running away from an
embarrassing scene, she runs fast. Konomi counters Satoo’s remark by uttering
(2.4) to herself. Desu is a part of the predicate conveying the propositional
content given in Satoo’s utterance, noroma na noni ‘although you are slow’ in
(2.2), while da characterizes Konomi’s verbal performance as being conclusively
assertive.
The discrepancy of style observed between desu and da occurring in (2.4) is
indicative of the different functions the informational da and emotive da
perform in a Japanese utterance. As I discussed elsewhere (Maynard 1991a,
1991b), da is expected to appear in the subordinate clause, while desu is expected
to occur at the end of the utterance when the desu/masu style is socially necessary. In (2.4), desu appears as socially expected (it marks Konomi’s politeness
style) and yet da marks the utterance further. Yoo (elongation of the interactional
particle yo) adds finality to noroma desu ‘I’m slow’. The juncture between desu
yoo and da gives the impression that the utterance is complete at that point, and
yet the speaker adds interactional and emotive attitudes to the utterance by
marking it with da. This interpretation is in agreement with a recognized feature
of Japanese grammar that the more subjective and the more speaker-performance-related the modal element is, the later it appears in the utterance (see for
example, Kitahara [1970]).
The utterance-final da in (2.4) indexes Konomi’s attitude toward her own
verbal performance, i.e., her assertive attitude. Konomi, as the narrator of this
romance novel, consistently takes the da style elsewhere, and therefore the use of
da indicates Konomi’s attempt to appeal to the reader directly in her narrative
voice. Through the emotive da, Konomi’s voice expresses itself in two ways,
conveying her attitude toward Satoo in the narrated place, and, at the same time,
appealing to the reader in the narrating place.
.
Emotive da and the telling-it-as-is attitude
. Negotiating the meaning of emotive da
Observe (18), another example taken from a romance novel.
(18) ‘‘Hankooki no Satoo-kun wa, hameohazushitakute
rebelling.age lk Satoo
T want.to.engage.in.forbidden.acts
shooganai
no yo ne . . . Sonde, watashino doji
ga omoshiroi
cannot.help.but nom ip ip
so
my
mistake S amusing
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
no yo nee’’ tte itteyatta wa yoo da.
nom ip ip qt said
ip ip em
‘So I (assertively) said, ‘‘You Satoo, who is in the rebelling stage cannot
help but wanting to do something forbidden . . . And so, you find my
mistakes amusing.’’’ (Asagiri 1992: 125)
The emotive da attached after a verbal predicate (with optional particles) offers a
quintessential example of the speaker’s assertive attitude. Da used in this context
gives the effect of communicating the speaker’s willful commitment to the
statement. This da is not informational; it does not enhance the propositional
meaning.
A similar case of the emotive da appears in (19) taken from another romance
novel. (19.1) is uttered by Chie-chan, the heroine, in response to the teasing from
her girlfriend Miyabi. Chie-chan’s utterance is marked by the emotive da, indicating her intention to convey a strong assertive attitude. Again this da cannot be
considered informational.
(19.1) ‘‘Doose watashi wa baka desu yoo da.’’
anyway I
T fool if ip em
‘‘‘I’m a fool anyway (I’m telling you).’’’
(19.2) Chotto ijiketemiseru to, ‘‘Ijike-nai, ijike-nai’’
to,
a.bit be.sulky
when be.sulky-neg be.sulky-neg qt
nagusametekureta.
consoled
‘When I said in a bit of a sulky mood, she consoled me by saying
‘‘Don’t be sulky.’’’ (Morimoto 1995: 19)
The emotive da may accompany a non-sentence as well. Observe (20) where da is
attached after an interjection. (20) is taken from Chibi Maruko-chan. Maruko’s
father is angry that Maruko refuses to eat nattoo (a soybean product). Maruko
solicits her mother’s sympathy by complaining about its terrible smell.
(20.1) Father:
〈Mada/ yuu ka-tt/ okoru zo-tt〉
still
say q
get.mad ip
‘Are you still saying that? I’m going to get mad!’
(20.2) Maruko: 〈Fun da-tt/ Okaasan wa/ wakattekureru ne. Nattoo
humph em mother T understand
ip nattoo
no kusasa o〉
lk smell O
‘Humph (I’m telling you), Mom, you understand, don’t you?
The smell of natto.’ (Sakura 1996: 22)
Linguistic Emotivity
The emotive da in (20.2) co-occurs with the interjection fun ‘humph’. A strictly
informational reading of this da is impossible, since da is not a part of a predicate
associated with fun. Interjection is a phrasal expression without grammatical
predicate, and da is independent of it. The appearance of da in this grammatical
structure provides evidence that it is not informational. Instead, da expresses
Maruko’s desire to emphasize her feelings; da punctuates her annoyance. Cotextually, the small tsu (transliterated as tt) attached after the expressive da further
contributes to the emphatic effect. This tsu, since it signals the strong and forceful
enunciation of the syllable da, we observe a case where multiple levels of linguistic
strategies achieve a concerted attitudinal effect, i.e., the combination of an
interjection, an emotive da, and phonological prominence.
Beyond the cotextual information discussed above, contextually, note the
father’s criticism given in (20.1). Maruko’s use of the emotive da is placed in the
context of opposition, where her assertive insistence is interactionally expected.
The point I am making here, i.e., the use of the emotive da offers a function
distinct from that of the informational da, is further supported by how da appears
in an utterance such as (21). (21), taken from a romance novel, exemplifies a case
where the emotive da appears apart from the content, and is so graphologically
marked. At this point in the novel, Chie-chan finally figures out the romantic
relationship one of her girlfriends has been involved in over the past six months.
She expresses the I-really-got-it-now feeling, in part, by the use of da. Critically in
this example, the emotive use of da appears after a comma, indicating its relative
independence from the propositional content, which overtly illustrates the
interactional function of da.
(21) ‘‘Fuun . . . soo na n, da.’’
hum
so if nom em
‘‘‘Hum, that’s so, (I see it now).’’’
(Morimoto 1995: 137)
I should reiterate that in the examples discussed above , da’s emotive function is
identified by incorporating cotextual and contextual information as well. In the
case of comics, the visual information (e.g., facial expression and the graphologically enhanced onomatopoeic and exclamatory expression) provides additional
sources to instantiate the appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉.
The use of da that foregrounds emotivity is sometimes overtly negotiated. One
such case is found in a televized version of Chibi Maruko-chan. In this episode,
Tomozoo, Maruko’s grandfather, is worried that the ten thousand yen he loaned
several months ago to Mita-chan, his boyhood friend, has not been returned. He
decides to write a letter asking for the money. With Maruko’s advice, he writes a
rather blatant letter, and he reads it aloud, with Maruko beside him.
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
(22.1) Tomozoo: Chotto yomikaeshitemiyoo ka.
now reread
q
‘Now, should I reread it?’
(22.2) Maruko:
Okkee.
OK
‘All right.’
(22.3) Tomozoo: Zenryaku. Mita-san.
greetings Mita
‘Greetings. Dear Mita’
(22.4)
Anta tte hito wa, washi ga ichigatsu ni kashita
you qt person T I
S January in loaned
ichiman-en
o, sangatsu ni nattemo
ten.thousand.yen O March in become
kaeshitekure-nai nante,
return-neg
such
‘You, the ten thousand yen I loaned to you in January, you
haven’t returned it still, although it’s already March.’
(Maruko: Fun.)
yeah
‘Yeah.’
(22.5)
Koryamata dooshita
koto kai na.
this
what.happened nom q ip
‘Well, what happened?’
(Maruko: Fun)
yeah
‘Yeah.’
(22.6)
Chotto ruuzu ja-naidesu ka tte n
da.
a.bit sloppy if-neg
q qt nom em
‘I’m telling you, that is a bit too sloppy.’
(Maruko: Fun, fun)
yeah yeah
‘Yeah, right.’
(22.7)
Aa, kono ‘‘naidesu ka tte n
da’’ tte tokoro,
ah this if-neg q qt nom em qt place
naoshita hoogaii to omou n
ja ga.
correct should qt think nom em but
‘Ah, this place where I say ‘‘I’m telling you,’’ I think it better
to correct it, but . . .’
Linguistic Emotivity
(22.8) Maruko:
Soo da nee. Chotto ikioi ga arisugiru nee.
so if ip a.bit force S exceed ip
‘Maybe so. It is a bit too forceful, I guess.’
(22.9) Tomozoo: Naosoo.
let’s.correct
‘Let’s correct it.’
(22.10) Maruko:
Un.
yes
‘Yes.’
(Chibi Maruko-chan, broadcast in 1999)
In (22.7), the grandfather suspects that the use of the emotive da is a bit too
forceful, to which Maruko agrees in (22.8). As this explicit negotiation illustrates,
the utterance-final emotive da emphasizes the strong 〈expression of emotional
attitude〉. Being aware of the strong assertive attitude the letter inevitably conveys,
Tomozoo and Maruko are engaged in an overt negotiation of meaning. This reallife negotiation confirms the kind of 〈emotive meaning〉 discussed in this section.
At this point, recall Tokieda’s sentence, Mizu wa nagareru desu ‘Water flows’
given as (5). While this structure is not in normal use today, desu and da attached
after a verbal predicate signal the speaker’s strong commitment to the utterance.
Tokieda’s example still exists as a dialect of Japanese, often attached to the
regional dialect of Northern Japan and/or a social register of unsophisticated,
country-bumpkin-like speech. For example, observe (23) appearing in Kookaku
Kidootai. In this particular scene Major Kusanagi’s colleague asks an unsophisticated somewhat absent-minded male resident if he saw sanitation engineers. (23)
is the man’s answer.
(23.1) 〈Mita da yo/ N-de gomi motte/ oritekitara/ moo i-nee〉.
saw em ip and trash carry came.down already there.is-neg
(23.2) 〈Hitori
ga/ gomii hakonde yo/ hitori
wa/
one.person S garbage carry
ip one.person T
denwashiteta
da yo〉
made.a.phone.call em ip (Shiroo 1991: 70)
(24.1) 〈Yup, I saw/ one. But by/ the time I/ got out/ here with/ my trash it/
was gone.〉
(24.2) 〈One of/them was/carrying/garbage,/but the/other was/making/a phone/
call . . .〉 (Schodt and Smith 1995: 72)
In (23.1) and (23.2) when da is attached, the speech is marked stylistically as
informal. More significantly, Mita da yo and denwa shita da yo both show that da
co-occurs with the verbal predicate, emotively expressing the speaker’s conclusive
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
assertive attitude. The speaker is portrayed as performing his utterance firmly and
adamantly. The different locutionary force observed between mita yo and mita da
yo is mildly reflected in the English translation of yup, although the difference
between denwa shita yo and denwa shita da yo is not reflected in the translation.
Examples (18) through (23) all illustrate da’s emotive function to communicate the telling-it-as-is attitude. All of these cases of da remind the partner that the
speaker engages in a verbal interaction with an assertive attitude of ‘‘I’m telling
you!’’ In this sense, emotive da projects on to the relevant 〈topica〉, and guides the
speaker and the partner reach the appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉.
. Emotive da and echo questions
The use of da appearing in the context of an echo question deserves attention
because this phenomenon provides further evidence to support da’s emotivity. At
first I should briefly discuss Japanese echo questions. Following Adachi (1989),
echo questions are here identified as those questions (1) for which the focus rests
on the partner’s utterance immediately preceding it, and (2) which contain the
repetition of the preceding utterance. Echo questions in Japanese are known to
appear in two basic structures. First is the (partial) repetition of the preceding
utterance with no additional elements, and the second is the (partial) repetition of
the preceding utterance followed by quotative markers tte or da tte. As the first
type, Adachi gives the following example.
(25.1) Speaker A: Oya, anna tokoro o kodomo ga hashitteiru.
oh such place in child
S is.running
‘Oh, a child is running in such a place.’
(25.2) Speaker B: Kodomo ga hashitteiru?
child
S is.running
‘A child is running?’ (Adachi 1989: 32)
Likewise, discussing the Japanese sentence-final particle ka, Itani (1993) notes that
ka is not required for the formation of echoic utterances. For example, immediately following the question Kinoo doko ni itta? ‘Where did you go yesterday?’, an
echoic expression such as Kinoo doko ni itta? ‘Where did I go?’ suffices.
Now, observe (26) taken from Kookaku Kidootai, where the emotive da
appears in an echo question.
(26.1) ghost:
〈(. . .) koko ni iru
no wa/ watashino ishi da . . .〉
here at there.is nom T my
will if
(26.2)
〈Ichi seimeitai toshite/ seijiteki boomei o/ kiboosuru〉
one ghost
as
political asylum O request
Linguistic Emotivity
(26.3) Aramaki: 〈Seimeitai/ da to!?〉
ghost
em qt (Shiroo 1991: 246)
(27.1) Ghost:
〈(. . .)What you/ witness here is my will.〉
(27.2)
〈As a self-aware/life-form . . ./a ghost . . . I/formally/request/
political/asylum.〉
(27.3) Aramaki: 〈What?!/A/ghost?!〉
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 248)
In (26.3), Aramaki, Major Kusanagi’s boss, repeats the phrase seimeitai ‘ghost’
creating an echo question. Da in (26.3) is not a predicate of seimeitai; rather, it
is indexically linked to the ghost’s verbal performance. Here it is possible to
avoid da. But when echo questions appear with da, the speaker conveys that he
or she takes the partner’s statement as being a conclusive assertion, and that
certainty is communicated through his or her own assertive attitude. Although
past studies do not discuss functional differences among different forms of echo
questions, differences exist between echo questions accompanied with and
without the emotive da. For example, Seimeitai da to? ‘You are saying ‘‘Ghost’’?’,
in comparison with Seimeitai tte? ‘You say, ghost?’, intensify the assertive attitude
of the questioner toward his or her own verbal performance, and stresses the
conclusive tone that the questioner understands regarding the partner’s verbal
performance.
Da in (26.3) appears in direct discourse, and therefore is fundamentally
attributed to the person who uses the echo question. However, the conclusive
assertive attitude da conveys is also closely related to the partner (who insists that
she is a ghost) in (26.2). What is characterized is Aramaki’s understanding of the
ghost’s speech. Here it is possible to witness a case where the assertiveness is
dialogically negotiated and realized. da’s indexical feature facilitates two different
dimensions of 〈interactional place〉, i.e., the place where the ghost speaks, and the
place where Aramaki quotes. In both places, the assertiveness is forcefully expressed, where the two different dialogic voices represent the attitude; that of
‘‘You’re telling me?!’’, and that of ‘‘I’m telling you!’’
Ultimately, in the context of echo questions, the emotive da adds the effect of
communicating the questioner’s understanding and expressing strong assertive
attitudes, to be integrated as a part of the 〈emotive meaning〉. This interpretation
is supported in the English translation of (26.3), i.e., (27.3), where the emotive
expressivity is indicated by interjections and bold letters, although no bold letters
appear in the Japanese original. Due, in part, to the assertive attitude da expresses,
the da-accompanied echo question often suggests a rhetorical question, instead of
an information-seeking question. It is possible to interpret Aramaki’s emotivity
expressed in (26.3) as part of a rhetorical question, although one cannot completely deny its interrogative force. Although the ghost does not directly answer
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
Aramaki’s echo question, she does offer a response, Sore o shoomeisuru koto wa
fukanoo da translated as ‘I cannot prove it to you’ in the next frame.
Overall, echo questions often convey surprise and disagreement on the part of
the questioner. Furthermore, da-accompanied echo questions often do not expect
an answer. These echo questions simply provide a means to vent the speaker’s
emotion. For example, observe (28), also taken from Kookaku Kidootai. At this
point in the story, a government official advises Aramaki to give up rescuing
Major Kusanagi, to which Aramaki responds with surprise and defiance.
(28.1) official:
〈Reino buin
wa/ akiramero〉
that member T give.up
(28.2) Aramaki: 〈Esupaa yori/
kazu
no sukunai/ kichoona sainoo
esper more.than number S few
rare
talent
o/ akiramero/ da to!?〉
O give.up
em qt (Shiroo 1991: 297)
(29.1) official:
〈You’ve/got to/lose the/member/of your/team/who was/
directly/involved.〉
(29.2) Aramaki: 〈What?!/You’re telling/me to give up/one of my most/
talented people?/Someone more precious than an esper?!〉
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 299)
In (28.2) Aramaki does not actually ask a question. Rather, he echoes the voice of
the government official, challenging the official’s position through the use of a
rhetorical question. Again, da in (28.2) is emotive, since it does not enhance the
propositional meaning. (28.2) indexically signals the speaker’s emotional attitude,
i.e., Aramaki’s unwillingness to accept the government official’s view. Note that
English translation uses an interjection what?! for expressing Aramaki’s feelings. In
the discourse immediately following (28) the government official does not provide
any response related to the question. This context of non-response further
supports the emotive (rhetorical question) interpretation of da.
Another similar case deserves attention. Observe (30), taken from a romance
novel. At this point in the novel, Nat-chan confesses to Chie-chan her relationship
with her boyfriend. In (30.3) Chie-chan (the heroine/narrator) expresses her inner
feelings through an echo question, although the question is not addressed to Natchan. The emotive da (elongated as daa) in (30.3) indicates not only that Chiechan takes Nat-chan’s statement as being conclusive and assertive, but also and
more importantly, (30.3) signals the force and assertion through which Chie-chan
reveals her surprise toward Nat-chan’s confession.
Linguistic Emotivity
(30.1) Nat-chan: ‘‘Moo, kono mama ja kitto,
ani
imooto no
still this way if certainly brother sister lk
kankei
da ne.
relationship if ip
‘‘‘If this situation continues, it will be a brother-sister relationship.’
(30.2)
Tokidoki ocha nomi ni ittari suru kedo, koibito
sometimes tea drink to go do but lovers
dooshi
no yoona amasa
wa nai!’’
each.other lk as
sweetness T if-neg
‘We do go out for tea once in a while, but there is no sweetness expected between lovers.’’’
(30.3) Narrative voice: . . . Ocha nomi ni ittari daa?
tea drink to go em
‘What? You go out for tea, you say?’
(30.4) Chie-chan: ‘‘Sonna hanashi, kiite-nai!’’
such story
hear-neg
‘‘‘You haven’t told me that before!’’’ (Morimoto 1995: 146)
Instead of using Ocha nomi ni ittari? ‘You go out for tea?’, when da is added as in
(30.3), the forceful impact of the utterance comes alive, requiring an emotive
interpretation such as surprise and disbelief. Here the phonological prominence
(elongation of da to daa) and other contextual information (particularly that the
news had not been broken to Chie-chan in the prior text) contribute to the
surprise 〈emotive meaning〉.
. Emotive da and quotation
Closely associated with the use of the emotive da in echo questions is its use in
quotation as observed in examples (31), (33), and (34). In (31) we find two
different kinds of quotation, kookansuru soodesu ‘I hear that they exchange’ a
hearsay report in (31.1), and a direct quotation followed by desu tte in (31.2). The
direct quotation, under normal circumstances, takes the quotative marker to or tte
immediately after the quotation. The insertion of desu here adds to the quoter’s
assertion based on the forceful impact of the utterance brought by the quoted.
Consequently, the surprise interpretation comes to the fore. The different ways of
quoting are reflected in English translation as well, with the direct quotation
translated as ‘It says . . .’
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
(31.1) 〈Ima kara . . ./ nijuugofungo/
Nishiku
Chuuoo kooen
now from
twenty-five.minutes.after Nishiku.Ward Central Park
de/ hitojichi to kookansuru soodesu/
at hostage with exchange I.hear
(31.2) ‘‘Masukomi
mo/ kuru node/ genbaseiri
o/ isoge’’
mass.communication also come since crowd.control O hurry.up
desu tte sa〉
em qt ip (Shiroo 1991: 314)
(32.1) 〈. . . and in/exchange she/says she’ll hand/over the hostage/twenty-five/
minutes from now/at central park in/the western ward/of the city.〉
(32.2) 〈It says,/‘‘the/mass/media’ll/be there,/so make/sure the/area’s/secure.’’〉
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 316)
In (33), taken from a romance novel, Chie-chan cannot believe that her boyfriend
failed to pass any of the university entrance exams. The quotation is accompanied
by the emotive da in (3.3). Here again, the use of da indicates a strong conclusive
tone.
(33.1) Hirota:
‘‘. . . Daigaku, zenbu ochita.’’
university all
failed
‘‘‘I failed (the entrance exams of) all of the universities.’’’
(33.2) Chie-chan: ‘‘. . . Uso . . .’’ Gakuzento natta.
lie
devastated became
‘‘‘Can’t be true.’’ I was devastated.’
(33.3)
Zenbu ochita da nante, sonna . . .
all
failed em such such
‘Such that he failed the entrance exams of all universities.’ (Morimoto 1995: 176)
A similar phenomenon is observed in (34). (34), an utterance by a girl named
Ogawa, is addressed to Tamio who expressed earlier his intention to break up with
her.
(34.1) ‘‘Dooshite? Atashi wa zutto gamanshiteta no yo.
why
I
T always was.patient nom ip
‘‘‘Why? I was being patient all this time.’
(34.2) Tamio ga nayanderu to omotte, sottoshiteoita.
Tamio S suffer
qt think left.alone
‘I thought you were suffering, Tamio, and so I left you alone.‘
Linguistic Emotivity
(34.3) Sorenanoni kyuuni wakareru da nante.’’
despite.that suddenly break up em such
‘Despite that you tell me suddenly that we are going to break up!’’’
(Kurahashi 1995: 147)
Although in the text there is no prior utterance that the quoter quotes from,
(34.3) takes the quotative form wakareru da nante ‘such thing as to break up’.
Instead of wakareru nante, the author chooses to insert da in between. Here again,
da expresses the forcefulness of the impact. Ogawa’s surprise is expressed in part
by the strong assertion she assigns to her utterance, based on the conclusive
assertion associated with Tamio’s earlier action. In examples (31.2), (33.3) and
(34.3), the telling-it-as-is attitude incorporates a dialogic voice of ‘‘You’re telling
me?!’’ and ‘‘I’m telling you!’’
Da also appears in a context where the speaker wishes to make prominent a
certain speech situation. In (35) taken from another romance novel, Yuna, the
heroine, reflects on the adventure she experienced in the imaginary kingdom.
(35.1) Shiruhaan e no tabinidete kara, atashi wa hitotsu kizuita koto ga
Shiruhaan to lk travel
after I
T one
noticed fact S
aru.
there.is
‘After departing for travel to the Kingdom of Shiruhaan, I noticed one
thing.’
(35.2) Izen to wa sukoshi chigau, Shura-ooji no hitomi no iro
before with T a.bit
different Prince.Shura lk eye
lk color
ni . . . da.
at
em
‘Prince Shura’s eyes, the color is different from before’ (Orihara 1998: 36)
Da in (35.2) is not informational. Note that (35.2) is not grammatically connected
to the topic–comment sentence such as: *Sore wa . . . Shura-ooji no hitomi no iro
ni da. The indirect object marker ni makes it impossible to interpret (35.2) as a
topic–comment sentence with the copulative da. Da is indexically linked, however,
to the situation at hand, and it reminds the reader of Yuna’s conclusive assertive
assessment of the situation. The graphological separation between ni and da in
(35.2), three dots in the original Japanese, offers additional evidence for interpreting da as emotive, apart from the propositional content.
In Section 5 I discussed emotive da’s function, i.e., expressing the conclusive
assertive telling-it-as-is attitude toward the verbal action, in a variety of utterances
including overt emotive negotiation, echo questions, quoting situation, and
expressions referring to the general situation. It is interesting to note that the
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
emotive da appears at indexically and dialogically sensitive locations. Where the
speaker wishes to appeal to the partner, for example, the emphatic emotive da is
chosen. Likewise, when the voices of the speaker and the partner are directly
intertwined, such as echo questions and quotations, da’s emotivity is called for.
Emotive da also reinforces the ‘‘here-ness’’ of the conversation among speech
participants. In all these cases, emotive da’s meaning is traced back to da’s stativity
and situationality. And because of this indexical nature, da reminds the reader of
the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 behind the utterance, assessing and expressing the very manner
in which he or she wishes to participate in the verbal interaction. The speaker’s
voice, intricately connected with the place, strongly reverberates and gives
personal validity to the utterance. And in the process, the speaker’s emotivity is
foregrounded. In this way, the emotive da projects on to the 〈emotive place〉 while
narrowing in on the relevant 〈topica〉.
. Emotive ja-nai and the telling-it-against-is attitude
The negative form of da, ja-nai, may also function primarily as an emotive. In this
section I examine a specific kind of ja-nai which contributes to the 〈emotive
meaning〉. I argue for the ‘‘telling-it-against-is’’ emotive meaning of a certain type
of ja-nai, i.e., ja-nai that is not interchangeable with ja-nai ka. But, first, a brief
general overview of ja-nai is in order. Given that ja-nai is often considered a
stylistic variety of ja-nai ka (according to Sunakawa et al. [1998], ja-nai, instead of
ja-nai ka, is more frequently used by female speakers than by males), let me
review the explanation of ja-nai ka. Sunakawa et al. (1998: 143) lists four different
types of ja-nai ka with the following examples. In these examples, ja-nai (ka),
although it takes a negative morpheme, does not negate the preceding proposition.
1. Surprise, discovery
(36) Sugoi ja-nai ka. Daihakken da ne.
great em q big.discovery if ip
‘That’s great! That’s a big discovery.’
2. Criticism
(37) Doo shita n
da. Osokatta ja-nai ka.
what did nom em late
em q
‘What happened? You are late, you know.’
Linguistic Emotivity
3. Confirmation
(38) Hora, oboetei-nai
ka na. Onaji kurasu ni Katoo tte ko ga ita
look remember-neg q ip same class in Katoo qt girl S there.was
ja-nai ka.
em q
‘Look, don’t you remember? There was this girl called Katoo in the
same class, wasn’t there?’
4. Strong will, invitation (with volitional form of verb)
(39) Ganbatte
kachinukoo
ja-nai ka.
do.one’s.best win.the.championship em q
‘Let’s make sure that we do our best and win the championship.’
Before proceeding, I should remind the reader that occurrences of ja-nai examined here are limited. As Tanomura (1988) discusses, ja-nai ka and ja-nai also
appear (1) as conjecture, for example, Doomo ano otoko hannin ja-nai (ka)?
‘(guessing from suspicious behavior) Isn’t that man the suspect’ and (2) as
negation, for example, Sooka, suteki ja-nai no (ka) ‘Oh I get it, it’s not nice’. These
uses of ja-nai (ka) are informational and are not discussed here.
Emotive ja-nai (ka) is used for reasons suggested by Sunakawa et al. (1998).
For example, in (40) taken from a romance novel, a boy, finding a celebrity, yells
out. (40.1) is an example of emotive ja-nai functioning to convey surprise.
Jun’ya’s surprise is evidenced in (40.2) where his action is described as shouting.
(40.1) ‘‘Aa-tt. Are Supuringu ja-nai ka-tt!’’
look that Spring
em q
‘‘‘Look! Isn’t that the duo Spring?’’’
(40.2) Jun’ya ga sakenda.
Jun’ya S shouted
‘Jun’ya shouted.’ (Kobayashi 1998: 114)
In (41) and (42) taken from Chibi Maruko-chan, ja-nai ka functions as confirmation and invitation, respectively. (41) is an utterance Maruko’s friend makes when
confirming the statement his friend made earlier. In (42), as Hanawa’s friends get
excited about going to see a circus, Hanawa suggests ways to distribute free tickets.
(41) Yamada: 〈Hora ne hora ne/ Nagayama-kun datte/ iru
tte itte/iru/
look ip look ip Nagayama
even there.is qt say
ja-nai ka〉
em q
‘Look, even Nagayama is saying that they are there, (don’t
you see?).’ (Sakura 1995: 151)
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
(42) Hanawa: 〈Kujibiki ka/ janken
de/ kimeyoo ja/-nai ka〉
lottery or paper-rock-scissors with decide em
q
‘Let’s decide by lottery or paper-rock-scissors, (shall
we?).’ (Sakura 1995: 118)
An additional example of ja-nai (ka) used for the expression of strong will can be
found in (43) taken from Kookaku Kidootai.
(43.1) 〈Sooyuu kuso yaroodomo o/ issoosuru tameni/
saru
to
such
shit fools
O clean.out for.the.purpose.of monkey with
torihiki/shita n
da〉
negotiated nom em
(43.2) 〈Yatteyaroo/ ja-nai no!〉
do
em nom
(43.3) 〈Soo shiro to/ sasayaku no yo/ watashino/ goosuto ga〉
so do qt whisper nom ip my
ghost S (Shiroo 1991:
30)
(44.1) 〈We made/ a deal with/ ape-face to/ get rid of/ the assholes/ who pull/
this kind/ of shit.〉
(44.2) 〈So/ let’s/ do it!〉
(44.3) 〈A/ little/ voice is/ urging/ me/ on. . .〉 〈My/ ghost/ !〉
Smith 1995: 34)
(Schodt and
Next, (45.1) is an example of criticism ja-nai (ka), taken from a romance comic.
Here Akira, the heroine, is upset when one of the rock-band members criticizes
her behavior. Akira uses an abrupt angry speech style in (45.1) with ja-nai.
Immediately before (45.1), Akira’s friend accuses her of being late. (45.1) is an
angry response to that accusation. In the comic, Akira’s angry face as well as an
expletive fun! ‘humph’ accompanying her facial expression provide contextual
information to support such an interpretation.
(45.1) Akira:
〈Anta ga katteni/ hayaku kita n
ja-/nai no!〉
you S willingly early came nom em
nom
‘You came early on your own will, right?’
(45.2)
〈Gaki mitaina koto/ itte n
ja-/nai wa yo-tt〉
kid like
fact say nom em
ip ip
‘Don’t behave like a kid, saying silly things!’ (Fujii 1994: 98)
In examples (40.1), (41), (42), (43.2) and (45.1), ja-nai’s expressivity is
indexically linked to the situation, i.e., the speaker expresses an assertive attitude
Linguistic Emotivity
despite the situation that impresses otherwise. Again, for interpreting the
emotive ja-nai, as in the case of emotive da, cotextual and contextual information is critical. Information necessary for the negotiation of the 〈emotive
meaning〉 includes verbal and nonverbal signs, particularly what precedes and
follows the ja-nai utterance. The partner’s responses are important for understanding the speaker’s intended meaning. In addition, in case of comics, visual
cues further define the 〈interactional place〉. Cotextual and contextual information ultimately project on to the 〈topica〉 where the appropriate 〈negotiative
meaning〉 comes to life.
Now (45.2) presents a case of ja-nai different from those discussed so far.
Curiously, Sunakawa et al.’s (1998) functional categories (i.e., surprise/discovery,
criticism, confirmation, and strong will/invitation) do not account for this use.
(45.2) expresses the speaker’s strong desire, bordering on command, for the
situation at hand to be otherwise. Other similar cases of ja-nai include the
following.
(46.1) 〈Kora soko!/
hey there
(46.2) Shateki tesuto/ ja-nee n
da/
shooting test
if-neg nom em
(46.3) Ningen
mitaina/ dekee hyooteki ni/ kakkotsukete/ nerai
human.being like
large target at stylishly
target
sadamete n
ja/nee. Ute ute〉
aim
nom em
shoot shoot (Shiroo 1991: 155)
(47.1) 〈Jesus, you useless/ pukes!!
(47.2) This ain’t the/ stinking Olympics!!/
(47.3) With big targets like/ humans, don’t worry/ so much about/ putting five
in the/ same hole — Just/ blast away at the center of mass!〉 (Schodt
and Smith 1995: 157)
As implied by the fact that ja-nee in (46.3) is translated into an English imperative,
this ja-nee is an expression of a strong desire on the part of the speaker. The
Japanese original, however, is not so much the imperative directed toward
someone as the speaker’s wish for the situation at hand to be otherwise. The desire
is aimed toward what is currently happening in the place.
Additional examples can be cited, as in (48) taken from a romance novel. The
heroine Eri is making a case that her elder brother has never been the kind of boy
the parents thought.
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
(48.1) ‘‘Omotteta no yo. Aishiteta hito mo ita
wa. Oniichan wa
thought nom ip loved
person also there.was ip brother T
sono hito no tameni tatakatta no yo. Shindemo ii tte
that person lk for
fought nom ip die
fine qt
omoeru kurai, aishiteita kara.’’
think degree loved
because
‘‘‘He thought so. There was a woman he loved too. My brother fought
for her. Because he loved her so much and he didn’t mind dying for
her.’’’
(48.2) ‘‘Bakana koto o yuu n
ja-nai-tt.’’
foolish fact O say nom em
‘‘‘Don’t say such a foolish thing!’’’
(48.3) Otoosan wa, te o furiageru.
father T arm O raise
‘My father raised his arm.’ (Kurahashi 1995: 182)
Unlike those discussed by Sunakawa et al. (1998), the cases of ja-nai in the above
examples are not interchangeable with ja-nai ka. Based on the cotextual and
contextual information, these uses of ja-nai are interpreted to signal the speaker’s
strong desire that the event described be otherwise. In these cases, the force of
assertion seems to be associated with what is happening in the place, as if the
forceful declaration itself were enough to change the current situation. The source
of this interpretation again comes from da’s situationality. Emotive ja-nai expresses the speaker’s desire against the situation, or more accurately, the desire to
turn the current situation around. In other words, instead of describing the
situation as is, the emotive ja-nai is indexically linked to the speaker’s attitude of
willfully wishing against what the situation is, i.e., the telling-it-against-is attitude.
The ja-nai associated with strong desire is used in reference to someone else’s
action, and therefore it is, in practice, impossible to control. Yet, the speaker’s
strong desire for control (i.e., prevent something from happening) is voiced, thus
often resulting in the negative command reading. This use of ja-nai may be
compared with other possible negative commands. For example, instead of (45.2),
Gaki mitaina koto itte n ja-nai wa yo-tt ‘Don’t behave like a kid, saying silly
things!’, it is possible to choose Gaki mitaina koto yuu na ‘Don’t say things like
kids’. In comparison with yuu na ‘don’t say’, yuu n ja-nai adds the effect of a
decisive assertive attitude toward the situation. When ja-nai is chosen, the speaker
does not refer to the partner’s action directly as in the case of negative command.
Rather, the speaker hopes that the event doesn’t develop, and that the resultant
situation becomes a non-issue. In short, it is a desire aimed more at the situation
Linguistic Emotivity
defined in the place, than aimed at the agent of the action captured in the [agentdoes] structure.
Ja-nai that expresses the strong desire does not have to be actually addressed
to someone. In fact, one’s desire for the situation to be otherwise may be expressed internally as shown in (49), taken from Chibi Maruko-chan. At this point
of the comic, Maruko’s classmate, Fujiki, is worried that Nagasawa is being too
friendly with another classmate. Tamae, Maruko’s closest friend, is also worried
that Maruko may become intimate with someone else. Fujiki confesses his concern
to Nagasawa, and immediately after that Tamae’s secret feelings are expressed as
a monologue given outside the speech balloon.
(49.1) Tamae:
Soo!!/
yes
‘Yes!’
(49.2)
Yoku itta yo/ Fujiki-tt Erai-tt/ Anta nishicha joodeki
well said ip Fujiki great you for
fine.deed
datta yo.
if
ip
‘You said well, Fujiki. Great. Fine deed, it was, coming from
you.’
(49.3) Nagasawa: 〈Fuun〉
uh huh
‘Uh huh.’
(49.4) Tamae:
Nagasawa-kun . . ./ ‘‘Fuun’’ ja-nai yo. Fujiki no kimochi
Nagasawa
uh huh em ip Fujiki lk feelings
o/ wakatteyarina yo.
O understand ip
‘Nagasawa, don’t just say ‘‘uh huh.’’ Try to understand
Fujiki’s feelings.’ (Sakura 1995: 61)
Tamae is portrayed as a shy girl who often would not verbalize what she thinks.
But in (49.4), Tamae expresses her assertive attitude toward Nagasawa; she wishes
against what is happening in the situation. Comics offer interesting discourse of
inner monologue normally inaccessible in ordinary conversation. Tamae’s
insecure feelings and strong empathy toward Fujiki are expressed by this emotive
comment. Tamae’s desire echoes inside her and the reader has access to her inner
feelings.
Emotive ja-nai indexically signals the speaker’s telling-it-against-is attitude.
Ja-nai, as in the case of emotive da, projects on to the 〈emotive place〉 and its
meaning contributes to the overall 〈negotiative meaning〉.
Da and ja-nai as commentary strategies
.
Reflections
In the preceding sections I argued that certain occurrences of da and ja-nai
function to present emotive comments and they signal the speaker’s attitude
toward the verbal performance, and toward the situation at hand. The noninformational use of da in Japanese, however, is not limited to the case examined
so far in this study. In fact, varied related phenomena in the Japanese grammar
suggest da’s emotive character. For example, da is used as a part of conjunctions.
One can easily list more than several of these conjunctions; dakara ‘so’, dakedo
‘however’, demo ‘but’, datte ‘even so’ and so on. The initial syllable of these
conjunctions refers to the preceding utterance. More specifically, it contains
within itself the speaker’s assertive recognition of the partner’s (or the speaker’s
own) assertive attitude.
In retrospect, the copulative account of da is perhaps a product of the
theoretical paradigm which readily reveals that aspect. The 〈informational
meaning〉 of da results because the theory aims to focus on it. If the linguistic
theory views the object of study as the analysis of propositional content, such
aspect of language is revealed. But if the theory of language aims to account for
the expressive aspects, complex pictures are likely to emerge. The meaning/function of a linguistic sign becomes indexical rather than purely symbolic.
The account of da advanced from the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation
theory cannot be reached from strictly formal linguistic approaches. For, da’s
meaning is indexically linked to the place, and only in its 〈interactional place〉 can
the motivation for its use be fully understood.
Given the account of some cases of da (and ja-nai) presented in this chapter,
an over-reaching implication comes to my mind. That is: What role does da play
in the overall framework of the Japanese language? In my earlier studies (Maynard
1992, 1993b, 1997a, 1997 f.) I reported that Japanese discourse is rife with nominal
predicates accompanied by nominalized clauses. For example, I reported in
Maynard (1992) that the frequency of the n(o) da predicate in 10 published taidan
‘dialogue’ conversations was 25.82% of all sentence-final forms (520 out of 2,014
sentences). Likewise, Maynard (1993c) reported that the frequency of n(o) da in
3-minute segments of 20 casual conversations resulted in 25.48% of all sentencefinal forms (317 out of 1,244 utterances). I also examined commentary questions
(to be discussed in Chapter 12) in Maynard (1995a) and reported their relatively
high frequency (more than 30% in comics and fiction).
The use of emotive da in the n(o) da expression reinforces the topic–comment
dynamic in the Japanese language (see Maynard 1997a for additional discussion
on this). The relative prominence of the emotive da in Japanese is both a resource
for and a product of its preference for the Rhetoric of Pathos.
Chapter 12
Interrogatives as emotive comments
.
Introduction
This chapter discusses interrogatives, another strategy through which a Japanese
speaker presents the emotive comment. In contrast to the assertive emotive
comment expressed by da (and ja-nai), interrogatives bring to the discourse the
speaker’s psychological and attitudinal doubts. Interrogatives introduce emotive
comments opposite to what da and ja-nai express. In what follows I discuss the
linguistic emotivity involved in (1) interrogatives seeking no answers, (2) commentary questions, and (3) stray interrogative clauses. Data for this chapter
primarily consist of novels (romance, fantasy, and mystery) and comics. Additionally, examples from essays are discussed.
From the perspective of the Place of Negotiation theory, two types of interrogatives are identified, ‘‘informational interrogatives’’ that seek informationproviding answers, and ‘‘emotive interrogatives’’ that seek no such answers. The
informational interrogative projects primarily on to the 〈cognitive place〉, and its
〈informational meaning〉 is important. The emotive interrogative projects on to
emotive and interactional places, and its significant meaning lies in emotivity. We
are aware that although in many instances, interrogatives elicit answers and
replies, more often than one might expect, they seek no answers. This chapter
focuses on emotive interrogatives appearing in the non-interrogative context,
commentary questions, and stray interrogative clauses.
If interrogatives do not seek answers, what do they do? In the course of this
chapter, I argue that in fact these interrogatives, because they do not directly seek
information, fulfill a variety of expressive functions and project on to the 〈emotive
place〉 enhancing certain 〈emotive meanings〉. Instead of expressing one’s thoughts
and feelings in non-interrogative statements, a speaker uses interrogatives (sometimes merely exclamatory) to create various emotional effects, all of which are
essentially associated with the nature of the question-answer interaction. Emotive
interrogatives function in the 〈expression of emotional attitude〉. Among emotive
interrogatives, metacommunicative stray interrogative clauses, in particular,
function in the 〈communication of attitude toward others〉.
In what follows, I identify these effects and illustrate how various interpretations are indexically linked to the 〈interactional place〉. I also suggest, following
Bakhtin’s (1981, 1984, 1986) concept of ‘‘dialogicality’’ and ‘‘hidden dialogicality,’’
Linguistic Emotivity
that the rationale for using an interrogative as an emotive lies in the internalized
question-answer interaction.
.
Background
The phenomenon of questions and interrogatives has been studied from various
angles inside and outside of Japan. Let me start by discussing a few relevant
studies on questions in English. Lakoff (1973:453) is primarily concerned with the
question ‘‘When is an answer to a question appropriate?’’ and points out the
following. A set of appropriate answers to the question, ‘‘What time is it?’’ consists
of, among others, the following.
(1.1) Three o’clock.
(1.2) Don’t worry, ‘‘Star Trek’’ won’t be on for 45 minutes.
458)
(Lakoff 1973:
Lakoff points out that (1.2) does not provide the questioner with the information
sought. Instead, sentences such as (1.2) are responses to the verb of questioning
itself rather than to its complement. Lakoff (1973: 461) proposes to call responses
to the complement ‘‘answers’’ and responses to the performative ‘‘replies.’’ The
distinction Lakoff makes between two kinds of responses is of interest since it
provides a means for understanding answers in different pragmatic contexts.
Goody’s work (1978) addresses the issue of questions more directly. Based on
the use of questions in Conja, Goody introduces four question types; (1) information seeking, (2) rhetorical, (3) control, and (4) deference. Goody identifies
different types of questions based on the relative social status of the participants.
People ask information questions most readily of those with similar statuses, while
subordinates use mainly the deference question (such as ‘‘Are you going to greet
so-and-so today?’’ used to offer a suggestion and/or request). A similar classification of English questions is proposed by Athanasiadou (1991). Four categories are
introduced; (1) seeking information, (2) rhetorical questions, (3) examination
questions, and (4) indirect requests (including indirect suggestions and invitations). Athanasiadou also concludes that different modes of questioning are
available to participants depending on their relative social statuses.
Different types of questions in English have been pointed out in a number of
studies. For example, Kiefer’s (1981) list includes; information questions, rhetorical questions, examination questions, didactic questions, exclamations, indirect
requests, and indirect offers. Likewise, Wilson and Sperber (1988) list rhetorical
questions, exam questions, guess questions, surprise questions, expository questions, self-addressed questions, and speculative questions.
Interrogatives as emotive comments
As for the nature of questions, perhaps the most standard characterization
available is the speech act account such as the one proposed by Bach and Harnish
(1979). Bach and Harnish (1979) categorize questions as a type of directive which
constitutes one of the four kinds of communicative illocutionary acts. More
specifically, according to Bach and Harnish, ‘‘(q)uestions are special cases of
requests, special in that what is requested is that the speaker provide the hearer
with certain information’’ (1979: 48). However, this characterization is problematic as has been pointed out by Lyons (1977). Reminding us that not all questions
are information-seeking (for example, rhetorical and didactic questions), Lyons
suggests that the difference between declarative sentences and interrogative
sentences results from the ‘‘grammaticalization of the feature of doubt’’
(1977: 754). Lyons (1977) maintains that a distinction must be made between
asking a question of someone and simply posing the question. In his words:
To ask a question of someone is both to pose the question and, in doing so, to
give some indication to one’s addressee that he is expected to respond by answering the question that is posed. But the indication that the addressee is expected to
give an answer is not part of the question itself. (Lyons 1977: 755)
Freed (1994) reports on questions observed in approximately seven hours of
dyadic conversations between American adults. Freed’s function-based taxonomy
of questions is distributed along an information continuum between two poles,
information sought and information conveyed. The four major categories, i.e.,
external, talk, relational, and expressive, are then located with the first category
closest to information sought, and the last closest to information conveyed. Of
particular interest is the notable correspondence Freed finds between the pragmatic/social function of questions and their syntactic form.
From the perspective of linguistic emotivity, the last category, expressive style,
represents the most relevant kind. Freed (1994) lists, under the expressive style,
didactic function, rhetorical function, humor, self-directed function, and reported
speech. Curiously, among external questions that are most closely associated with
information, the yes/no question occurs 43% of the time, with the figure for the
wh-question being 37%. In contrast, among expressive questions most closely
associated with emotion, the yes/no question occurs 35% of the time, with the
figure of the wh-question being 49%. The fact that nearly half of the expressive
style questions occur as wh-questions seems to imply that expressiveness is
connected to the open-endedness of questioning, which leads to the impossibilities
or difficulties of offering appropriate answers. I touched upon this in my discussion of nan(i) in Chapter 10.
In Japan, issues of the question and questioning strategies have been
explored from several perspectives. For example, Tokieda (1951) identifies the
question-marking ka as taijin-kankei o koosei-suru joshi ‘particle that forms the
Linguistic Emotivity
human (interpersonal) relationship,’ and identifies the question-marking ka as
ji. Defining the question-marking particle ka as ji leads to the view that questioning is a process which connects pragmatically and interactionally the
participants in their taijin kankei ‘human (interpersonal) relationship.’ More
specifically, Tokieda (1951) points out that ka has double functions by citing a
sentence such as (2).
(2) Doo da, hoshii ka.
how be want q
‘What do you say, do you want (it)?’
(Tokieda 1951: 4)
In (2) ka expresses the speaker’s doubt toward the concept of hoshii ‘want.’
Simultaneously it conveys that the speaker addresses this question to his partner.
In other words, ka expresses (1) the speaker’s (self-) doubt regarding certain shi,
and (2) the speaker’s toikake ‘asking (other-addressed) questions.’ Tokieda states
that in this process the participants are defined as the shitsumonsha ‘questioner’
and hi-shitsumonsha ‘the questioned’ (1951: 4–5).
The notion that ka works on two levels within the questioning sequence seems
to originate from the history of how ka in modern Japanese has come to function
as it does. According to Sakakura (1960), roughly during the Nara period
(710–794 ad) the particle ya was used for emphatic effect when placed at the
sentence-final position, while ka was primarily used to mark the sentence-internal
items that the speaker found doubtful or unknown. During the Heian period
(794–1192 ad), however, ka gradually came to be used for other-addressed
questions and to expand its effectual domain to the entire sentence. Around the
same time utterances with interrogative nouns no longer required the use of ya for
the purpose of marking the question sentence as a whole. This led to the gradual
extinction of ya while ka assumed both functions, i.e., expressing self-doubt and
asking other-addressed questions.
Although studies on Japanese interrogative expressions are available (e.g.,
Minami 1985; Miyaji 1979; Nakada 1984; Nitta 1987; Yano 1989), most relevant
to the current work is the recognition of two related but different elements in
questions. As discussed in Chapter 10, the speaker’s (self-)doubt and the speaker’s
asking (other-addressed) questions have been identified in some way or other by
most previous Japanese studies.
In this regard, Yamaguchi’s (1990) study explains the ways in which these two
elements related to interrogative expressions result from two different realizations
of the question-answer interaction. First, Yamaguchi takes the position that both
‘‘doubt’’ (utagai) and ‘‘inquiry’’ (toikake) reside in one’s inner interrogative
thoughts, and they are associated with one’s desire to obtain clarification of
information and/or to find an answer to a question. Yamaguchi further states that
the typical interrogative expression is nothing more than an expression which
Interrogatives as emotive comments
illustrates a ‘‘possible (draft of an) answer’’ (kaitooan) (1990: 11). Second, based
on this assumption he proceeds to identify ‘‘doubt’’ and ‘‘inquiry’’ interrogatives
based on how these possible answers are presented. Seeking one’s own answer to
a self-posed question is expressed as a doubt. On the other hand, seeking an
answer from another is reflected in the form of an inquiry. Although Yamaguchi’s
statement above may give the impression of being rather abstract, it nonetheless
provides a rationale for why the meaning of doubt and inquiry have always been
intimately tied to each other.
In sum, previous studies on interrogatives have tended to focus on categorization of different types. Although they offer useful background information, most
significant to the current study is the concept of ‘‘doubt’’ i.e., grammaticalization
of ‘‘doubt,’’ which may be applied to the characterization of interrogatives seeking
no answers.
Before proceeding further, it is necessary to clarify what I mean by ‘‘interrogatives’’ and ‘‘interrogative expressions’’ in Japanese. Adopting Miyaji’s (1979: 81)
three basic forms that mark Japanese questions with slight alterations, interrogatives are expressions that take one or more of the following observable features.
1. Expressions accompanied by the question-marking particle ka,
2. Expressions which contain interrogative pronouns such as dare ‘who’, dooshite
‘why’ and so on within the sentence,
3. Expressions accompanied by rising intonation (in spoken language) or by
question marks (?) to indicate rising intonation in written text.
Although some scholars have limited the use of the term ‘‘interrogatives’’ to mean
only other-addressed, answer-seeking, straightforward questions, I use the term in
a broader sense primarily in reference to the linguistic form described above.
Given the definition above, interrogatives in Japanese are distributed in a broader
range than, say, interrogatives in English. This is partly because the particle ka
appears frequently in expressions whose English counterparts do not take interrogative forms. The reader will find that this is indeed the case as illustrated by
many such examples appearing in this chapter.
.
Emotive interrogatives
Unlike informational interrogatives, emotive interrogatives seek no informationproviding answers. In my earlier work (Maynard 1995b), I discussed these
interrogatives and proposed four contexts in which the speaker’s self-doubt is
expressed. These are; (1) self-inquiry, (2) self-acceptance, and (3) metacommunicative interrogatives, all of which function as self-addressed expressions of doubt,
and another related category, (4) the so-called rhetorical question. All these
Linguistic Emotivity
interrogatives are expressions of doubt as characterized by Lyons (1977), Tokieda
(1951), Yamaguchi (1990) and others.
Unlike answer-seeking questions, all these interrogatives are self-directed in
that they do not seek information from the partner. From the standpoint of the
Place of Negotiation theory, these utterances project on to the 〈emotive place〉, but
do not present direct 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉. Rather, they present selfexpressivity only to appeal to the partner indirectly. In other words, the
interrogativity exists only in disguise. In the case of rhetorical interrogatives,
although some responses may be expected, the partners’ responses do not provide
‘‘answers.’’ Rather they are ‘‘replies’’ responding to the speech act itself. In what
follows, then, I proceed to discuss four different strategies of emotive interrogatives, i.e., self-inquiry, self-acceptance, and metacommunicative interrogatives, as
well as rhetorical questions. In each discussion, I present how cotextual and
contextual information are incorporated into the process of reaching the 〈negotiative meaning〉.
. Self-inquiry interrogatives
The self-inquiry interrogative appears when the speaker creates an interrogative
expression addressed to himself or herself. One can argue that self-inquiry seeks
an answer introspectively, but it does not directly appeal to 〈you〉, the partner. (3),
taken from a fantasy novel, illustrates such a case. Utterance (3.3) expresses selfaddressed doubt in an internalized dialogue.
(3.1) Sono toki,
tento no iriguchi kara hitokage ga hitotsu, jiipu eto
that moment tent lk entrance from figure S one
jeep to
ayumiyottekita.
approached
‘That moment, from an entrance to the tent, a figure of a person
emerged and approached the jeep.’
(3.2) Takumi ga saishoni kizuita.
Takumi S first
noticed
‘Takumi noticed it first.’
(3.3) Segahikui. . . .„Onnanoko?
short
girl
‘Short. . . .„A girl?’
(3.4) ‘‘Sumimasen, omataseshite.’’
sorry
make.someone.wait
‘‘‘Sorry, for making you wait.’’’
Interrogatives as emotive comments
(3.5) Karoyakana koe ga todoku.
cheerful
voice S is.heard
‘A cheerful voice is heard.’ (Wakagi 1991: 129)
One’s thought depicted in self-inquiry is sometimes cotextually graphologically
marked, for example, parentheses in novelistic text, as shown in (4) taken from a
mystery novel.
(4.1) (Dono edamichi da?)
which forked.path be
‘Which forked path is it?’
(4.2) Zu
o tashikameru no mo modokashiku, Utayama wa
floor.plan O go.over
nom T be.impatient Utayama T
dete
sugu
migidonari no michi ni kakekonda.
come.out right.away next.right lk path into ran
‘Impatiently going over the floor plan, Utayama ran taking the path
immediately to the right to the location where he came out.’
(4.3) Ga, sore wa suguni yuu-taanshi, moto no rooka ni
but that T soon U-turn
original lk corridor to
modotteshimau.
return
‘But, the path made a U-turn right away, and ended up coming back to
the main corridor.’
(4.4) Irairato heimenzu o hirogeta.
flustered floor.plan O opened
‘Flustered, he opened up the floor plan.’
(4.5) (. . . Kono tsugi ja-nai ka)
this next be-neg q
‘. . . Maybe the next one?’ (Ayatsuji 1992: 210)
(4.1) and (4.5) are self-inquiring interrogatives. These illustrate the speaker’s inner
psychological states of doubt. In this sense, self-inquiry interrogatives reveal the
speaker’s inner feelings.
. Self-acceptance interrogatives
Self-acceptance interrogatives appear in a variety of situations where the speaker
is involved with noticing, thinking about, accepting and/or acknowledging
information. They include the actual thought process of one’s thinking, acknowledgment of unusual and surprising information, acceptance of new information,
Linguistic Emotivity
acceptance of one’s own intention to take action (and announcing that intent)
and accepting and responding to extraordinary facts (in exclamatory expressions).
The doubt involved here is that the speaker calls to mind certain facts which are
yet to be accepted or are in the very process of being acknowledged. The speaker
verbally identifies the self ’s cognitive process, and in that process the speaker
accepts facts as ordinary and given.
A representative example is observed when interrogatives signal surprise.
Cotextually, this interrogative often takes ja-nai ka or dewa-nai ka endings with
falling and emphatic phonological features, an example of which is (5) taken from
a romance novel.1 Here, Kisa, a 15 year-old girl, spots a friend on her way home
from school. (5) appears as Kisa’s inner thought in the narrative.
(5) (. . .) Ano Soejima Shinobu ga (. . .) kotchi ni
mukatte yattekuru
that Soejima Shinobu S
this.way toward facing come
dewa-nai ka.
be-neg q
‘(Oh, no) that Shinobu Soejima fellow is coming straight toward me!’
(Kurahashi 1992: 55)
In addition to expressing surprise, self-acceptance interrogatives are used when the
speaker overtly recognizes and acknowledges new information. As illustrated by
the use of naruhodo ‘I see’ in (6.2), cotextually self-acceptance interrogatives often
appear with phrases that express the understanding and recognition of specific
information, often after some difficulty. (6) is taken from a mystery novel, and at
this point Shimada comes to realize the trick the murderer played on him.
(6.1) Mizuiro no sofuto keesu ni haitta sore o kuiiru yooni mitsume,
blue
lk soft case in placed that O fixedly as
stare
Shimada wa hitorigoto no yooni hikuku kotoba o hakidasu.
Shimada T monologue lk as
low
words O utter
‘Fixedly staring at the object placed in a blue soft case, Shimada utters
in a low voice the words as if he were speaking in a monologue.’
(6.2) Hahaan. Koitsu wa — naruhodo, yappari sooyuu koto ka.
uh huh this T
I see
after.all such fact q
‘Uh huh. This is . . . I see, after all, that’s it.’
(6.3) ‘‘Dooshite sonna tokoro ni sonna mono ga?’’
why
such place at such thing S
‘‘‘How can this thing be in such a place?’’’
(6.4) Utayama no toi
ni, Shimada wa kiritto me o age, korede
Utayama lk question at Shimada T sharply eyes O raise this
Interrogatives as emotive comments
subete
ga wakatta,
to demo yuu yooni usuku waratta.
everything O understood qt or
say as
faintly smiled
‘In response to Utayama’s question, Shimada raised his eyes with a
sharp gaze, and smiled faintly, as if saying that now he understood
everything.’ (Ayatsuji 1992: 307)
In (6.2) the adverb naruhodo adds to the effect of the interrogative, i.e., by pointing
to one’s inner acknowledgment and/or understanding of information. As explained
in the preceding text given in (6.1), (6.2) is uttered as if he were saying these words
to himself. On the other hand, (6.3) is understood as a question, which is also
specifically identified as such in (6.4). In a novelistic text, occasionally the characters’ verbal actions are explicitly described; these contextual cues are taken into
consideration for the instantiation of the appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉.
Self-acceptance interrogatives also mark situations where the speaker is about
to engage in some action. Utterances are made (1) almost as a self-warning to
the speaker and surrounding people, and (2) as encouragement to the speaker to
act on it. (7), taken from a romance novel, is an example where both (1) and
(2) apply. Here, after a brief chat, Satoo, a boy Konomi (the heroine) admires,
says (7).
(7) ‘‘Sate, sorosoro iku kaa.’’
well soon
go q
‘‘‘Well, I should go now.’’’
(Asagiri 1992: 44)
After uttering (7), Satoo stands up, stretches, and starts walking. (7) is a declaration of Satoo’s action, which obviously does not request an answer. It should be
added that (7) can possibly be interpreted as an answer-seeking question, if (7) is
cotextually accompanied by an invitational tone. For example, Sate sorosoro iku
ka? ‘Shall we go now?’ uttered as an invitation seeking a response.
Interrogatives discussed so far (including both self-inquiry and self-acceptance) express the speaker’s sense of doubt toward some state of affairs. The
speaker does not engage in soliciting a response from the partner as expected in an
ordinary question-answer adjacency pair. Both self-inquiry and self-acceptance
interrogatives reveal the speaker’s inner thoughts and feelings, such as doubt,
surprise, acceptance of information, and exclamation. In short, by using the
interrogative in a non-interrogative context, the speaker adds expressivity to the
utterance.
. Metacommunicative interrogatives
Interrogatives expecting no answers are often used to qualify the speech act. Here
Lakoff ’s (1980) concept of speech act qualification is instructive. As mentioned in
Linguistic Emotivity
Chapter 9, Lakoff takes the position that performative speech acts themselves
may be qualified by their user, for example, by hedges. Self-interrogatives operate
as metacommunicative interrogatives and qualify as speech acts. (Later in
Section 5, I expand the discussion on speech act qualification further, and discuss
clausal hedges, i.e., what I call ‘‘stray interrogative clauses’’ in Japanese. Two
specific types of speech act qualification, mitigation and evidential, are discussed
in that context.)
One way the metacommunicative interrogative expresses emotivity is through
its mitigating effect enacted in the 〈interactional place〉. (8) represents a case of
mitigating the illocutionary force by marking the utterance with an interrogative
expression delivered in a soft, hesitant speech. In (8.1) Rinzai’s utterance is
presented with a degree of doubt, or a lack of strong commitment to the statement. In (8.1), although the speaker himself wonders about the fact directly
related to his own behavior, it is possible to interpret this to express his doubt as
to why he waited.
(8.1) ‘‘Shikujitta to yuu beki ka, keisan
doori to yuu beki ka’’
failed
qt say should q calculation as.is qt say should q
‘‘‘Should I say it is a case of failure or it is a calculated case?’’’
(8.2) Toozakaru
kooten o miokurinagara, Rinzai ga tsubuyaita.
go.into.distance light O observing
Rinzai S uttered
‘Observing the light fading into distance, Rinzai uttered.’
(Kikuchi 1991: 168)
The metacommunicative interrogative expresses one’s doubt toward one’s own
words. Expressing our attitude toward our own selection of words conveys that we
take into consideration our partner’s understanding. Consequently, the
metacommunicative interrogative brings to discourse a sense of interactional
sensitivity, functioning for the purpose of the 〈communication of attitude toward
others〉.
. Rhetorical questions
Last among the four types of emotive interrogatives is the so-called rhetorical
question. Rhetorical questions require a non-literal reading. Rhetorical questions
force us to interpret them in the form of reversed answers to impossible-to-answer
questions. Rhetorical questions appear in the context that is in sharp contrast with
the context for ordinary informational interrogatives. When a straightforward
interpretation of an interrogative results in tautology or absurdity, as in the case
of a rhetorical question, a non-literal interpretation is sought.
Interrogatives as emotive comments
However, the doubt expressed in rhetorical questions reflects a complex
psychological process. Here Yamaguchi’s (1990) characterization of the ironical
use of interrogatives offers some insight. According to Yamaguchi,
A speaker, while being certain that he or she already possesses the right answer,
sometimes questions whether or not the proposition which negates the very
answer can hold; this is done with the purpose of confirming the already available
answer.2 (Yamaguchi 1990: 54, my translation)
In rhetorical questions this characterization must be broadened even further. The
doubt expressed is indeed ironical because the speaker knowingly uses the
interrogative form when the speaker neither doubts his or her own position nor
expects an answer from the partner. Instead, the speaker affirms his or her
conviction traced to the non-literal reversed meaning.
(9.2), taken from a romance novel, is an example of a rhetorical question.
(9.1) Soejima-kun no kirakira hikaru hitomi ga, sukoshi demo atashi ni
Soejima
lk glittering shine eyes S little
even I
IO
mukerareta dakede, namidagumi sooni natteshimau noni.
directed
only
be.in.tears almost become
despite
‘Only by the fact that Soejima’s shining eyes are directed at me even
just a little, I am almost in tears.’
(9.2) Sono atashi ga, dooshite kare nitaishite utagai no me nado
that I
S how
he toward doubt lk eyes such
mukerareyoo ka.
can.cast
q
‘How could I cast a suspecting glance at him?’ (Kurahashi 1992: 134)
Here, there is virtually no straightforward answer to ‘‘how.’’ To interpret (9.2) as
seeking an answer is difficult because of the open-endedness of the interrogative
expression itself. This is similar to the phenomenon discussed in Chapter 10
regarding nan(i)’s function as an anti-sign. Rhetorical questions assume the
impossibility of an answer. And, contextually, lack of the partner’s response
further supports the non-literal interpretation.
Beyond the cotextual and contextual characteristics mentioned above, textual
cohesion offers a clue for the emotive interpretation of rhetorical questions. In
novelistic texts, the inner feelings of the narrator and characters support the
textual coherence, and therefore, the non-literal interpretation may be the
necessary choice. This is particularly true when the immediate texts surrounding
the rhetorical question expect the exclamative reading. For example, observe (10),
taken from a romance novel.
Linguistic Emotivity
(10.1) Bunkakai
ga owareba, futatabi Soejima-kun o kooshite
cultural.festival S if.is.over again Soejima
O this.way
chikakude miru koto mo deki-naku naru no da.
close
see nom also can-neg become nom be
‘When the school cultural festival is over, I will not be able to see
Soejima from a close distance.’
(10.2) Konna chansu ni nanimo se-zuni irareyoo ka.
this
chance at nothing do-neg can.be q
‘How can I do nothing at the occasion of such a chance?’
(10.3) Nanimo shi-naide kookaisuru yori, nanika
shidekashite
nothing do-neg regret
than something dare.to.do
kookaisuruhoo ga yoppodo
ii.
regret
S considerably good
‘Rather than to regret by not doing anything, it is much better to do
something and regret it later.’ (Kurahashi 1992: 135)
In (10.1) the speaker rationalizes that the chance is limited, and in (10.3) she
concludes that it is better to take some action, and therefore, the interpretation
coherent with the cotext requires the emotive interpretation. (10.2) is an
exclamative expressing that she really wants to take some action. Contextually,
emotive adverbs often co-occur with exclamative rhetorical questions; for example, in (10.2), konna ‘this’ indicates emotivity since it implies ‘‘to the extent like
this.’’
Rhetorical questions require non-literal emotive readings. And clues for such
interpretation are given in the choice of linguistic strategy itself, as well as what is
expected in the place of communication. In this sense, rhetorical questions, since
they always require negotiation of non-literal meaning, represent a place-dependent phenomenon appropriately understood within the Place of Negotiation
theory.
. Emotivity of commentary questions
Among interrogatives, what I call ‘‘commentary questions’’ also function as an
emotive strategy. The commentary question (henceforth CQ) takes n(o) with
optional (desu) ka. CQ contrasts with the ordinary question (henceforth OQ) that
does not bear these features. In this section, based on my earlier study (Maynard
1995a), I explore the 〈emotive meaning〉 associated with CQ.
CQ and OQ may occur in situations where each contributes differently to the
instantiation of appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉. In (11), taken from a romance
Interrogatives as emotive comments
comic, Hoshina asks her younger sister Nozomi if what Nozomi has just said
is true.
(11.1) Hoshina: 〈Honto ka/ ima itta/ koto〉
true
q now said fact
‘Is it true, what you just said?’
(11.2) Nozomi: Oniichan
brother
‘Oh, dear brother.’
(11.3) Hoshina: 〈Honto/ na no ka yo/!!〉
true
be nom q ip
‘Is it (really) true?’
(11.4) Nozomi: 〈Un . . ./ demo〉
yes
but
‘Yes, but . . .’ (Makino 1992: 68)
Hoshina asks two informationally similar questions, honto ka ‘is it true’ in the OQ
form in (11.1), and honto na no ka ‘is it (really) true?’ in the CQ form in (11.3). In
the latter, the nominalizer no is inserted, requiring the insertion of na, the prenominal form for the verb da ‘be’. Why is a CQ chosen in (11.3), while it is not in
(11.1)? Or, more fundamentally, why are there two ways for expressing the
speaker’s intention to verify whether or not ‘it is true?’ In (11), CQ in (11.3) is used
for emphatic effect; this interpretation is cotextually supported by the co-occurring
exclamation marks as observed in the original text. However, as will be shown later,
CQ is also used in non-emphatic situations, and therefore, the true distinction
between the motivation for choosing OQ or CQ begs further investigation.
I am aware that in Japanese grammar the question with sentence-final no has
often been dismissed as a stylistic choice, thus obviating the need for recognizing
its 〈emotive meaning〉. Stylistically, no as a sentence-final particle is often said to
add a soft and gentle tone to the statement. It is also said that no ‘‘engenders a
feeling of shared knowledge,’’ (McGloin 1986: 21) and that its rapport/empathycreating function motivates its frequent use among female speakers. Except for
these stylistic differences, no is generally understood to function in a way similar
to the question-marking particle ka. Recognizing but going beyond the characterization mentioned above, I take the position that honto na no? and honto? (or
honto ka?) differ in their primary functions and these functional differences originate in the characteristics to be explored in this section.
In what follows I demonstrate that different distributional constraints are
placed on OQ and CQ, and that such constraints are not random but are closely
related to the CQ’s 〈emotive meaning〉. I conclude that what is ultimately achieved
Linguistic Emotivity
by choosing CQ lies in foregrounding the 〈interactional selfƒ〉, with his or her
emotivity echoing throughout the expression. As in the case of comment realized
by emotive da and ja-nai, CQ, with its nominalization process followed by
optional desu and ka, enhances the topic–comment dynamic, and ultimately it
facilitates the emotive futaku effect. CQ is another strategy in the Japanese
language that intensely projects on to emotive and interactional places.
. Conceptualization of event
Segment (12), taken from a mystery novel, describes the psychological state of
Matsuda. Matsuda is a reporter and he heard a story from the sister of a murder
victim. (12.3) and (12.4) appear in parentheses in the original fiction, indicating
that they represent Matsuda’s inner thought (i.e., his stream of consciousness).
(12.1) Gusarito
Matsuda no mune o sashita.
deep.in.one.blow Matsuda lk heart O stabbed
‘It (the story) stabbed (like a knife) deep into Matsuda’s heart.’
(12.2) Nazenara, shinchuu ni wadakamatteita reino renzoku jiko
no
because heart
in bothered
that series accident lk
kyoohaku gainen to, migotoni dabutta kara
da.
threatening sense with perfectly matched because be
‘It was because it clearly matched with the threatening sense surrounding a series of accidents which had been bothering him for some time.’
(12.3) (Soo ka.
so q
‘I see.’
(12.4) Soo datta no ka)
soo be nom q
‘That’s what it was.’
(12.5) To, omotta.
qt thought
‘He thought.’
(12.6) (Are wa, Yoriko no shiwaza datta no ka)
that T Yoriko lk conduct be nom q
‘That was done by Yoriko, I see.’
(12.7) Daga, sore o kuchiniwadasa-nakatta.
but that O said.in.words-neg
‘But, he did not say that in words.’ (Soono 1992: 247)
Interrogatives as emotive comments
In (12.3), (12.4), and (12.6), Matsuda comes to acknowledge the reason why he
sensed that someone was trying to harm him. Here ka indexes Matsuda’s selfdoubt and acknowledgment of new information. Note that ka appears in two
consecutive interrogatives, OQ in (12.3), and CQ in (12.4). Why are different
strategies chosen? Admittedly, the difference between (12.3) and (12.4) involves
more than the OQ versus CQ. Particularly significant is the past tense appearing
in (12.4). Perhaps I should simplify this contrast by changing (12.4) to (13).
(13) Soo na no ka.
so be nom q
‘(I get it), that’s what it is.’
I propose that when the question is asked in the CQ form, what precedes the
nominalizer no, since it is nominalized and encapsulated, is objectified and
conceptualized. It no longer describes an action-in-progress, rather, it presents a
given fact. Under this circumstance, the self-doubt and consequent acknowledgment of the information take place not so much regarding issues of whether or
not ‘that’s what it is’ is true, as regarding the change in the speaker’s personal
attitude and feelings. In (13), ‘that’s what it is’ is most likely to be already assumed. Perhaps this phenomenon is what Miyaji (1979) means when he makes a
point regarding the n(o) da interrogative, i.e., it makes a judgment first and then
asks about that information. In other words, in (12) Matsuda first acknowledges
the new information, and then accepts given information, thoughtfully being
convinced of the fact. Although it is possible to reverse the order of (12.3) and
(12.4), in practice it is more likely to find the sequencing as depicted in (12). The
tendency to proceed from the broader-based to the more focused doubt parallels
the way we frequently understand facts.
These cognitive and psychological processes are illustrated by other examples
as well, for example, in (14), taken from the same mystery novel. At this point in
the novel, Yooko suspects that Yumi was a murder victim, and begins to think
that she has committed suicide. Yooko looks out the window, and Oono seems to
follow her gaze.
(14.1) Oono:
‘‘Soo ka.’’
so q
‘‘‘I get it.’’’
(14.2)
Oono ga unazuite,
Oono S nod.and
‘Oono nods and (continues),’
Linguistic Emotivity
(14.3) Oono:
‘‘Surippa ga jisatsu o monogataru to yuu no wa, kanojo
slippers S suicide O tell
qt say nom T she
ga sore o haite niwa ni dete, mado kara heya ni
S that O wear garden to go.out window from room to
haitta to yuu koto ka ne’’
entered qt say fact Q ip
‘‘‘When you say that slippers tell that it was a suicide, do you
mean that she once went outside wearing them and then
entered her room through the window?’’’ (Soono 1992:
38–9)
The story develops for a few pages; eventually Yumi’s fingerprints were found on
the window frame. Acknowledging that Yooko’s theory is correct, Oono utters the
following.
(15.1) Oono:
‘‘Soo datta no ka . . .’’
so be nom Q
‘‘‘That’s what it was, I see . . .’’’
(15.2)
Oono ga, kata
o otoshite tsubuyaita.
Oono S shoulder O lower muttered
‘Oono, with his shoulders dropped, muttered.’
1992: 41)
(Soono
When interpreting (14.1) and (15.1), cognitive and psychological processes
described in the narrative text offer guidance. Oono chooses to use a CQ in (15.1)
when he faces the mounting evidence (i.e., discovery of the victim’s fingerprints)
that ‘that’s what it is’ is indeed the case. This interpretation is cotextually supported by the description that Oono’s response to the fact was ‘with his shoulders
dropped’ as explained in (15.2). The cotext specified by the narrator in novelistic
text provides information useful for the ultimate interpretation of the appropriate
〈negotiative meaning〉 in the 〈topica〉. The transition from (14.1) to (15.1) reflects
a change in the quality of information (from new to given) as well as a change in
emotive response, i.e., from that of doubt to a composed commentary. Consequently, (15.1) expresses the speaker’s acceptance of fact and the sense of being
movingly convinced.
. Expressing emotion through commentary questions
CQ is a strategy that not only facilitates the conceptualization of events, but also,
a strategy that foregrounds the speaker more than the information conveyed. As
I point out in what follows, the use of CQ is limited in a way indicative of its
particularity. CQ is used when information is not focused, and as a result, its
Interrogatives as emotive comments
potential for 〈emotive meanings〉 is increased. Observe the following non-use of
CQ in an echo question.
(16.1) A: Hayasugiru n
desu yo.
too.early nom be ip
‘It’s too early.’
(16.2) B: Hayasugiru?
too.early
‘Too early?’
(16.3) C: *?Hayasugiru n
da?
too.early
nom be
‘It’s too early?’
For expressing surprise or verification in an echo question, it is possible for the
partner to repeat the entire CQ sentence with a rising intonation as in Hayasugiru
n desu yo? However, when the partner expresses surprise at what he or she hears
and repeats the informational content of the utterance, (16.2) is most likely to
occur. To include the commentary predicate itself in the question as in (16.3) is
less expected, if not awkward.
Furthermore, in response to an utterance such as hayasugimasu (instead of the
n(o) da expression as given in [16.1]), one may also use (16.2) either to index
surprise or to request verification. In other words, an abrupt form of the speaker’s
statement can be repeated in an echo question for which information itself is
important. However, this is possible only under the condition that the question is
an OQ; it is impossible to ask an echo question in the CQ form as shown in (16.3).
The fact that n(o) da cannot be used for such a purpose implies that it contains the
speaker’s personal attitude which is less likely to be rephrased by someone else. This
suggests that CQ expresses personal emotion and feelings associated with
interrogativity. In short, since CQ is structured in such a way that the speaker can
potentially offer comment with da ‘be’, it is more suited to function as an emotive.
The priority of information associated with OQs, and absence of such
tendency in CQs are evidenced by the following pragmatic characteristics as well.
CQs are limited in use when making requests or seeking permission, which
necessitate the focus on information. For example, observe the following. At this
point in the story, Wakui asks Kazuo if he can keep a promise.
(17) Nee . . . yakusokushitekureru? Zettai
kono hanashi, darenimo
say
promise
absolutely this story
anyone
iwa-nai tte . . .
say-neg qt
‘Will you promise? That you won’t ever tell this to anyone.’ (Okano
1991: 41)
Linguistic Emotivity
The expression yakusokushitekureru? ‘will you promise?’ refers to the speech act of
making a promise. Under this circumstance, whether or not Kazuo will in fact
promise is up to him; it is not presupposed prior to the question. To make an
explicit assumption that Kazuo will grant the request is presumptuous at best. In
fact the question is asked because Wakui does not find enough evidence to
suppose so. Such an information-seeking interrogative does not normally occur as
a CQ. Observe (18) and (19), both of which take the CQ style.
(18) Nee . . . yakusokushitekureru no?
say
promise
nom
‘(You said so/I assume so, but) will you (really) promise?’
(19) Nee . . . yakusokushitekureru n
desu ka?
say
promise
nom be q
‘(You said so/I assume so, but) will you (really) promise?’
The expected interpretation of (18) and (19) is that of confirmation-seeking. In
this interpretation, the speaker’s communicative intent lies not so much in making
a request; rather, it lies in seeking confirmation of the assumption he or she has
already made. The speaker assumes that the partner knows what the speaker
desires.
A similar point can be made regarding the expression for seeking permission
as illustrated below.
(20.1) Mado o aketemo ii
desu ka?
window O open
all.right be q
‘May I open the window?’
(20.2) *Mado o aketemo ii
n
desu ka?
window O open
all.right nom be q
‘May I open the window?’
If the speaker’s intention is to ask for permission to open the window, the CQ
strategy is not appropriate. Again, it is presumptuous to assume that mado o
aketemo ii is a given fact when in fact one seeks permission to do so. I should add
that a similar phenomenon is observed in expressions used for offering suggestions.
The distributional constraints observed here are indicative of the CQ’s close
association with emotivity. Note that CQ structurally contains the nominalized
topic (i.e., clause followed by a nominalizer no) and a corresponding comment,
i.e., da. When one uses a CQ, under normal circumstances it presumes (nominalized) given or known information in a (commentary) nominal predicate. Speech
acts mentioned here, making requests and seeking permission, fall within the
scope of acts which do not or are not expected to presume given or known
information. Since the information is already shared, the focus of CQ lies not on
Interrogatives as emotive comments
information itself but elsewhere, hinting at emotivity instead. It can be said that
CQ, by skipping over the information, reaches deep into the partner’s heart.
Another related constraint of CQ is the kind of expressions expected as an
answer to CQ. Observe (21) taken from the same mystery novel, where
Yamaguchi asks Oono about two additional murder suspects.
(21.1) ‘‘Sendai no futari o shiraberu n
desu ka?’’
Sendai lk two O investigate nom be q
‘‘‘(You mean) we will investigate the two in Sendai?’’’
(21.2) Yamaguchi ga kiita.
Yamaguchi S asked
‘Yamaguchi asked.’
(21.3) ‘‘Soo da yo.’’
so be ip
‘‘‘That’s right.’’’
(Soono 1992: 125)
Compare this with the OQ, Sendai no futari o shirabemasu ka? ‘Will you investigate the two in Sendai?’ The yes/no question in the OQ format anticipates more
intensely an answer that conveys either ‘‘yes’’ or ‘‘no.’’ Thus, to answer Soo da yo
‘That’s right’ is awkward and an answer such as Aa ‘Yeah’ is more expected.
However, the yes/no question in the CQ format can take Soo da yo ‘That’s right’
as an answer. Again this is because CQ does not so much seek the information
itself as to request the partner’s reply regarding the shared information. Since it is
indeed the case that the investigation of the two people in Sendai is already
assumed, the answer is given by simply stating that it is so, as in (21.3).
In order to comprehend the phenomenon at hand it is necessary to recall the
constraint under which the Japanese question-answer adjacency pair is placed. In
Japanese, answers are expected to be stated in a specific predicate form (if it
appears at all) depending on the predicate form of the corresponding question.
When the question takes a predicate verb other than da ‘be’, it is generally
expected that the answer will not be given in the da-predicate either. If the
predicate is overtly mentioned, the particular verb appearing in the question is
repeated as in (22.2). However, when the question itself takes the da/desu form as
in (23.1), the most likely response is to answer with something like (23.2).
(22.1) Ikimasu ka?
go
q
‘Will you go?’
(22.2) Ee (ikimasu).
yes go
‘Yes, (I will go).’
Linguistic Emotivity
(22.3) *Ee soo desu.
yes so be
‘Yes, that’s right.’
(23.1) Nihonjin desu ka?
Japanese be q
‘Are you a Japanese?‘
(23.2) Ee (soo desu).
yes so be
‘Yes (I am so).’
The significance of this phenomenon is the following. Recall that Tokieda (1941,
1950) categorizes da as ji which expresses the speaking subject’s personal (and
often emotional) attitude toward shi. When the question-answer exchange is
conducted with a CQ and an answer is given in the da predicate, ji’s subjectivity
is foregrounded. Consequently, the speaker’s expressivity is enhanced.
Let us at this point return to our data (12), regarding which I raised the
original question; what is the difference between OQ and CQ? In structural terms,
CQ foregrounds the topic–comment dynamic, and is constructed to express the
〈emotive meaning〉 indexically linked to the place. CQ foregrounds the
〈interactional selfƒ〉, and it provides greater potential to express the speaker’s
〈feeling selfƒ〉. In fact the sequence of OQ followed by CQ in (12) illustrates that
linguistic expression reflects the cognitive and psychological processes of first
acknowledging the information, and then being movingly convinced by it. CQs
are used to enact this special way of expressing doubt.
. Commentary questions and hidden dialogicality
Another function of CQ is the role it plays in text organization. Observe (24), for
example, in which the writer of an essay starts a new paragraph with a CQ as
given in (24.1).
(24.1) Piano o motsu to yuu koto wa nani o imisuru no daroo ka.
piano O possess qt say fact T what O mean nom be
q
‘What does it mean to possess a piano?’
(24.2) Hitobito no kachikan
ga tayookashita imadewa sasugani
people lk value.judgment S diversified at.present certainly
piano o motsu fukakachi wa genjiteiru yooni mieru ga (. . .)
piano O possess added.value T decrease as
seem but
‘At present, when people’s value judgment has diversified, the added
value of possessing a piano seems to have decreased, but (. . .)’
(Nishihara 1995: 44)
Interrogatives as emotive comments
The writer immediately provides an answer in (24.2). Why is such a question used
when obviously the writer does not expect an answer or a reply from the reader?
Similarly, in an essay titled ‘‘After Gorbachev’’ the writer uses a CQ as a section
title as given in (25.1).
(25.1) Peresutoroika wa seikooshita no ka?
Perestroika T succeeded nom q
‘Did Perestroika succeed?’
(25.2) Gorubachofu ga nihon o otozure (. . .)
Gorbachev S Japan O visited
‘Gorbachev visited Japan and (. . .)’ (Akino 1992: 30)
In both (24) and (25), the self-answering question-answer exchange brings to the
text a sense of tension, suspension, and drama. When a question is raised, the
reader is left in suspense, if merely for a brief moment, in search of an answer. CQ
used as a topic-presenting device invites the question-answer interaction, creating
a sense of inner conversation. By incorporating a conversation-like atmosphere,
the writer invites into text the 〈interactional place〉 where interaction is hidden, yet
remains effective.
In this regard, it is perhaps useful to recall what Bakhtin termed ‘‘hidden
dialogicality.’’ According to Bakhtin (1984: 197), ‘‘hidden dialogicality’’ is characterized as follows:
Imagine a dialogue of two persons in which the statements of the second speaker
are omitted, but in such a way that the general sense is not at all violated. The
second speaker is present invisibly, his words are not there, but deep traces left by
these words have a determining influence on all the present and visible words of
the first speaker. Even in the form of hidden dialogicality, the role questioning
plays in human thinking seems inescapably essential. (Bakhtin 1984: 197)
I think it reasonable to state that Bakhtinian dialogicality offers a psychological
foundation for the observations made above, and indeed, observations made
about emotive interrogatives in general. It is because of the hidden dialogicality
indirectly activated by emotive interrogatives that their function and meaning
emerge not in an arbitrary but predictable way. Hidden dialogicality operates in
written text as well; by presenting a topic in CQ and by providing text as an
answer to this topic, the text enacts dialogicality.
I should mention in passing that questions in general are often used in
conversation to introduce a new topic which invites a response from the partner.
A speaker takes a turn which introduces a topic in an interrogative and the
partner takes a new turn commenting on it, thus interactionally creating a
topic–comment exchange.3 And it is known that a writer may pose a question in
OQ as a topic to which he or she answers. This rhetorical move also illustrates the
Linguistic Emotivity
use of hidden dialogicality. However, when the question is posed in CQ, the writer
focuses more on the reader’s reaction than on the information itself. The writer
seeks thoughtful confirmation from the reader. The CQ strategy makes it possible
to reach deep into the reader’s heart.
. Commentary questions in text and talk
A question may be raised as to how pervasive the phenomenon of CQ is in
Japanese. To answer this question, the frequency counts of CQs in five different
genres were taken, the results of which are given in Table 1. For each category, the
following items were examined; Mizusawa (1992) representing romance comics,
Asagiri (1992) representing romance novels, Okano (1991) representing fantasy
novels, and Soono (1992) representing mystery novels.
Table 1. Frequency of commentary questions (CQs) and ordinary questions (OQs) in
four data sources
Data sources
CQs
Romance comic
Romance novel
Fantasy novel
Mystery novel
75
91
177
207
Total
550
(%)
(34.25)
(32.73)
(31.49)
(22.67)
OQs
144
187
385
706
1,422
(%)
(65.75)
(67.27)
(68.51)
(77.33)
Total
219
278
562
913
1,972
When tabulating CQs and OQs, I used the definition of interrogatives mentioned
earlier, but with a slight change. First, all occurrences of the so-called interrogative
marker ka are included, except when it appeared in a subordinate clause. Second,
all utterances with interrogative pronouns are also counted as questions. Third,
any utterance which appears with a question mark even when it contains neither
ka nor an interrogative pronoun, is identified as a question. Additionally, even
when none of the three conditions mentioned above are met, if the utterance
occurred as a first pair-part of a question-answer interaction, i.e., followed by an
overt answer to the preceding utterance, it is treated as a question. I am aware of
the circularity involved here since the question-answer relationship is interdependently defined. However, this criterion is added because those cases are
obviously intended to function as interrogatives.
In counting the number of CQs, I excluded cases where nominalizers other
than no appeared. These include koto, mono, and wake (of which I found a total of
30 cases). The rationale for this exclusion is that these nominalizers are expected
to function in a way similar to CQs and counting the frequencies would distort
the distributional contour. I also excluded brief interjectional phrases followed by
Interrogatives as emotive comments
overt question marks such as hee? ‘really?’, ee? ‘what?’, and a? ‘oh?’. Inclusion of
these phrases would skew the data unfairly since there is no possibility of using the
CQ format with these interjections in the first place.
The result shows that in novels, except for mystery novels, more than 30%
of interrogatives are expressed by CQs. It seems that the more colloquial
phrases the text contains, and the more pervasive the direct quotation is, the
more CQs are likely to appear. The mystery novel, however, shows a sharp difference, where only 22.67% are CQs. Although the data base is too small to
provide conclusive evidence, this difference seems to be due, in part, to the less
frequent occurrences of direct quotation in mystery novels. The overall high
frequency of CQ shows that the writer prefers to express questions as CQs
approximately once in every three to four interrogative opportunities. And, as
I reported elsewhere, this phenomenon is observed across broader genres.4
Expressing one’s thoughts and feelings as emotive comment is indeed frequently
observed in Japanese.
.
Stray interrogative clauses
Another interrogative phenomenon with notable 〈emotive meaning〉 is what I
refer to as stray interrogative clauses (henceforth SICs) as I did in Maynard
(1994b). SICs are interrogative clauses marked with the interrogative particle ka,
and yet are not directly associated with main predicates. They differ from those
cases normally referred to as embedded (or indirect) clausal interrogatives.
Although SICs are structurally separate from the propositional content, they
present the speaker’s comments which project on to the 〈emotive place〉.
I should introduce two types of clausal interrogative expressions in Japanese;
one, that is syntactically identifiable as a subordinate clause, and the other inserted
within a sentence but without clear syntactic identification. Clausal interrogatives
investigated in the past (e.g., Nakada 1984) fall in the first category, where the
main predicate verb is in some way or other related to the embedded interrogative
clause as an object. (26) and (27) represent such a case. (Object clauses are
marked by square brackets.)
(26) Yamada-san wa [imooto ga itsu kaettekuru ka] (o) shitteiru.
Yamada
T sister
S when return
q O know
‘Yamada knows when his sister returns.’
(27) [Dooyuu koto na no ka] (o) setsumeishitekureta.
what
fact be nom q O explained.to.me
‘(They) explained to me what that meant.’
Linguistic Emotivity
In (26), the question imooto ga itsu kaettekuru ka ‘when does his sister return’
functions as the object clause of the main predicate shitteiru ‘know’. Likewise, in
(27) dooyuu koto na no ka ‘what does it mean’ functions as an object clause of the
verb setsumeishitekureta ‘explained to me’. In both cases o is optional.
There are, however, other types of interrogative clauses without particles and
that cannot be easily characterized as above. Observe, for example, the following.
(SICs are marked with square brackets.)
(28) [Donna hito ka,] kao mo nanimo shira-nai n
desu yo.
what.kind person q face even nothing know-neg nom be ip
‘What kind of person is he, I don’t even know his face or anything else.’
(29) [Itaria ryoori to demo yuu no ka,] namae wa wakara-nai ga,
Italian dish qt or
say nom q name T know-neg but
sono ryoori wa tomatosoosu ga beesu ni natteita.
that dish T tomato.sauce S base as became
‘Should it be called an Italian dish, I don’t know the name of the dish,
but it had tomato sauce as a base.’
(30) [Tsukareta no ka,] otokonoko wa nemutteshimatta.
tired
nom q boy
T fell.asleep
‘Perhaps it was because he was tired (or was it?), the boy fell asleep.’
Note that although the direct object marker o is optional in (26) and (27), o
cannot be appropriately added in (28), (29), and (30), i.e., *donna hito ka o,
*itaria ryoori to demo yuu no ka o, and *tsukareta no ka o. These clauses are
syntactically unattached to main clauses, i.e., SICs. What are the functions of these
clauses? In this section, first I discuss the case presented by (28) in terms of topic
suspension, and second, those cases presented in (29) and (30) from the perspective of speech act qualification.
. Topic suspension
Note that Japanese interrogative clauses may appear as topics indicated as such by
topic markers. (31) and (32) provide examples.
(31) [Naze ittan Atami de orita no ka] wa, iroiroto kangaerareru.
why once Atami at get.off nom q T various can.think
‘As for why (she) got off (the train) once at Atami, one can think of
various reasons.’ (Nishimura 1991: 51)
(32) [Nani ga yakkai
datta ka] to ieba, mochiron ano
what S troublesome be Q qt if.say of.course those
Interrogatives as emotive comments
hitojichitachi dearu.
hostages
be
‘What was troublesome of course were the hostages.’
1991: 224)
(Wakagi
In these cases the concept of the topic–comment dynamic can explain the
relationship between the interrogative clause and the remaining part of the
sentence. Both in (31) and (32), the ka-clause presents something to which the
remaining part is linked. The ka-clause in (31) presents a topical framework ‘why
she got off the train once at Atami’ within which the remaining part of the
sentence is to be interpreted. Likewise, (32) offers a case where a question ‘what
was troublesome’ followed by the topic marker to ieba functions to create a topic
for the comment to follow.
The use of interrogative clauses are not limited to these overt cases of
topicalization, however. In fact one can fairly frequently observe SICs with no
overt topic markers, but function as topics.5 (33) and (34) are both taken from a
super fantasy novel.
(33) [Doo yatta no ka] noohau
o oshieteitadakitai mono da.
how did nom q know-how O want.to.be.taught nom be
‘How did she do it, that know-how I would like to be taught.’
(Kikuchi 1991: 188)
(34) [Dassooshita yoosu
wa nai
ka], saidaigen no chekku o
escaped
appearance T be-neg q utmost lk check O
okonae.
do
‘Isn’t there a sign of escape, you must examine with utmost care.’
(Kikuchi 1991: 228)
Let me for convenience use [[X ka]Y] to illustrate the structure represented in
(33) and (34), and examine the relationship between [X ka] and [Y]. In (34), an
answer to the question [X ka], ‘how did she do it?’ specifies the kind of know-how
at issue. In (34), the kind of examination required is what is specified by the
question in [X ka], i.e., ‘isn’t there a sign of escape?’ [X ka] offers information that
restricts the interpretation of [Y]. That is to say, [X] offers the topic framework
within which [Y] should be interpreted.
In this regard, several points should be noted. First, when [X ka] is inserted
within a sentence with no overt marker, a momentary pause is created in the
sentence. SICs give the impression of being independent more than those overtly
marked as object clauses, or as topics. By virtue of their being ‘‘astray,’’ and
syntactically unattached to the main predicate, they give the impression of being
independent units. Thus, at the moment a SIC is located, a poetic pause is created,
Linguistic Emotivity
poetic in the sense that it is not information-based, but rhetorically effective. This
pause once disconnects and then reconnects [X ka] with [Y].
Second, at the poetic pause, the topic frame [X ka] and [Y] respond to each
other. [X ka] functioning as a topic and [Y] functioning as a comment respond
to each other since the former offers a starting point for interpretation and the
latter offers relevant information to follow. Consequently, an internal dynamic is
created pulling the [X ka] and [Y] together. This dynamic is reminiscent of the
effect of disconnection and connection associated with the kakarimusubi phenomenon reviewed in Chapter 6. And the related aspect of the rhetorical effect of
SICs is the futaku effect it potentially brings to text. SICs present the target of
emotion in the 〈topica〉, toward which the speaker and partner share common
attitudes and feelings.
Third, in addition to the poetic pause and the topic–comment dynamic, the
fact that [X] is presented with an interrogative marker is significant. As discussed
earlier in this chapter, interrogatives play important roles in organizing the text.
Just as questioning binds two people in reciprocal actions, even when such
interaction is internalized, interrogatives bind the question (topic) with its answer
(comment). It is reasonable to assume that once the topic is presented in a form
of an interrogative, the question-answer interaction is encouraged. When SIC
appears in text, although it faces no partner and expects no answer, it evokes some
response. It is true that [X ka] does not ask a question per se, but partly due to the
evoked hidden dialogicality, the sense of questioning is retained. In other words,
by presenting information in a pseudo question, the writer prioritizes the question
posed, and as a result, makes relevant the consequent comment in [Y].
I contend that the [[X ka]Y] structure as represented by (33) and (34) is a
special case of topic strategy, that is, ‘‘topic suspension.’’ I use the term ‘‘suspension’’ for the following four reasons. First, partly because SIC is accompanied
with no overt marker to identify its syntactic function, [X ka] is structurally
suspended, which causes the poetic pause. Second, when the SIC provides
specific information, at that moment another related piece of information [Y] is
expected. In other words, the topic framework presented by SIC leaves the
reader in suspense expecting some comment to follow. Third, when the SIC
introduces a topic in an interrogative form, it creates a suspense which awaits
some comment. Fourth, the SIC functions as a bridge spanning the gap between
the prior text and the ensuing commentary response [Y]. Overall, the
topic–comment dynamic that [X ka] and [Y] enacts enhances a sense of ‘‘suspense’’ and stirs a sense of anticipation, expectation, and tension. In the end, the
topic suspension brings to text the effect of futaku. Identifying an object or a
concept and expressing one’s attitude toward it is required for the futaku effect.
By throwing into text a clause that functions as a target of futaku, the stray
interrogative clause helps realize co-experience.
Interrogatives as emotive comments
. Speech act qualification
Let us at this point return to the other case of SICs, those represented by (29) and
(30). The relationship between [X ka] and [Y] in (29) and (30) differ from those
SICs identified as topic suspension. Instead, these are examples of speech act
qualification, and SICs function as clausal hedges. For example, [X ka] in (29)
expresses the speaker’s doubt by mitigating his or her own statement in [Y]. Note
that the metalinguistic expression yuu ‘say’ appears within the SIC. The speaker is
uncertain whether or not the dish is Italian, but states that tomato sauce is the
basic ingredient. This observation supports the speaker’s position regarding the
identification of the dish, but only to the extent that the mitigation expressed by
the SIC allows. In other words, SICs close in on the 〈topica〉 where only a mitigated reading is possible. One can observe a similar but slightly different phenomenon in (30). In (30), unlike (29), we find no overt metalinguistic expression. The
[X ka] clause here signals the speaker’s commitment as to how confidently he or
she presents the evidentiality necessary for making the statement [Y].
Given the differences between these two types, let us call the SIC such as (29)
as Type 1 speech act qualification, and the SIC represented by (30) as Type 2
speech act qualification. (35), taken from super fantasy, is a case of Type 1.
(35) Shibafu no tochuu wa [furansushiki teien to demo yuu no
lawn lk midway T French-style garden qt or
say nom
daroo ka,] kadan
ni natteite, himawari ga takaku nobi, (. . .)
be
q flower.bed as become sunflower S tall
grew
‘Halfway into the lawn perhaps a French-style garden (or should I say
so?) started and in the flower bed many tall sunflowers grew (. . .)’
(Tanaka 1992: 129)
The relationship between [X ka] and [Y] in (35) cannot be characterized as topic
suspension, because the former does not add specificity to the latter, nor does the
former provide the general topic framework. What is observed in these examples
is the quotative marker; to demo yuu no daroo ka. Metalinguistic expressions in
interrogative forms add mitigating effects and thereby qualify the speech act itself.
Here the [Y] clause offers a potential source/justification for making a statement.
The source/justification mentioned is best understood as a case of evidentiality.
Evidentiality is the mode of proposition which is determined by one’s modes of
knowledge, especially one’s source of information (attributed to Givón
[1989: 129]).
Now, (36) is an example of Type 2 speech act qualification.
Linguistic Emotivity
(36) [Heijitsu no hiruma dearu tame
ka,] chuushajoo no
weekday lk daytime be
for.the.reason q parking
lk
supeesu wa hanbun hodo aiteita.
space T half
about was.empty
‘Perhaps because it was the daytime on a weekday, about half of the
parking space was empty.’ (Okano 1991: 110)
What is noteworthy regarding the Type 2 speech act qualification is that weak
evidentials are most likely presented in association with the third person. For
example, in his discussion on evidentiality, Givón (1989: 138–9) states that
‘‘evidentiality particles are most commonly found in clauses reporting states or
events with third-party participants, in particular third person subjects.’’ This
shows a contrast with the Type 1 speech act qualification SIC whose focus lies in
the speaker’s own speech act. Although a majority of SIC cases fall into the Type
1 speech act qualification, it is not necessarily the case that qualification is limited
to the speaker’s own state of mind. For example, one’s inner thought may be
distantly and indirectly told by a writer who takes on the narrator’s omniscient
point of view.
Overall, both Type 1 and Type 2 SICs function as a strategy for speech act
qualification, specifically, as a mitigating device, often used along with a rather
straightforward utterance. What motivates the mitigation is the fear the speaker
harbors regarding the uncertainty of one’s opinion and the possibility that the
partner has a different or opposing opinion. In other words, mitigating devices
including SICs are used as a self-defence strategy to avoid possibly being unaccepted, ignored, or treated with opposition or unfriendliness. In this way, more
than in the 〈cognitive place〉, SICs operate in the 〈emotive place〉 and the
〈interactional place〉, enacting a special 〈communication of attitude toward
others〉. Accordingly, SICs help define the 〈topica〉 for the instantiation of the
appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉.
. Reflections
In this chapter I argued that interrogatives function as emotive comments. In all
cases, emotive interrogatives do not expect answers from partners. Instead,
through self-inquiry, self-acceptance, and metacommunicative interrogatives, as
well as rhetorical questions, they express varied emotivity such as doubtful
feelings, surprise, sensitivity to the partner, exclamation, and so on.
Commentary questions and stray interrogative clauses for topic suspension
foreground the topic–comment dynamic with the former presenting special
interrogative comments, and the latter presenting comment-inviting interrogative
Interrogatives as emotive comments
topics. Stray interrogative clauses for speech act qualification enhance the interaction by adding the mitigating effect. This intensified topic–comment force is
linked to the possible futaku effect, and to the Rhetoric of Pathos. The speaker and
the partner enjoy not so much of the 〈informational meaning〉 as the revelation of
inner doubt, the sense of reflective confirmation and conviction, as well as the
sensitivity and the mitigating considerateness expressed toward the partner.
In essence, commentary questions and stray interrogative clauses bring to the
fore the speech acts and the partner in the place, foregrounding interactional and
feeling selves. In all cases, through emotive interrogatives, the questioner engages
in a hidden dialogue with the assumed partner. When the speaker chooses
emotive interrogatives, the speaker is foregrounded more than otherwise, and
along with it, the speaker’s 〈feeling selfƒ〉 emerges. In this sense the meaning associated with emotive interrogatives are indexically linked, to a large extent, to the
participants in the 〈interactional place〉.
In sum, emotive interrogatives function on the basis of hidden dialogicality,
and they bring to discourse and text an augmented sense of interaction. The
dialogic nature of language brings to the fore the importance of place for the
interpretation of emotive interrogatives. Just as human cognition is fueled by
hidden dialogicality, interpretation of emotive interrogatives is supported by the
process of hidden question-answer interaction. The negotiative nature of language
is revealed not only on the surface, but latently as well. As in the case of quotation,
interrogativity, through its disguised hidden form, adds specificity to the 〈topica〉
where the negotiation of meaning is approximated.
Chapter 13
Commenting through stylistic shifts
.
Introduction
This chapter discusses stylistic choice that projects on to the 〈emotive place〉. The
stylistic choice to be discussed appears toward the end of the utterance, where
comment of the topic–comment dynamic normally appears. Similar to certain
uses of da (and ja-nai) and interrogatives, the stylistic choice, particularly its shift,
embellishes comment, and in this sense, stylistic shift is another strategy for
presenting an emotive comment.
It is known that all utterances in Japanese carry stylistic features to some
extent. The stylistic choice becomes particularly evident when the utterances end
with verbs. Likewise, when particles appear at the utterance-final position, use and
non-use of certain particles illustrate the speaker’s stylistic choice. While style is a
function of many aspects of communication, in this chapter I focus on the da
versus desu/masu verb morphology and certain interactional particles (primarily
yo), and explore emotivity associated with them. As I have discussed elsewhere
(Maynard 1991a, 1991b, 1993a) and as I review later, the choice of utterance-final
verb forms in certain cases is predicated upon the speaker’s psychological states,
specifically the awareness of 〈you〉. I have also discussed in Maynard (1993a,
1997a), the use of ne and yo in terms of the relative information accessibility and/
or possessorship.
This chapter emphasizes, as I did in Maynard (1999c, 2001b), that the stylistic
choice involves more than sociolinguistic (e.g., gender, age, social status) and
pragmatic (e.g., information status, social situations) factors. More significantly,
I emphasize that stylistic choice not only expresses the speaker’s feelings, but more
importantly, it actualizes feelings through the very negotiative process. The
stylistic choice offers a means for experiencing the emotion that the speaker is
undergoing, in the process of its presentation to and its sanction from the partner.
The selection of specific style also triggers memories and images shared among
participants in a specific culture, i.e., sensus communis, which encourages a certain
emotional co-experience.
As for data, this chapter examines television drama and works of fiction. For
television drama, I draw examples from Majo no Jooken. (See Appendix for a brief
description of the story.) This drama, through a chronological development of the
love affair portrayed in the series, offers historical context that guides my analysis.
Linguistic Emotivity
Since the drama depicts the process of two characters falling in love and experiencing varied types and intensities of intimacy, the observed stylistic phenomenon
can be interpreted with this historicity in mind.
For fiction, I discuss Banana Yoshimoto’s novels, Kitchin, Tokage, and N.P
along with their English translations (Kitchen by Megan Backus, Lizard and N.P.
by Ann Sherif). Stylistically speaking, Yoshimoto’s writing offers an interesting
source for analysis. A quick glance at many of her fictional writings reveals that
her text is rife with stylistic shifts, mixing the descriptive text with a direct
confessional tone, often peppered with contemporary colloquialisms. Enjoyment
of reading her writings partly comes from the intimate feeling that the narrator
creates by directly ‘‘talking’’ to the reader as if the narrator were a friend
revealing inner thoughts and feelings. Yoshimoto uses stylistic shifts, among
other strategies, to control the narrating place, especially adjusting perspectives
and voices among the narrator in the narrating place, the narrator in the
narrated place, and the reader. Because I focus on the ways the narrator reveals
oneself, I limit my analysis to the narrative portion of fiction, excluding direct
quotations.
.
Da versus Desu/Masu
. Background
Two dominant forms in verb morphology, desu/masu and da endings, are widely
recognized in Japanese. Traditionally, linguists have characterized these two forms
as representing different genres and styles, mostly in terms of written (desu/masu)
versus spoken (da), or formal (desu/masu) versus informal (da). For example, Haga
(1962:62) citing danwatai ‘spoken style’ and bunshootai ‘written style’, similar to da
and desu/masu styles respectively, suggests that a mixture of desu/masu and da
styles without reason should be avoided. Haga (1962) calls this rule bunmatsu ikkan
no gensoku ‘the principle of consistency in sentence-final forms’.
Haga, however, points out several situations in which language users may
purposefully mix da, dearu, and desu/masu endings. First, in a discourse where da
endings dominate with occurrences of sporadic desu/masu endings, the latter
functions to (1) mark formality, (2) express humor and sarcasm, (3) insert
personal comment, and to (4) mark vocatives directly addressing the partner. In
a discourse segment where the desu/masu style dominates but where sporadic da
endings appear, the latter expresses an interpersonal familiarity and closeness with
the partner. In addition, Haga notes that sometimes the da and desu/masu mixture
results from sociolinguistically uncertain circumstances, especially when the
speaker fails to clearly assess the partner’s relative social status. Since the desu/
Commenting through stylistic shifts
masu style, in part, marks politeness, the participants’ relative social status
becomes a decisive factor in the style selection.
Mio (1942: 192–7), in his study of spoken Japanese, points out that the da
style is generally used in three situations, although he acknowledges that other
factors are involved, including individual and local differences such as family
practice and the social status of the speaker. The three situations are; (1) when
speaking in monologue, (2) when speaking toward persons who hold relatively
lower social status, and (3) when conversing among familiar and close friends.
Makino (1983, 1990), from the standpoint of his Principles of SpeakerOrientation, takes the position that if formality-switching occurs, it normally takes
place intraparagraphically, and that formality-switching tends to create an intraparagraphic writer-oriented island of cohesion. According to Makino (1990), the
basic function of informality is to mark the speaker-orientation, and the informality represents a psychological inner space which can be reached only by penetrating through a psychological outer space marked by formality. Thus the switching
normally occurs from formal-into-informal within a paragraph.
While studies briefly reviewed above offer helpful hints in understanding the
choice of style in Japanese, they fall short of accounting for the cases to be raised in
this chapter. In my earlier works (Maynard 1991a, 1991b, 1993a) I focused on two
dominant forms in verb morphology, da (i.e., abrupt) and desu/masu (i.e., formal)
verb endings, and explored their respective functions. Going beyond the traditional
characterization that da and desu/masu styles are chosen primarily based on the
kind of genres and sociolinguistic factors, I examined casual conversation, dialogues
of fiction, and literary essays in which da and desu/masu forms are mixed. I
concluded that the choice of da versus desu/masu verb-ending forms when they are
mixed is predictable on the basis of the low versus high awareness of 〈you〉.
Recall the concept of 〈you〉 and its significant role in the realization of self
discussed in Chapter 3. When the speaker is only mildly aware of 〈you〉 to the
extent that the speaker feels 〈you〉 to be extremely intimate and close, the da style
is chosen. More concretely, a low awareness situation occurs when; (1) the speaker
is emotionally excited, (2) the speaker is involved in the event almost as if being
right there and then, (3) the speaker expresses internal feelings in an almost selfaddressed utterance, (4) the speaker jointly creates utterances, (5) the semantically
subordinate information is presented, and (6) the speaker expresses social
familiarity and closeness.
On the other hand, I concluded that a high awareness situation which
promotes the desu/masu style occurs when; (1) the speaker expresses thoughts
addressed to 〈you〉 with expressions appropriate in terms of sociolinguistic
variables, and (2) when the speaker communicates primary information directly
addressed to the listener, especially when the desu/masu ending appears within the
da style discourse.
Linguistic Emotivity
It should be added that, as I argued in a series of studies (Maynard 1991a,
1991b, 1993a), the mixture of desu/masu and da endings is motivated by the
speaker’s personal expressive decisions as well. In Maynard (1991b), I concluded
that in the dominantly desu/masu discourse, the da style is selected (1) when the
speaker takes a perspective internal to the narrative setting and immediately
responds within that framework, (2) when the speaker presents background
information semantically subordinate within the discourse structure, and (3)
when the speaker finds the partner close enough and the speaker uses a style
similar to the style in which he or she self-addresses.
The awareness of 〈you〉 model I proposed earlier does not contradict the point
I make in this chapter. However, stylistic shifts involve more than what I discussed
in my earlier studies. In what follows I explore stylistic shifts between da and
desu/masu from the perspective of linguistic emotivity. First, I focus on the feeling
of intimacy that the reciprocal da style expresses, and second, I examine the
narrator’s emotivity expressed in the stylistic choice.
. Reciprocal da style and intimacy
In Majo no Jooken the expected style for Michi and Hikaru at the initial encounter
is desu/masu. They are both adult strangers meeting for the first time at a scene of
an accident. However, as shown below, the conversation is carried out in a way
that predicts their future relationship.
(1.1) Michi:
Daijoobu desu ka?
all.right be q
‘Are you OK?’
(1.2)
Ima, kyuukyuusha yobimasu kara.
now ambulance call
so
‘I’ll call the ambulance now.’
(1.3) Hikaru:
Daijoobu da kara.
all.right be so
‘I’m OK.’
(1.4) Michi:
Demo.
but
‘But.’
(1.5) Hikaru:
Hottoitekure yo.
leave.me.alone ip
‘Leave me alone.’
Commenting through stylistic shifts
(1.6) Michi:
A, uso, aa.
ah lie ah
‘Ah, I can’t believe this!’
(1.7) Hikaru:
Doo shita no?
what did q
‘What’s the matter?’
(1.8) Michi:
Yubiwa ga.
ring
S
‘My ring.’
(1.9)
Ii
noni. Hayaku byooin ikanakya.
all.right despite right.away hospital must.go
‘Don’t bother. You should go to the hospital right away.’
(1.10)
Hidoku nattara taihen da yo.
worse if.become terrible be ip
‘It will be terrible if it gets worse.’
(1.11)
Kotchi wa jibunde sagasu kara.
this.way T by.oneself look.for because
‘I will look for it myself, so.’ (Majo no Jooken, episode 1)
In (1.1) and (1.2), Michi initially chooses the desu/masu style (desu and yobimasu).
Hikaru is wearing a tinted full-face helmet and his features are not clearly visible
to Michi. Under such circumstance, the desu/masu style is often the default choice.
Hikaru, however, responds with the da form as in (1.3), (1.5), and (1.7). Although
Hikaru could have used the desu/masu style, given that he is portrayed as a
rebellious youth, a young man who rides a motorcycle, the da style resonates as
the more likely choice. At the point of (1.7), Hikaru walks away from his motorcycle and approaches Michi as he takes off his helmet. Now that Michi can see
him as a young man, and registering in her mind his use of da, Michi, herself, now
shifts to the da style in (1.9) through (1.11) (ikanakya, da, and sagasu). This brief
exchange illustrates how the style is negotiated, interactively, with the partner as
the speech event develops.
During this initial encounter these two principals in the drama are identified
as a woman and a youth, i.e., a seemingly polite mature woman and a wild,
mysterious young man. In fact, throughout the drama, when they are together
alone, they almost always choose the da style. Out of 332 utterances Michi makes
to Hikaru, 11 (3.31%) are in the desu/masu form; in the case of Hikaru addressing
Michi, out of 386 utterances 9 (2.33%) were in the desu/masu form. This is
particularly noteworthy because both Michi and Hikaru consistently use
desu/masu to unrelated (i.e., outside the family), or unfamiliar adults.
Linguistic Emotivity
For example, when Hikaru talks to Michi’s former fiance, Masaru Kitai,
Hikaru chooses desu/masu, mixed with da. In contrast, Kitai maintains the da style
as shown in (2.7) and elsewhere.1
(2.1) Hikaru:
Ore // sensei to hanarete, kookaishitemasu.
I
sensei from separate regret
‘I regret that I separated from sensei.’
(2.2)
//Sensei no tame to omotta noni, kekkyoku sensei o
sensei lk benefit qt thought despite in.the.end sensei O
kurushimeteru.
make.her.suffer
‘I did it for sensei, but I end up making sensei suffer in the
end.’
(2.3)
//Ore, ima jibun ga nani o yaritai
ka, zenzen
I
now self S what O want.to.do q at.all
wakan-nai
shi, shoorai datte, nanimo deki-nai yoona
understand-neg and future even anything can-neg as
ki
ga shite.
feelings S do
‘At this point I don’t know what I want to do, and I feel that
I can’t do anything in the future either.’
(2.4)
//Kitai-san wa, nande ginkoo ni shuushokushita n
desu ka?
Kitai
T why bank at are.employed nom be q
‘Kitai-san, why did you decide to work for a bank?’
(2.5)
Donna
yume ga atte,
ginkooman
ni natta n
what.kind dream S you.have bank.employee as became nom
desu ka?
be q
‘With what dreams did you become a bank employee?’
(2.6)
Kono shigoto yatte, yokatta to omoimasu ka?
this job
do rewarded qt think
q
‘Do you feel rewarded engaging in this line of work?’
(2.7) Kitai:
//Warui kedo, sonna hahashi ni tsukiatteru
hima
sorry but such discussion at accommodate time
nai
n
da.
be-neg nom be
‘Sorry, but I don’t have time to accommodate this kind of
conversation.’ (Majo no Jooken, episode 9)
Commenting through stylistic shifts
Within Hikaru’s long turn, those utterances addressed to Kitai with a high
awareness of 〈you〉 are marked by desu/masu, i.e., (2.1), (2.4), (2.5), and (2.6). In
contrast, (2.2) and (2.3), marked by da, are delivered almost as a confession, and
they supply information supportive of the main points expressed in desu/masu
marked utterances.2
Likewise, when Hikaru talks to a male history teacher during class, he uses the
desu/masu style even in a confrontational context. Hikaru responds Nan su ka ‘What
is it?’ and Agemasu yo ‘I’ll give it to you’ (episode 2). Likewise, toward a female adult
(Michi’s friend Kiriko), Hikaru chooses the desu/masu style. Answering the question
by Kiriko (Ano, kokoni iku ni wa doo shitara ii deshoo. Kore mitara wakaru tte
iwareta n desu deko. ‘Excuse me, what should I do to get to this address? I was told
that if you see this memo, you’ll know.’), Hikaru answers A, ano, kono michi o
massugu desu. ‘Oh, go straight along this street’ (episode 4). Given this observation,
the consistent use of the da style between Michi and Hikaru indexically signals a
sense of friendliness that they find themselves in at the beginning of the drama.
Although rather limited, Hikaru does shift to the desu/masu style (toward
Michi) occasionally. These are rather marked cases and the motivation can be found
on the basis of contextual and emotional factors. Some examples follow. (3) takes
place at Narita Airport when Hikaru leaves for Los Angeles. Hikaru, directed by his
mother, Kyooko, says farewell to Michi, although he is deeply in love with her.
(3.1) Kyooko:
Hikaru. Sensei ni goaisatsushite.
Hikaru teacher IO greet
‘Hikaru. Greet your teacher.’
(3.2) Hikaru:
Rosu
ni, ryuugakusuru koto ni shimashita.
Los Angeles to study.abroad nom as did
‘I decided to go to Los Angeles to study.’
(3.3) Michi:
Ee?
what
‘What?’
(3.4) Hikaru:
Ogenki de.
well
be
‘Take care of yourself.’
(3.5) Michi:
Nani sore. Nande sonna koto yuu no?
what that why such fact say nom
‘What’s this! Why do you say such a thing?’
(3.6) Hikaru:
Moo,
antano kao nanka mitaku-nai
n
da yo.
any.more your face such want.to.see-neg nom be ip
‘I don’t want to see your face any longer.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(3.7)
Antano koto nanka suki demo nandemo nai
shi.
your fact such love even nothing be-neg and
‘I don’t love you at all.’
(3.8) Michi:
Nande sonna uso tsuku no?
why such lie tell nom
‘Why do you tell such a lie?’ (Majo no Jooken, episode 8)
The desu/masu style chosen in (3.2), shimashita, illustrates the distance he expresses
(in disguise) toward Michi. In front of his mother, Hikaru plays the role of a
student who speaks politely toward his teacher, and more importantly, Hikaru
pretends that he and Michi are no longer lovers. After all, Hikaru identifies Michi
as a teacher. But in (3.6) and (3.7), in response to Michi’s disbelief expressed in the
da style, Hikaru’s emotion surges and it takes over him, so to speak, and da endings
(da and nai) surface.
The shifting between desu/masu and da styles observed here illustrates how
one’s emotion plays a decisive role in the stylistic choice. Shifting toward the
reciprocal da style also illustrates that the 〈emotive meaning〉 is constantly
negotiated and adjusted between the speaker and partner. Notably, the stylistic
reciprocity supports and is supported by the reciprocal power relationship. Hikaru
in (3.6) and (3.7) does not play the role of Michi’s student, but a young man who
desperately tries to convince his mother that he no longer is in love with Michi.
Still, Hikaru and Michi are identified as lovers, with more power granted to
Hikaru than merely being a student.
It is possible to understand another rare situation where Hikaru uses
desu/masu toward Michi in a similar way. Earlier in episode 2, there is another
situation where Hikaru speaks to Michi in front of his mother, that is, when he is
taken to a police station for stealing books. Hikaru, his mother by his side, says:
Suimasendeshita, sensei. Moo sensei ni wa meiwaku kakemasen kara. ‘I am sorry,
sensei. I will not trouble you sensei any longer’. Desu/masu endings (sumimasendeshita and kakemasen) are used to index Hikaru as a student.
The type of emotion the speaker undergoes also influences style. When a
speaker is vulnerable and hesitant, speech style shifts to a softer, gentler, often
politer type. For example, in one of the critical moments of the drama, Hikaru
indirectly asks if Michi loves him. (4) is uttered when Hikaru waits for Michi in
the library and falls asleep. When he wakes up, he finds Michi near him. When
Michi asks him what happened, Hikaru tells her that he was dreaming. In (4.3)
Hikaru chooses the desu/masu ending, desho in a hesitant soft voice. Given that
Hikaru does not use this form elsewhere, it seems reasonable to consider his
emotional vulnerability as a factor.
Commenting through stylistic shifts
(4.1) Hikaru:
Mattemo mattemo, sensei wa ko-nakute // akiramete kaeroo
wait
wait
sensei T come-neg give.up return
toshitara, yatto kuru n
dakedo // koo
yuu
about.to.do finally come nom but
like.this say
n
da.
nom be
‘(In the dream) I wait, and I wait, but sensei you don’t come.
And as I almost give up, you finally come, and say to me.’
(4.2)
Anta nanka suki ja-nai tte // sukina wake nai
ja-nai
you such love be-neg qt love nom be-neg be-neg
tte.
qt
‘‘‘I don’t love you, there is no way that I would love you.’’’
(4.3)
//Onaji koto ii ni kita n
desho? // Soo na no?
same fact say to came nom be
so be nom
‘You came to say the same thing? Is it so?’
(4.4) Michi:
Chigau. Suki yo. Suki. Daisuki.
wrong love ip love love.you.so
‘No. I love you! I love you. I love you so much.’
Jooken, episode 3)
(Majo no
Contrast (4.3) with other similar moments occurring at different stages of the love
affair when Hikaru asks Michi if she really loves him. Unlike (4.3), Hikaru chooses
da in (5.1), (6.1), and (6.2) expressed in an abrupt, urgent, somewhat confrontational tone.
(5.1) Hikaru:
Konomae // minna nomaede oreno koto suki tte
a.while.back everyone in.front.of my fact love qt
itta no // are uso datta no?
said nom that lie be nom
‘The other day you said you love me in front of everyone; is
that a lie?’
(5.2) Michi:
Uso ja-nai.
lie be-neg
‘It’s not a lie.’
(6.1) Hikaru:
(Majo no Jooken, episode 5)
Oreno koto nanka moo
aishte-nai n
daro?
my
fact such anylonger love-neg nom be
‘You don’t love me any more, right?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(6.2)
//Soo na n
daro? // Kotaero yo.
so
be nom be
answer ip
‘Isn’t it so? Answer me.’
(6.3) Michi:
Aishiteru.
love
‘I love (you).’
(Majo no Jooken, episode 11)
As the love affair matures and Hikaru becomes more confident and serious,
emotion is communicated more directly in the abrupt style. The strength and the
directness with which Hikaru expresses his feelings suggest a shift in the relative
power as well. Hikaru becomes more dominant; he acts as a young man in love,
rather than as a student. It is particularly interesting to compare Onaji koto ii ni
kita n desho? Soo na no? ‘You came to say the same thing? Is it so?’ in (4.3) with
Ore no koto nanka moo aishte-nai n daro? Soo na n daro? ‘You don’t love me any
more, right? Isn’t it so?’ in (6.1) and (6.2) where daro (i.e., the da style) is chosen.
It is possible to juxtapose the stylistic choice, but here the shift occurs from more
socially-bound to more directly emotionally appealing. This seems to make sense
since intimacy, more readily than non-intimate situations, allows for outbursts of
emotions.
The level of desu/masu involved in greeting expressions further illustrates the
〈emotive meaning〉 related to the stylistic shift. In episode 2, when Hikaru finds
Michi walking through the school corridor, he runs to her, and Michi greets
Hikaru.
(7.1) Michi:
Ohayoo.
good.morning
‘Good morning’
(7.2) Hikaru:
Ohayoo gozaimasu.
good.morning
‘Good morning.’
(7.3)
Nee, konoaida
sa, doo datta?
say the.other.day ip how be
‘Say, what happened the other day?’
(7.4) Michi:
Shinjitekureta yo.
believed
ip
‘They believed my story.’
(Majo no Jooken, episode 2)
As observed in earlier scenes of the drama, Michi, the teacher, greets students in
the morning by saying Ohayoo to which all students respond with Ohayoo
gozaimasu (with gozaimasu, a politeness marker). Hikaru in (7.2) follows this
Commenting through stylistic shifts
social rule and meets the interactional expectation. Hikaru chooses the politeness
marker and also bows with a slight head movement. Hikaru self-identifies and is
identified as a student. Although Hikaru immediately switches to da in (7.3), in
(7.1) and (7.2) nonreciprocal greeting styles are observed.
When intimate feelings develop and the emotional aspect becomes primary,
however, the greeting style shifts as well. The morning after Michi and Hikaru
spend a night together, the following interaction takes place.
(8.1) Michi:
Neta furi
shite-nai? Ohayoo.
asleep pretense do-neg good.morning
‘Aren’t you pretending that you are still asleep? Good morning.’
(8.2) Hikaru:
Ohayoo.
good.morning
‘Good morning.’
(8.3) Michi:
Isoide. Moosugu keibi no hito kuru kara.
hurry soon
security lk people come because
‘Hurry. Because soon the security guard will come
here.’ (Majo no Jooken, episode 4)
In contrast to the case of (7), (8) shows a reciprocal greeting as both Michi and
Hikaru use the identical greeting style. The intimacy legitimatizes the breach of
social rules. The reciprocal da style leads to and confirms the identification of
lovers, if only momentarily, rather than that of student/teacher. Hikaru appeals to
the intimate 〈you〉 by revealing his 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉. Had Hikaru answered Ohayoo gozaimasu ‘Good morning’, the politeness marker would have
indexed a distance between them, and the viewer would sense that their love affair
is awkwardly formal, if not peculiarly hierarchical.
The deepening love affair is further confirmed in episode 5, where a similar
situation arises. One morning Michi is walking to school and is greeting students
along the way. Students who now know about the scandalous love affair do not
respond to Michi’s Ohayoo. The silence speaks volumes; Michi is completely
ignored by the students. But when Michi finds Hikaru waiting for her at the
school gate, she greets him with Ohayoo, to which Hikaru responds with Ohayoo.
Thus their intimate relationship is reconfirmed, partly through the reciprocal
greeting style. In terms of interpretation, this style leads to 〈empathetic conformity〉, increasing the sense of shared feelings.
Michi also shifts styles, and the stylistic choice of the word iku ‘to go’ illustrates Michi’s increasingly intimate feelings toward Hikaru and her firmer
commitment to their love affair. In episode 1, when Michi invites Hikaru to go to
the classroom, she utters, Kyooshitsu ikimashoo ‘Let’s go to the classroom’, in the
Linguistic Emotivity
desu/masu style. But in episode 5, when she determinedly tells Hikaru to elope
together, she chooses the da style (Ikoo. Futaride ikoo. ‘Let’s go. Let’s go, the two
of us’). And finally, when, in episode 10, she tries to convince Hikaru that they
must abandon their families and go away, she again chooses the da style (Ikoo.
Moo subete suteru shikanai yo, watashitachi. ‘Let’s go. There is no other way but
that we abandon everything’). These are dramatic moments, and the stylistic shift
supports the development of their deepening emotion. Again, if Michi used the
desu/masu form in episode 10, the viewer is reminded that she was (and perhaps
still remains to be) a teacher, which contradicts the story line of the drama series.
As observed in the above examples, in Majo no Jooken the sentence-final verb
style shifts from desu/masu to da with some motivated variations, and the stylistic
shift is generally associated with the chronological development of their love affair.
Da forms allow direct and forceful expression of emotion, and this behavior is
predicated upon the feeling of mutual intimacy. The da style indexes the degree of
familiarity, tolerance, and a sense of amae ‘dependence, indulgence’, functioning
in terms of the 〈expression of emotional attitude〉.
As I discussed in my earlier studies, the awareness of 〈you〉 plays a role in
determining the stylistic choice of desu/masu versus da verb endings. This section
has revealed that the stylistic shift also occurs according to the chronologically
documented deepening emotion.
. Desu/Masu and narrative voice
We now turn to the da versus desu/masu styles appearing in fiction, specifically in
Kitchin by Yoshimoto. In this section I refer to English translation as evidence for
my argument. The narrative text in Kitchin maintains the da style throughout, but
it is occasionally mixed with the desu/masu style. Observe (9).
(9.1) Waruku ieba, magasashita to yuu no deshoo.
negatively if.say was.in.a.spell qt say nom be
(9.2) Shikashi, kare no taido wa totemo ‘‘kuuru’’ datta node, watashi wa
but
his lk attitude T very cool
be since I
T
shinjiru kotogadekita.
believe could (Yoshimoto 1991: 10)
(10.1) Bad as it sounds, it was like I was possessed.
(10.2) His attitude was so totally ‘‘cool’’ though, I felt I could trust him.
(Backus 1993: 6)
The desu/masu style appearing in (9.1) is in sharp contrast with preceding and
consequent narrative sentences in neighboring paragraphs, all of which take the da
Commenting through stylistic shifts
style. Why does the writer shift the style? For what purpose? Recall that the desu/
masu style is associated with the high awareness of 〈you〉. (9.1) gives the impression that all of a sudden the narrator is aware of the reader, and makes the
statement as if she were narrating the story in the 〈interactional place〉. The narrator presents herself with a formal, somewhat official posture, as if the narrator
were consciously relating the story in public.
The narrator comes out from the (narrative internal) narrated place into the
narrating place. The text shifts its focus to the interaction between the narrator
and the reader. Ultimately, the use of desu/masu in the context of the da style
foregrounds the narrator who is aware of the reader. Furthermore, the use of
desu/masu under discussion instills a feeling of emotional bond between narrator
and reader due, in part, to the immediate accessibility of the narrating place. (9.1)
is presented as the narrator’s direct discourse in the narrating place, where the text
is directly addressed to the reader. Through this immediate addressivity, the
narrator reveals her thoughts and feelings directly to the reader. This in turn
arouses the sense of an emotional bond, resembling a feeling of camaraderie,
between the narrator and reader. This narrative voice is special in that it ‘‘talks’’ to
the reader, foregrounding the narrator’s presence. Shifting from the narrated place
to the narrating place and then shifting back to the narrated place is a manipulation through which the narrator’s 〈feeling selfƒ〉 is revealed.
The use of desu/masu in (9.1) contrasts with another narrative sentence
that speculates about the narrator’s own state of mind, as shown in (11)
(11) Sono na
o, sobo
kara itsu kiita no ka o
that name O grandmother from when heard nom q O
omoidasu noni kanari
kakatta kara, konranshiteita
remember nom considerably took.time since confused
no daroo.
nom be (Yoshimoto 1991: 11)
(12) I must have been quite confused if I took that long to remember when
I’d heard grandmother mention his name. (Backus 1993: 7)
Example (11) illustrates that it is possible to express oneself by using the da form
(daroo), without shifting the style to desu/masu. Mingled in the da style text, (11)
does not foreground the narrator’s presence nor emotivity in the way (9.1) does.
Shifting to desu/masu as observed in (9) is a creative choice the narrator makes in
order to control how she wants to present herself in the reader’s eyes. The
〈perspectivized appearance〉 that results from such effort is critical for interpreting
〈emotive meaning〉 associated with the stylistic shift.
It is interesting to note that this narrator’s expressivity is not reflected in
English translation. (10.1) and (12) take the form of indirect discourse in which
Linguistic Emotivity
the narrator’s emotivity is described from the narrative internal perspective. The
translator translates magasashita to yuu no deshoo into ‘it was like I was possessed’
and konranshiteita no daroo ‘I must have been quite confused’, both with similar
expressions in English. The sense of the narrator-reader bond expected from the
desu/masu form in magasashita to yuu no deshoo is not fully reflected. Stylistic
shifts have much to do with the Japanese Rhetoric of Pathos, and are, on more
than a few occasions, lost in translation.
When the narrator is emotionally excited, such as being shocked, a similar
phenomenon is observed. In (13), the narrator finds herself crying on the bus,
suddenly realizing that her grandmother (who died earlier) will never be with her.
(13.1) Shikashi, kizuku to
hoo ni namida ga nagarete poroporoto
but
notice when cheeks on tears S flow
drop.by.drop
munamoto ni ochiteiru dewa-nai desu ka.
chest
on drop
be-neg be q
(13.2) Tamageta.
surprised (Yoshimoto 1991: 54)
(14.1) But then, overpowered by their enormous weight, I found that tears
were pouring down my cheeks and onto my blouse.
(14.2) I was surprised.
(Backus 1993: 34)
In (13.1), the narrator locates herself in the narrating place. (13.1) creates a direct
discourse where the narrator is surprised by her own behavior, and expresses this
surprise as if addressing the reader. The emotion surges, but the narrator uses the
desu/masu form foregrounding the 〈interactional selfƒ〉. If dewa-nai ka instead of
dewa-nai desu ka is used, the sense of direct addressivity is weakened, and the
narrative internal perspective continues.
Such is the case in (15.3) in which dewa-nai ka appears. (15.3) gives the
impression that the narrator takes the descriptive perspective in the narrated
place.
(15.1) Demo — watashi wa te
o ugokashi nagara kangaeta.
but
I
T hand O move
while thought
(15.2) Demo, koko o denakutewa.
but
here O move.out
(15.3) Watashi ga kokoni iru koto de, karera ga wakareta no wa
I
S here stay fact be they S broke.up nom T
meihaku dewa-nai ka.
clear
be-neg q (Yoshimoto 1991: 47)
Commenting through stylistic shifts
(16.1) But — I was thinking while I wrote —
(16.2) I must move out.
(16.3) It was patently obvious that the trouble between Yuichi and his girlfriend was my living here. (Backus 1993: 30)
English translation appearing in (14.1) and (16.3) represent indirect discourse in
the narrated place, and the effect of the shift to desu/masu in (13.1) is almost
absent. In (14.1), the translator constructs the sentence with the self-experiencing
framework using I found. But the special ‘‘talking’’ narrative voice with immediate
addressivity expressed in (13.1) is lost.
A similar style shift is observed in (17.3) which offers a personal reason
for (17.2) in a style that directly talks to the reader.
(17.1) Me nomaeno futari ga amarini tantanto futsuu no oyako
eye in.front.of two S so
easily
ordinary lk parent-child
no kaiwa
o suru node, watashi wa memaigashita.
lk conversation O do since I
T had.a.dizzy.spell
(17.2) ‘‘Okusama wa Majo’’ mitai da.
Bewitched
seem be
(17.3) Fukenkoo kiwamarinai settei
nonakade, konnani akarui n
unhealthy extremely situation inside
this.much cheerful nom
desu mono.
be since (Yoshimoto 1991: 48)
(18.1) The incredible ease and nonchalance of the conversation made my
brain reel.
(18.2) It was like watching Bewitched.
(18.3) That they could be this cheerfully normal in the midst of such extreme
abnormality. (Backus 1993: 31)
Example (17.3) is in contrast with a similar expression that takes the da style
(Danjite mitometaku-nai node yuu ga, dasshushita no wa watashi dewa-nai. Datte
watashi wa sono subete ga kokoro kara kanashii mono ‘But it was not I who was
doing the shifting on the contrary. For me everything had been agony’ [Backus
1993: 32]). It is entirely possible to choose either style in (17.3). But the narrator
chooses her style with a purpose. The shift to desu/masu in the da style narrative
foregrounds the narrator’s (desire for) a formal but friendly attitude, engendering
a sense of camaraderie with the reader. If the da style is chosen in (17.3), i.e.,
konnani akarui n da mono ‘(lit.) because they are so cheerful’, the said emotive
effect is almost absent.
Linguistic Emotivity
In all these examples, the English text does not fully reflect the stylistic shift
observed in the original text. In Japanese, the author, through the narrator,
expressively switches the styles around. As soon as the shift occurs, the reader
senses the narrator’s appearance in the narrating place, and the special readerreaching voice is heard. At this moment the narrator is presenting 〈you-reaching
inner selfƒ〉. Mixing desu/masu in the predominantly da style facilitates different
images of the narrator who feels. Revelation of the narrator’s attitude toward
narrating itself offers important information for the reader when interpreting the
〈negotiative meaning〉 of Kitchin.
One may point out that the desu/masu style examples cited above are all taken
from Kitchin, and perhaps the phenomenon is particular to this novel. For
contrastive purposes, I examined Tokage, another fiction by Yoshimoto (1993)
(translated as Lizard by Sherif [1995]), in which no examples of the desu/masu
style were found. Tokage (literally, a lizard, a nickname the narrator gives to his
lover) is narrated by a 29 year-old male counselor and therapist. Here is an
intriguing situation where the reader is aware of the author’s gender (female), yet
the story is told by a male narrator. Given the social convention that male
speakers use the da style in a broader context than female speakers do, if the
author chose the desu/masu style, that style would convey more marked style in
Tokage. Although it is possible for the narrator to shift to desu/masu, the genderbased da style seems to play a decisive role in selecting styles in Tokage.
While variability exists in the stylistic choice, the ‘‘talking’’ narrative voice
associated with the desu/masu style does not appear exclusively in Kitchin. Similar
use of the desu/masu style occurs. For example, in Buruu Haatsu ni Tsuite ‘About
Blue Hearts’ taken from Yoshimoto’s (1992b) Painappurin, we find an example,
Dakara watashi no hanashi o shimasu ‘So (I) am going to tell you my story’
(Yoshimoto 1992b: 102).
.
Interactional particles
. Background
Japanese particles have been the focus of linguists’ attention both inside and
outside of Japan. The work of Uyeno (1971) serves as a starting point. In essence
Uyeno claims that final particles are derived from presupposed performative
verbs, including STATE, ASK, ORDER, and SUGGEST. She further classifies
particles into two groups. These are; (1) those which express the speaker’s
insistence on forcing the given information on the addressee (yo, wa, zo, ze and
sa), and (2) those which express a request for compliance with the given information leaving the option of confirmation to the addressee (ne, nee, na, naa).
Commenting through stylistic shifts
These two features represent the interpersonal nature of final particles which
until then were available primarily in Japanese literature alone. Further, Uyeno’s
detailed characterization of each final particle incorporates sociolinguistic variables, such as gender of the speaker, the relative social status of the speaker and
addressee, and most importantly, the interpersonal relationship such as rapport
that some of the final particles realize.
Japanese language studies have produced a number of accounts regarding
sentence-final particles. In his 1956 article Saji distinguishes two types of final
particles; (1) those that operate not only as utterance- (or, sentence-) final
particles but insertion particles as well, and (2) those that operate only as final
particles. Noting that the particles in the first group (ne, na, yo, ya and sa) can
appear even at the utterance-initial position, Saji claims that these final particles
represent the only kind that directly expresses the speaker’s attitude toward the
partner. The particles in the second group (wa, tomo, zo, ze, and ka) do not
directly actualize the interpersonal relationship, but rather, express the speaker’s
attitude toward the essence of the statement, specifically the varied degree of
certainty (and uncertainty) the speaker feels toward the content.
Watanabe (1968) characterizes the distinction between yo and ne as follows. Yo
operates within the territory of the vocative expression where speaker’s judgment
process is not involved and where a direct relationship exists between the speaker
and the object called out for. Ne operates within the territory where only a direct
relationship toward the addressee, and not toward the objects, remains. While it is
true that yo may be used as an insertion particle which functions similarly to ne as
Watanabe himself acknowledges, his distinction essentially identifies, if merely
intuitively, the fundamental differences between yo and ne.
Kitagawa’s (1984) view is similar to Watanabe’s characterization. In
Kitagawa’s view, ne marks the fact that the utterance is related to the second
person (as opposed to na which is related to the first person), and yo marks the
new information (as opposed to sa which marks old information). Although
scholars agree that both yo and ne function primarily in terms of interaction, they
also agree that a qualitative difference exists between yo and ne.
As I reviewed in Maynard (1993a), many other relevant studies (e.g., Cook
1988, 1990; Kamio 1979, 1990; McGloin 1986; Oishi 1985; Saji 1956; Tsuchihashi
1983) are available. However, I find it useful to understand yo and ne as the
following. In my study (Maynard 1993a), based on an array of distributional
constraints yo and ne undergo, I proposed that the functional differences between
yo and ne can be explained in terms of the relative information accessibility and/or
possessorship.3 For example, in a sentence such as Ojoosan wa Tookyoo no daigaku
e ikitagatteimasu yo/ne ‘Your daughter wants to go to a university in Tokyo’
spoken by a teacher to a father, if the teacher assumes that the father doesn’t know
his daughter’s wish, yo is selected. This is because the teacher assumes that he or
Linguistic Emotivity
she has more accessibility to and/or possessorship of information than the
addressee. If the teacher’s assumption is reversed, ne is appropriate since the
addressee is assumed to have more information. In short, utterances with yo
function to foreground information, and utterances with ne, interaction. Yo and
ne operate in this functionally complementary manner.
The speaker makes a decision regarding the degree of accessibility and/or
possessorship based on how the speaker assesses the partner’s assumed state of
mind. Such information can be exclusively accessible to and/or possessed by the
speaker, i.e., [Sp-E], or exclusively accessible to and/or possessed by the addressee,
i.e., [Ad-E]. (Here I follow my earlier work and use the term ‘‘addressee’’ but it is
synonymous with the ‘‘partner’’ used in this book.) In the former the information
is inaccessible and/or unavailable to the partner; in the latter the same is true for
the speaker.
Information may be partially accessible to and/or possessed by both speaker
and partner, but to a relatively different degree; the speaker may have more
accessibility to and/or possessorship of the information, i.e., [Sp-M]; or, so may
the addressee, i.e., [Ad-M]. There are also cases in which the speaker assumes that
the addressee shares just about the same quality and quantity of relevant information, i.e., [Sp/Ad-same]. The choice between yo and ne is made depending on the
situation; [Sp-E] can take yo, but not ne, and [Ad-E] can take ne, but not yo. In
situations of [Sp-M] and [Ad-M], the most likely choice is yo and ne respectively,
unless some other factors exist in which case ne may be used in the [Sp-M] case.
In [Sp/Ad-same] situations, the speaker is most likely to take ne, instead of yo. The
relationship between the choice of particles and relative information accessibility
and/or possessorship is summarized in Table 1.
Table 1. Choice of yo and ne based on relative information accessibility and/or
possessorship, i.e., Sp(eaker)-E(xclusive), Ad(dressee)-E(xclusive), Sp(eaker)M(ore), Ad(dressee)-M(ore), and Sp(eaker)/Ad(dresee)-Same
Situation
label
Sp-E
Ad-E
Sp-M
Ad-M
Sp/Ad-Same
a
b
Relative information
accessibility/possessorship
Speaker
Addressee
Exclusive
None
Partial-more
No/partial-less
Same
None
Exclusive
No/partial/less
Partial-more
Same
Speaker’s choice
of particles
Yo
Ne a
Yo, (ne)b
Ne
Ne
This ne is used along with an interrogative as in Ima nanji desu ka ne ‘I wonder what time it is’.
This ne is used only when the speaker refers to his or her own thought with a sense of distance.
Commenting through stylistic shifts
The level of information accessibility/possessorship influences the nature of
interaction as well. In Maynard (1993a) I emphasized that while yo focuses on
information and not on interaction, ne focuses on interaction and not on information. In the case of yo ne, it weakly focuses on information, and primarily
focuses on interaction.
Given that my earlier study discusses the choice between yo and ne, another
question comes to mind. If yo is primarily associated with information, does it
project on to the 〈emotive place〉 in some way? If so, how? This section attempts
to answer these questions based on the analyses of examples taken from Majo no
Jooken and Yoshimoto’s fiction, Kitchin.
. Use/non-use of yo and intimacy
To understand yo’s 〈emotive meaning〉, this section concentrates on the occurrences of yo in the context of, and in contrast with, its non-use. I will argue that
yo, while foregrounding information, signals the speaker’s strong desire to
emotionally reach 〈you〉, almost to the extent that the speaker is crying out for a
response.
In Majo no Jooken, among all interactional particles, yo is most frequently
used. In the total 718 utterances (332 utterances from Michi to Hikaru, 386
utterances from Hikaru to Michi), yo occurred 109 times, followed by ne which
appeared only 19 times. (The combination of yo ne occurred five times). Notably,
Hikaru uses yo (79 times) more than twice as much as Michi does (30 times).
Hikaru’s frequent use of yo is perhaps motivated by the fact that Hikaru is a youth
falling in love with his teacher, expressing his thoughts and feelings directly and
more intensely as their relationship becomes stronger. And, as will be shown in
what follows, the chronological development of the love affair is, in part, evidenced by the frequent use of yo.
Since the dominant style chosen by Michi and Hikaru is abrupt, I focus on the
effect of da utterances with and without yo. Recall that the da style evades the high
awareness of 〈you〉, which allows the interaction to go deeper than the sociallybound relationship. When the particle yo co-occurs, however, the direct appeal is
strongly foregrounded, facilitating a clear presentation of the direct 〈you-reaching
inner selfƒ〉.
Let me start with the following pair of utterances appearing in a phone
conversation. In this scene, immediately after Hikaru’s utterance (19.2), the
camera switches to Michi’s close-up, and utterance (19.3) is heard as voice-over
through the phone. At the point when (19.4) starts, the camera focuses on the
close-up of Hikaru once again. (In this section, for convenience, yo-accompanied
sentences are translated into English with exclamation marks.)
Linguistic Emotivity
(19.1) Michi:
Atashi mo ikeru ka naa. // Soko ni ikeru ka naa.
I
also can.go q ip
there to can.go q ip
‘I wonder if I can go too, go there . . .’
(19.2) Hikaru:
Ikeru yo.
can.go ip
‘Sure you can go!’
(19.3)
//Hontoni ikitai
to omoeba.
really
want.to.go qt if.think
‘If you really want to go.’
(19.4)
//Zettaini
ikeru.
no.matter.what can.go
‘You can go no matter what.’
(Majo no Jooken, episode 3)
Why is yo used only in (19.2), and not in (19.4)? (19.4) carries with it a sense of
reflecting thought process in that Hikaru confirms the fact to himself, by putting
his thought in words the second time around. This interpretation is cotextually
supported by Hikaru’s self-convincing tone of voice as well. There is no doubt
that (19.4) is addressed to Michi. After all, they are intensely listening to each
other’s words. But (19.4) differs from (19.2). (19.2) is addressed directly to
Michi with the hope of stirring emotions, while (19.4) only indirectly addresses
Michi. In Chapter 3, different aspects of selves were introduced. The use and
non-use of yo is indexically linked to different kinds of selves. The former
(expression with yo) facilitates the presentation of direct 〈you-reaching inner
selfƒ〉, but the latter (expression without yo) facilitates the presentation of indirect
〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉.
Majo no Jooken contains several other similar cases. (20) occurs when Michi
chases Hikaru who hides her engagement ring. After asking Hikaru to return the
ring in (20.1), Michi realizes that Hikaru is not about to do so. In fact Hikaru
runs away with it, to which Michi screams (20.2) and playfully chases him. (20.2)
is uttered with direct intention to appeal to 〈you〉, with an emotional plea.
(20.1) Michi:
Chotto, // Kaeshite.
hey
return
‘Hey, give it back to me.’
(20.2)
//Kaeshite yo.
return
ip
‘Give it back!.’
(Majo no Jooken, episode 2)
Commenting through stylistic shifts
Another example occurs when Hikaru and Michi secretly exchange electronic mail
in the library. (21) occurs in the morning after the night they spend together. In
response to Hikaru’s disbelief of what happened the night before, Michi sends the
following message.
(21.1) Michi:
Atashi, shiawase yo.
I
happy ip
‘I, I’m happy!’
(21.2)
Suggoku shiawase.
extremely happy
‘Extremely happy.’ (Majo no Jooken, episode 4)
More examples follow. In episode 5, when Michi convinces Hikaru to run away
from school, the following exchange occurs. (Wa in Aru wa yo is an interactional
particle indexing femininity or mild assertiveness.)
(22.1) Michi:
Aru
wa yo.
there.is ip ip
‘There is!’
(22.2)
//Jiyuu no kuni
wa zettai
aru.
free
lk country T definitely there.is
‘The country of freedom definitely exists.’
episode 5)
(Majo no Jooken,
Another example, this time uttered by Hikaru on the phone, is given in (23).
Hikaru utters (23.1) but receives no words from Michi. After a pause, Hikaru
pleads to see her, this time with yo.
(23.1) Hikaru:
Aitai.
want.to.see
‘I want to see you.’
(23.2)
//Aitai yo!
want.to.see ip
‘I really want to see you!’
(Majo no Jooken, episode 5)
Note that utterance (23.1) gives an impression that it is almost self-addressed,
uttered something like a confession. On the other hand, (23.2) is an utterance that
directly appeals to Michi. It is as if his emotion were thrown to Michi, desperately,
dependently, and indulgently. The fact that Hikaru uses yo to Michi is indicative
of how much he trusts her, how much he is in love, revealing his vulnerability and
desire for love. Undoubtedly, Hikaru’s direct 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉 is revealed.
All pairs of da ending utterances (with and without yo) presented above bring
Linguistic Emotivity
forth a similar effect. That is to say, the utterance with yo functions to express
direct emotional appeal, while the utterance without yo expresses indirect emotional appeal. The former facilitates the presentation of direct 〈you-reaching inner
selfƒ〉, and the latter, the presentation of indirect 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉. The
combination of the da style followed by yo and the da style with no other particles
offers an interesting means for expressing one’s feelings directly and indirectly. It
shows them in sharp contrast.
The emotional intensity expressed through the use of yo becomes more
prominent as the love affair advances. This is particularly so in the case of Hikaru.
Hikaru, up until episode 8, except in episode 2 (to be discussed immediately below),
uses yo between 6% and 19% of the utterances addressed to Michi. No cases of yo
appear in episode 9, in which there are only 7 utterances made by Hikaru toward
Michi. In the last two episodes, however, yo appears in 47.22% and 32.56% of the
utterances addressed to Michi, a figure significantly higher. There are more dramatic
moments toward the end of the series, and the high frequency of yo (17 and 14
times in episode 10 and 11, respectively) agrees with the kind of emotion brewing in
the drama. Yo indexically signals the speaker’s desire to directly, and often desperately, appeal to the partner. In other words, although yo foregrounds information,
it is foregrounded with a strong desire on the part of the speaker to directly and
emotionally appeal to the intimate 〈you〉. Yo brings the effect that penetrates deep
into the partner’s heart. Yo functions not only in terms of the 〈expression of
emotional attitude〉, but for the 〈communication of attitudes toward others〉 as well.
Now, episode 2 of Majo no Jooken contains a conflict which serves as a
turning point in the relationship. This particular interaction is depicted in (24). In
(24), Hikaru challenges Michi’s noncommitting attitude toward life, and tries to
reach her inner self.
(24.1) Hikaru:
Anta // kekkyoku doo shitai
n
da yo.
you
after.all how want.to.do nom be ip
‘So, after all, what do you want to do?’
(24.2)
Hontono jibun wa, ittai dare na n
da yo.
real
self T emph who be nom be ip
‘Who is the real you?’
(24.3)
Itsumo murishite waratteru sensei ka yo.
always force
smile
teacher q ip
‘Is it the teacher who always forces a smile?’
(24.4)
Shiawasesoona furishiteru kon’yakusha ka yo.
seemingly.happy pretend fiancee
q ip
‘A fiancee pretending to be happy?’
Commenting through stylistic shifts
(24.5)
Soretomo // oya
nomaede wa iikochan no
or
parents in.front.of T good.child lk
musume ka yo.
daughter q ip
‘Or, a good daughter in front of your parents?’
(24.6)
//Kekkyoku hitori ja nanimo deki-nai n
da.
in.the.end alone be anything can-neg nom be
‘In the final analysis, you can’t do anything on your
own.’ (Majo no Jooken, episode 2)
Utterances (24.1) through (24.5) are accompanied by yo. As evidenced by the use of
anta ‘you’ as well, Hikaru’s emotion is intense, and he directly expresses his inner
feelings. Episode 2 contains an extraordinarily high occurrence of yo (17 times,
38.64% of all utterances addressed to Michi), partly because this is the beginning of
the love relationship. The falling-in-love process requires more than casual exchanges; Hikaru needs to reach Michi’s inner self by revealing his own inner self.
Further evidence for yo’s 〈emotive meaning〉 is found in a segment appearing
in the final episode. (25) is uttered at the very end of the episode. Hikaru talks to
Michi who is still in a coma.
(25.1) Kyoo wa yatara atsui yo.
today T awfully hot ip
‘Today is awfully hot!’
(25.2) Soto ni ippo
mo detaku-nai
tte kanj.
outside to one.step even want.to.go.out-neg qt feeling
‘It feels like you don’t want to step outside at all.’
(25.3) //Ore, kimeta yo.
I
decided ip
‘I decided!’
(25.4) Ore, isha ni naru.
I
doctor as become
‘(That) I will become a doctor.’
(25.5) Isha ni natte, Michi o kanarazu, ikikaerasete miseru.
doctor as become Michi O without.fail come.alive show
‘I will become a doctor, and I will make you Michi come alive once
again.’
(25.6) Hitori
demo ookuno hito o, kurushimi kara sukutte miseru.
single.person even many people O suffering from save
show
‘I will save as many people as posssible from suffering.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(25.7) Shiawaseni shite miseru.
happy
make show
‘I will make them happy.’
(25.8) Dakara, anshinshite nemuttete ii
yo.
so
feel.safe
sleep
all.right ip
‘So, it’s OK for you to sleep feeling safe!’
(25.9) //Oreno soba de, nemuttete ii.
my
side be sleep
all.right
‘It’s OK for you to sleep by my side feeling safe.’
episode 11)
(Majo no Jooken,
Given yo’s expressive function of indexing strong emotional appeal, with the
presentation of direct 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉, the discourse organization of (25)
can be understood as the following. Three utterances marked by yo, i.e., (25.1),
(25.3), and (25.8), operate as messages directly addressed to Michi, while others
offer information subordinate to them. The three yo-marked expressions, in
contrast with utterances without yo, foreground Hikaru’s intense feelings of
directly reaching intimate 〈you〉.
The use and non-use of yo, partly because they are predicated upon the
decision making on the part of the speaker, are functional on the discourse organization level as well. The discourse organization of Hikaru’s long turn given in
(25) may be documented on the basis of the use and non-use of yo as schematized
in Figure 1. Hikaru’s main message consists of A, B, C, each supported by
subordinate supporting information.
A: (25.1) atsui yo ‘it’s hot’
(25.2)‚comments on (25.1).
B: (25.3) kimeta yo ‘I decided’
(25.4)‚through (25.7) explain the content of Hikaru’s determination.
These utterances in da endings with no particles express indirect 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉; they give the impression of talking to oneself, and as a result,
they are only indirectly addressed to the partner.
C: (25.8) nemuttete ii yo ‘it’s OK for you to sleep’
(25.9)‚reflexively repeats (25.8).
Figure 1. Discourse organization of Hikaru’s turn in (25)
As illustrated in the microcosm of the pair of utterances (25.8) and (25.9),
ultimately, the use and non-use of yo offers a means to project on to the 〈emotive
place〉. It functions to appeal in different ways to 〈you〉, through the presentation
of different aspects of selves. In sum, yo functions to signal the speaker’s desire
Commenting through stylistic shifts
for presenting direct 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉, it indexically signals the speaker’s
desire to directly appeal to the partner. When similar utterances are repeated as
a pair, one with and the other without yo, it indexically signals the speaker’s
feelings shifting between two aspects of selves. In the final analysis, the use and
non-use of yo reveal how we wish to express our feelings and how we hope to
present our selves.
. Interactional particles integrated into narrative text
The stylistic shift by way of particles is also observed in fiction. Although
interactional particles are expected to occur in direct speech and often in quotation, they appear in certain narrative texts as well. The narrator uses particles
within the narrative text, and these sentences offer a sense of the narrating place,
which foregrounds the narrator as a speaker directly reaching the reader. The
narrator also makes use of, in quotation or quotation-like segments, particlemarked sentences.
Let me start with the use of particles in the narrative text. Observe particles
appearing in (26) and (28). Here the narrator invades into the narrating place,
and gives the impression that she is directly ‘‘talking’’ to the reader. This actualspeech-like narration accommodates the reader’s access to the narrator’s thoughts
and emotions. The narrator takes on the self-revealing posture, due, in part, to the
use of particles.
(26.1) Sore mo, ookii kaimono.
that T big purchase
(26.2) Omoni denka
seihin ne.
mainly electronic products ip (Yoshimoto 1991: 41)
(27.1) And I mean big purchases.
(27.2) Mainly electronic stuff.
(Backus 1993: 27)
(28.1) Kare mo toshiototta naa.
he T aged
ip
(28.2) To watashi wa shimijimi omou.
qt I
T deeply
think
(28.3) Kore jaa obaachan
mo shinu hazuda wa.
this T grandmother T die should ip (Yoshimoto 1991: 50)
(29.1) I felt very keenly how old he had become.
(29.2) Just as my grandmother . . .
(Backus 1993: 32)
Linguistic Emotivity
The use of particle ne in (26.2) carries with it a sense of femininity, and therefore
the narrator’s gender is foregrounded. The use of wa in (28.3) also indexically
signals femininity, and therefore the reader is made aware of the narrator’s gender.
The stylistic choice marked with particles attributable to certain gender, age, and
other sociolinguistic features reveals (and reminds the reader of) the narrator’s
demographic identity. In general, interactional particles, even when not associated
with certain demographic features, invite the sense of the 〈interactional place〉,
and therefore, the reader has access to the narrator more immediately and directly
than otherwise.
It is interesting to note that the stylistic shifts observed above express the
narrator’s emotions in one way or another. These emotion-associated strategies
shape the narrator’s personality (e.g., the level of willingness to reveal emotion).
The narrator appeals to the reader by stepping outside the narrative world, and
creates a new emotional domain. The reader is reminded that the narrator is
indeed carrying on a pseudo-conversation with the reader in the 〈interactional
place〉. In this way, the juxtaposition of the narrated place and the narrating place
adds to the negotiation of the 〈emotive meaning〉.
Critically, English translations do not fully reflect these stylistic shifts. It is true
that the expression I mean and stuff appearing in (27.1) and (27.2) carry with
them a colloquial tone, and therefore, their English meanings become closer to the
direct discourse. However, the translated English text fails to include a strong
sense of the narrator invading into the narrating place.
The use of particles in quotation and quotation-like sentences illustrates that
a similar manipulation is at work. Observe (30) in which the particle ne appears
with a quotative marker to.
(30) Shikashi sugu
genjitsu ni modotte, soo ka, kono futari
o
but
right.away reality to return so q this two.people O
miru to
daredemo konna kimochi ni naru no ne, to
see when everyone this feeling as become nom ip qt
shitta.
realized (Yoshimoto 1992a: 5)
(31) (. . .) but then, in the next moment, I came back to my senses, aware
that anyone who saw these two would feel the same way. (Sherif
1994: 2)
Note that ne in (30) is followed by a comma, giving the impression that it is
direct speech. However, the quotative to follows and the ne-marked sentence is
integrated into the indirect narrative text. Thus, overall, (30) represents an
indirect discourse. The important point here, however, is that ne conveys the
impression that it is a direct discourse. This is because through ne the narrator
Commenting through stylistic shifts
‘‘talks’’ directly, if only for a moment, soon to be brought back to the narrated
place.
Observe (32) where a similar phenomenon occurs. Although Sonna no uso yo
‘(lit.) That’s a lie!’ seems to be an independent utterance, it turns out to be a part
of the subordinate clause which in turn explains about kokoro ‘heart’. Obviously
yo is integrated into the narrative text, but its use foregrounds the narrator’s desire
to reveal her inner feelings for the purpose of appealing to the reader. The
narrator successfully juxtaposes the narrating place with the narrated place,
mixing the two places in the negotiation of meaning.
(32) Sonna no uso yo, to omoitai
kokoro yori
nani
such fact lie ip qt want.to.think heart more.than anything
yori
sakini, kareno yowayowashii egao
ga
more.than before his
gentle
smiling.face S
ukandeshimau.
come.into.thought (Yoshimoto 1992a: 25)
(33) Before I can even object to such absurd statement, the image of his
gentle smiling face flashes before my eyes. (Sherif 1994: 29)
Integration of the narrating place with the narrated place is achieved through
other devices as well. For example, utterance-final phrases function in a similar
way. Observe kashira in (34). In the case of kashira, since it is strictly attributed to
female speech, its use clearly indexes the narrator’s gender. If indirect discourse is
chosen instead (ima no watashi wa sonnani henna no ka to omoinagara ‘(lit.)
wondering if I were that weird then’), such information is absent. Use of direct
discourse provides information about the narrator, which adds to the reader’s
understanding of the narrating act itself.
(34) Sonnani hen kashira, ima
no watashi wa, to
so.much weird wonder present lk I
T qt
omoinagara hito no i-nai
gurando
o nukete
while.thinking person S there.is-neg playing.field O pass.through
koomon o deteitta.
school.gate O exited (Yoshimoto 1992a: 17)
(35) I walked across the playing field to the edge of the campus, wondering
all the while if I were really acting that weird. (Sherif 1994: 12)
In examples (26), (28), (30), (32) and (34), the use of particles is not directly
reflected in English translation. In all cases, the indirect discourse is maintained,
and the narrator’s attitude toward self-revelation, presentation of gender identity,
as well as the manipulation of the narrator-reader camaraderie are not clearly
expressed, at least not to the degree the original Japanese text does.
Linguistic Emotivity
In the original text, by manipulating the narrator’s places, the narrator manipulates voices more fluidly than otherwise. By managing the narrator-reader
interaction by way of presenting direct or indirect 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉, the
text aims for the rhetorical effects otherwise unrealizable. The varied narrative
positions and emotions implied by these stylistic shifts are consistently absent in
the English translation. Yet, in the Japanese text, linguistic emotivity attributable
to stylistic shifts is omnipresent.
. Reflections
Stylistic shifts observed in this chapter are limited, focusing only on da versus
desu/masu and the use (and non-use) of certain interactional particles. The choice
of da is attributable to the level and the chronological development of intimacy,
and the choice of desu/masu in the narrative text is associated with the narrator’s
desire to establish a relationship with the reader. In all cases the introduction and
juxtaposition of different places (and the emotivity associated with them) are the
stylistic shift’s critical effects. The use of yo is attributable to the emotional
historicity and the expression of a different sense of self. It was also revealed that
the use of particles in the narrative text, both independently and embedded into
the main clause, signals the narrator’s invasion into the narrating place, expressing
the desire, on the narrator’s part, to establish a close relationship with the reader.
Fundamentally, the stylistic shift offers a device to navigate through the
relationship between the speaker/narrator and 〈you〉. In conversation and in the
narrative text, the speaker/narrator and the partner/reader are located in the
〈interactional place〉 in multiple ways. Coded strategies of style available in
Japanese facilitate this essentially emotive aspect of communication. The stylistic
choice offers manipulative strategies for defining the 〈topica〉 where ultimately the
appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉 is instantiated.
Part 5
Pathos in Japanese discourse
Chapter 14
Analyzing expressions of pathos
in Oda Nobunaga
In this chapter I analyze, from the perspective of the Place of Negotiation Theory,
a television drama titled Oda Nobunaga. Up to this point, I have discussed specific
aspects of emotives in Japanese discourse, and as a consequence, the overall effect
of linguistic emotivity has not been touched upon. This chapter examines the
emotivity of Oda Nobunaga expressed in language as well as in visual images.
From the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation theory, I analyze the drama by
focusing on the three places, i.e., cognitive, emotive, and interactional, and in
terms of six related functions. Toward the end of this chapter, I broaden the scope
and discuss how emotivity is interpreted in mass art, as I focus on visual images in
Oda Nobunaga. For the interpretation I incorporate interpretive principles of
〈empathetic comformity〉, 〈perspective of becoming〉, and 〈emotive focus〉.
.
The drama
Oda Nobunaga is a television drama that takes the viewer back to the 16th century
of Japan, and situates the story in the vicinity of today’s Nagoya. Nobunaga Oda
(1534–1582) was a feudal lord of Owari, and the drama depicts the time of his
youth as a lord-to-be under his father’s reign. The entire episode (approximately
95 minutes) was aired via Entel New York, January 3, 1999. The discussion to
follow is based on this broadcast.
The drama portrays a wild young man with the nickname of utsuke ‘a fool’,
who gives little attention to the rules of his family and to the proper bearing and
adequate preparation for becoming the next lord. The drama begins as muskets,
imported from Portugual, are introduced to the Lord of Owari. Although the Lord
finds no use for them, Nobunaga decides to purchase 300 muskets, and dictates
that his troops be educated in the warfare of musketry. For political reasons,
Masahide, Nogunaga’s guardian, sends a messenger proposing to send as a bride,
Princess Noo, the daughter of Doosan who controls the neighboring Mino
province. Doosan’s ambition is to take over the Owari territory, and thus has
arranged to send his daughter off to be Nobunaga’s bride.
At Owari, Nobunaga’s mother, who hates Nobunaga and favors her younger
son Nobuyuki instead, wishes Nobuyuki to be the heir to the Owari family. The
Linguistic Emotivity
Lord of Owari, who favors Nobunaga, is poisoned to death (and this is understood to be the wife’s conspiracy). Soon, in the absence of the lord, Owari is about
to be attacked by the military forces of Mino. Seizing this opportunity, Nobunaga’s mother convinces Nobuyuki to rage war against Nobunaga. Meanwhile,
despite Doosan’s plans, Princess Noo becomes loyal to her new husband, and
through her wise counsel, and with the fire power of 300 muskets, Nobunaga wins
the war. The drama ends on a scene in which Nobunaga vows to take over the
entire country to become the Shoogun of the feudal Japan.
As I made a case earlier in the section titled ‘‘On Data for Analysis,’’ Oda
Nobunaga is an appropriate site for the current study. Oda Nobunaga, being a
period drama, employs a speech style consisting of early modern Japanese and
contemporary Japanese. This particular style, regardless of authenticity, is routinely accepted as a part of contemporary Japanese language culture. In addition,
Oda Nobunaga contains movie-like visual images different from romance
dramas, offering additional opportunities to appreciate emotivity associated with
visual signs.
.
In the cognitive place
. Recognition of objects
The primary information projected on to the 〈cognitive place〉 is the recognition
and identification of objects. Perhaps the most significant 〈recognition of objects〉
in the drama is observed in how the main characters are identified. The lexical
choice the playwright assigns for these characters reflects how the narrator
portrays the relationship among these characters. Consequently, although vocative
and referential forms convey 〈informational meaning〉 by identifying objects, they
index 〈emotive meanings〉 as well.
Several sub-plots develop in the drama, one of which is the friendship
between Nobunaga and his subordinates, and in particular the friendship with a
young man from a samurai family named Fujimaru. Fujimaru is one of Nobunaga’s three closest friends/subordinates, and he appears at three critical moments
in the drama. The first occurs in the beginning, when Nobunaga and three other
samurai youth fight against a group of local young farmers. The second appearance occurs when Nobunaga is preparing for the meeting with Doosan, the Lord
of Mino, knowing that Nobunaga may be assassinated. And the third time
Fujimaru appears in the drama is when he is killed on the battlefield. Throughout
the drama, the vocative addressed to Nobunaga is either wakatono ‘young lord’ or
tono ‘lord’, except when used by Fujimaru. Fujimaru uses the term waka ‘prince’
both as a vocative and reference form, a shortened intimate term for wakatono.
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
And this Fujimaru continues to do, even though Nobunaga explicitly orders him
not to. (1) depicts one such situation.
(1.1) Nobunaga: Hirundara yarare-tt zo.
if.hesitate be.beaten ip
Ikkyoni
tatakitsubuse.
in.one.scoop beat
‘If you hesitate, they’ll get us. Beat them in one scoop.’
(1.2) Fujimaru: Wakatta
yo.
understood ip
‘I got it.’
(1.3) Nobunaga: Iku zo.
go ip
‘Let’s go.’
(1.4) Fujimaru: Waka, waka. Atode, mochi, kuwashitekudasai.
prince prince later rice.cake let.me.have
‘Prince, Prince. Will you let me have some rice cake later?’
(1.5) Nobunaga: Irimeshi, ippai kuwashiteyaru.
roasted.rice plenty let.you.have
Hora. Iku zo!
now go ip
‘I’ll let you eat a lot of roasted rice. Now. Let’s go!’
(1.6) Fujimaru: Waka!
prince
‘Prince!’
(1.7) Nobunaga: Waka tte yuu-na.
prince qt say-neg
‘Don’t call me Prince.’
In the prior discourse, Nobunaga already explicitly ordered Fujimaru not to call
him Prince, but Fujimaru continues to do so in (1.6), which triggers Nobunaga’s
response in (1.7). Fujimaru, and only Fujimaru, continues to use the term waka
(and only waka) throughout the drama.
When Nobunaga is preparing for the meeting with Doosan, the Lord of Mino,
Fujimaru utters Waka, oira nandemo yaru ze ‘Prince, I’ll do anything for you’ and
Waka to iru to omoshiree n da ‘I have a lot of fun when I am around you, Prince’.
And when Fujimaru is fatally wounded on the battlefield, Nobunaga calls out for
Fujimaru, to which Fujimaru answers Waka ‘Prince!’. The insistence of a specific
vocative and reference form, despite the order to avoid it and despite the social
Linguistic Emotivity
convention which advises against its use, reflects the speaker’s emotional commitment. This intended violation projects on to the 〈cognitive place〉, with a distinct
emotivity. Fujimaru’s long-lasting friendship, going back to those days when
Nobunaga was a boy prince, is expressed, in part, by the very vocative he insists
on using, which Nobunaga secretly allows. The sustained human connection, a
kind of amae relationship, is experienced through chosen vocatives.
Further evidence of 〈emotive meanings〉 involved in 〈recognition of objects〉
is revealed when the same person refers to someone else in multiple ways. When
Nobunaga agrees to make a showing at a remote temple at Doosan’s invitation,
Doosan hides in a small hut along the way, and secretly waits for Nobunaga to
learn the strength of Nobunaga’s troops. Segment (2) consists of an interaction
between Doosan and his two close subordinates, Mitsuhide and Hotta.
(2.1) Doosan:
Aa kita ka. Hayai noo. Doredore, donna yoosu
oh came q early ip let’s.see how appearance
ja. Fuun. Aa, are ga Nobunaga o torimaku gakidomo
be I.see ah that S Nobunaga O protect kids
ka. Hoo, kekkoona kazu
dewa-nai ka.
q I.see considerable number be-neg q
‘Oh, I see them now. Early, aren’t they? Let me see how they
are. I see. Ah, those are the kids protecting Nobunaga! I see,
a lot of them, aren’t they?’
(2.2) Hotta:
Nihyaku
wa iru
ka to.
two.hundred T there.is q qt
‘Perhaps two hundred or so.’
(2.3) Doosan:
(laugh) Nihyaku
no gakidaishoo
ka. Mae
two.hundred lk leader.among.kids q front
ga nihyaku
toshite soozei gohyaku
mo tsuretekita
S two.hundred as
total five.hundred T took.along
ka
q
‘(laugh) I see, the leader of two hundred kid troops. Maybe
two hundred in the front, and perhaps five hundred altogether.’
(2.4) Hotta:
Tsugi wa yumitai
degozaimasu ga.
next T archery.troops be
but
‘Next are the archery troops.’
(2.5) Doosan:
(laugh) Murioshite hito o kakiatsumetekita to
with.difficulty people O gathered
qt
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
yuu wake yo.
say nom ip
‘Oh, he collected all those people with difficulty, I bet.’
(2.6) Hotta:
Kazu wa oyoso
sanbyakuhari wa gozaimasu.
number T approximately three.hundred T there.is
‘There are about three hundred of them.’
(2.7) Doosan:
(ƒ?ƒ)ƒga sanbyaku.
Yumi no tsuru wa kireba
S three.hundred bow lk string T if.sever
yoi toshite, tsugi wa? Muko-dono
no uma ka?
good as
next T daughter’s.husband lk horse q
‘Three hundred. We could cut off the string of the bows.
What’s next? Is it the horse of my daughter’s husband?’
(. . .)
(2.8) Doosan:
Nani? Yumitai
no ato
wa Nobunaga
what archery.troops lk behind T Nobunaga
hontai
dewa-nai?
main.troops be-neg
‘What? Nobunaga’s main troops aren’t coming after the
archery troops?’
(2.9) Mitsuhide: Dooyara, yaritai no yoo. A, ano yari wa!
perhap lancers lk seem oh that lance T
‘I think they are lancers. Oh, those lances!’
(2.10) Doosan:
Nagayari ja-nai ka. Shikamo washi ga atsuraeta
long.lance be-neg q besides I
S have.made
yari yori nagai dewa-nai ka. Yariotta na Nobusuke.
lance than longer be-neg q did
ip Nobusuke
‘Those are long lances! Aren’t those longer than the ones I
have made! You got me, young Nobu!’
(2.11) Mitsuhide: Ninzuu wa, sanbyaku
wa iru
ka to.
number T three.hundred T there.is q qt
‘It seems there are three hundred troops.’
(. . .)
(2.12) Hotta:
Tono // yaritai no atoni, teppootai ga mairimashita.
lord
lancers lk behind musketeers S came
‘Lord, behind the lancers, there comes a group of musketeers.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(2.13) Doosan:
Teppootai ja to?
musketeers be qt
‘What! Musketeers?!’
(2.14) Hotta:
Sanbyaku
wa orimasu.
three.hundred T there.is
‘There are three hundred or so of them.’
(2.15) Doosan:
Kono washi desae teppoo wa hyaku
shika
this I
even muskets T one.hundred only
mota-n
toyuuni ano utsuke wa sanbyaku
mo.
posess-neg despite that fool T three.hundred T
Mitsuhide, Hotta // ano Nobunaga to yuu otoko wa,
Mitsuhide Hotta that Nobunaga qt say man T
warerano yosoo
o harukani koeta ooutsuke zo.
our
prediction O much.more surpass big.fool ip
‘Even I own only one hundred muskets; that fool has three
hundred! Mitsuhide, Hotta, that man called Nobunaga is a
big fool, completely surpassing our comprehension!’
The same person, Doosan, the Lord of Mino, uses seven different vocative/
reference forms for Nobunaga in this segment as listed below.
Nobunaga
gakidaishoo
muko-dono
Nobu-suke
utsuke
ano Nobunaga to yuu otoko
ooutsuke
Nobunaga
leader among kids
Mr. groom (son-in-law)
young Nobu
fool
that man called Nobunaga
big fool
What is the basis for this range of references to Nobunaga, all voiced from the
same speaker in the same scene? These seven terms reflect Doosan’s varied feelings
toward Nobunaga as he learns more about him. As Doosan gradually becomes
overwhelmed by the strength of Nobunaga’s troops, Doosan changes his mocking
attitude to one of amazement, and even awe. To our interest is the term Nobusuke ‘young Nobu’ which casts a somewhat derogatory tone to the name, indicating a young, inexperienced, immature male. It is revealing to contrast Nobu-suke
with Nobu-dono ‘Lord Nobu’, the vocative Doosan uses when meeting Nobunaga
face-to-face (to be discussed shortly).
Note here that linguistic emotivity expressed through these phrases become
accentuated through negotiation. In the drama, Doosan’s utterances appear in
the point/glance shot juxtaposed with different aspects of Nobunaga and his
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
troops. Doosan’s utterances are responses corresponding to the changing context.
The cause and the emotional response appear in one shot after another, a case of
point-of-view editing explained by Messaris (1994) and Carroll (1997, 1998)
(reviewed earlier in Chapter 5). In this case the viewers are onlookers and are, in
physical terms, outside the dramatic 〈interactional place〉, observing what is
happening in the drama. Based on the drama and the cultural knowledge that
supports its understanding, the viewers assimilate their perception of the
characters’ state of mind into their overall interpretation. The scene depicted in
(2) is criterially prefocused (Carroll 1998), and encourages 〈emotive focus〉
among viewers.
At the same time, the viewer cannot help but take the same perspective that
Doosan takes (i.e., assumes Doosan’s perspective, through the 〈perspective of
becoming〉), and is directed to witness Nobunaga vicariously through Doosan’s
eye. The viewer engages in the negotiation of meaning that involves the place
depicted in the drama. Through assimilation and simulation, the viewer interprets
the emotivity brewing in the dramatic encounter between the two rivals.
Now, when Nobunaga finally arrives at the arranged site of meeting, Doosan
greets him by saying the following.
(3.1) Hotta:
Nobunaga-dono, // kochirani orareru no ga, Saitoo
Nobunaga
over.here there.is one S Saitoo
Doosan-dono degozaimasu.
Doosan
be
‘Lord Nobunaga, over here is the Lord Doosan.’
(3.2) Nobunaga: Nobunaga desu.
Nobunaga be
‘I am Nobunaga.’
(3.3) Doosan:
Yoomairareta Nobu-dono.
welcome
Nobu
‘Welcome, Lord Nobu.’
And after the meal, Doosan continues:
(4.1) Doosan:
Nobu-dono // mata aoo.
Nobu
again let’s.meet
‘Lord Nobu, let’s meet again.’
(4.2) Nobunaga: Hai.
yes
‘Yes, sir.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(4.3) Doosan:
//Moshi Nobunaga-dono ni daiji araba
kono
if
Nobunaga
at crises if.there.is this
Doosan, itsudemo onushi no tameni hei
o okuroo noo.
Doosan any.time you
lk for
troops O send ip
‘Should a crises arise, Lord Nobunaga, I myself will send
troops for you any time.’
Doosan’s respect and admiration for Nobunaga are expressed by Nobu-dono
‘Lord Nobu’, Nobunaga-dono ‘Lord Nobunaga’ and onushi, the second person
polite pronominal (vocative) form. The viewer witnesses Doosan’s change of
heart, in part, through the lexical choice which indexically signals different kinds
and shades of feelings. In the manner described above, the 〈recognition of objects〉
conveys varied emotivity, along with the 〈informational meaning〉.
A pair of nouns may be explicitly negotiated in the place, as shown by (5), an
interaction between Nobunaga and Princess Noo. The use of a pair of reciprocal
words such as otto ‘husband’ and tsuma ‘wife’ illustrates how human understanding is negotiated interactionally. In (5), Nobunaga and Princess Noo literally
negotiate the legitimacy of the husband-wife relationship through the use of the
word otto ‘husband’.
(5.1) Nobunaga: Ore ga okashii no wa // anta ga nande sonna koto o ore
I S laugh fact T
you S why such fact O I
ni hanashitekureru ka tte koto da.
IO tell.me
q qt nom be
‘I am laughing, because I wonder about the reason why you
are telling me such a thing.’
(5.2) Noo:
Chichi ga otto
o korosu tokoro nado
father S husband O kill
place such
mitaku-nai
kara
desu.
want.to.see-neg because be
‘It is because I do not want to see my father murder my
husband.’
(5.3) Nobunaga: //Ore wa mada antano otto
ja-nai.
I
T yet your husband be-neg
‘I am not your husband yet.’
(5.4) Noo:
Watashi wa anatano tsuma desu.
I
T your
wife be
‘I am your wife.’
Although different nouns project on to the 〈cognitive place〉 with function of
〈recognition of objects〉, they also project on to the 〈emotive place〉 signaling
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
varied shades of linguistic emotivity as discussed above. Their functions are
〈expression of emotional attitude〉 and 〈communication of attitudes toward
others〉. These examples illustrate how pervasive emotivity is in language, and
they also imply that linguistic signs are multi-functional, projecting on to
multiple places.
I should add that nominalization itself also contributes to the 〈recognition of
objects〉. As I discussed in Chapter 12, by nominalizing and encapsulating the event,
the event becomes a concept. The conceptualization is also linked to linguistic
emotivity because it readily becomes the topic to which the relevant comment is
added. For example, in the form of the n(o) da structure, nominalization facilitates
the topic–comment dynamic which encourages the futaku effect.
. Construction of proposition
Another projection realized in the 〈cognitive place〉 is the 〈construction of
proposition〉. The 〈construction of proposition〉 refers to how propositions are
formed, e.g., whether they are active, passive, causative, and whether they are in
the main or subordinate clauses, and so on. In Oda Nobunaga, the relationship
among Princess Noo, her father Doosan, and Nobunaga is captured in the
propositional form as shown in the following conversation between Noo and
Doosan.
(6.1) Doosan: Washi wa noo tatta ima // sonata o, Owari no Nobunaga
I
T ip just now you O Owari lk Nobunaga
ni kureteyaru koto ni kimeta.
IO give
nom as decided
‘I have just decided that I will give you to Nobunaga Oda of
Owari.’
(6.2) Noo:
Chichiue wa Owari ichi
no utsuke no moto e
father
T Owari number.one lk fool lk place to
watashi o totsugaseru to ossharu no desu ka.
I
O make.marry qt say
nom be q
‘Are you saying, father, that you are making me marry a man
who is called the biggest fool in the Owari province?’
(6.3) Doosan: Soo ja.
so be
‘Yes, I am.’
(6.4) Noo:
Iya da to ittara doo shimasu?
no be qt if.say how do
‘What will you do if I say no?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(6.5) Doosan: Inaya wa iwase-n.
no T make.say-neg
‘I won’t allow you to say that.’
(6.6) Noo:
Dewa // hitotsu dake kikasetekudasai.
then
one
only ask.a.question
‘Then, let me ask you one question.’
(6.7) Doosan: Un.
yes
‘Yes.’
(6.8) Noo:
Dooshite chichiue wa, utsuke to uwasasareru otoko ni
why
father T fool qt is.rumored man IO
watashi o yaru kininatta no desu?
I
O give willing nom be
‘Why do you, father, have the will to give me to a man who
is rumored to be a fool?’
(6.9) Doosan: Naze ja to omou.
why be qt think
‘Why do you think I do?’
(6.10) Noo:
//Utsuke da kara.
fool
be because
‘Because he is a fool.’
(. . .)
(6.11) Doosan: Washi wa noo // tsukuzuku ningen
ni akita. Jaga
I
T ip
deeply
human.beings at bored but
noo // kono Nobunaga to yuu otoko no hanashi o kiku
ip
this Nobunaga qt say man lk story O hear
nitsuke, kono otoko, washi o akisase-nu rashii.
whenever this man I
O bore-neg seem
Soreyue sonata o, Nobunaga ni totsugaseru koto ni
so
you O Nobunaga IO make.marry nom as
kimeta. Yuutemireba washi no dooraku ja.
decide if.say
I
lk hobby be
‘You know, I am totally bored with human beings. This man
called Nobunaga, as I hear about him, does not bore me. So,
I decided to make you marry Nobunaga. To put it in a word,
I would say it is for my hobby.’
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
(6.12) Noo:
Dooraku.
hobby
‘Hobby!’
(6.13) Doosan: Dooraku no nai
ningen
wa nagatsuzuki wa
hobby S be-neg human.beings T last
T
se-nu zo.
do-neg ip
‘A person without hobbies won’t last, I warn you.’
(6.14) Noo:
Dooraku nadode watashi o totsugasete, moshi hontoni
hobby such I
O make.marry if
really
tadano utsuke nara, doo suru tsumoridesu.
simple fool if.be how do intend
‘You make me marry him for your hobby, but what will you
do if he turns out to be a real fool?’
The propositional structure of some of the sentences in segment (6) is summarized in Table 1. The choice of three different verbs referring to Noo’s marriage is
at issue.
Table 1. Verbs referring to Noo’s marriage in (6)
Sentence
Expression
Speaker
Agent
Participants
(6.1)
(6.2)
(6.8)
(6.11)
(6.14)
kureteyaru
totsugaseru
yaru
totsugaseru
totsugaseru
Doosan
Noo
Noo
Doosan
Noo
Doosan
Doosan
Doosan
Doosan
Doosan
to Nobunaga, Noo
Noo
to Nobunaga, Noo
Noo
Noo
The term kureteyaru ‘(lit.) to receive and give’ describes the giving of a daughter
(as if she were an object) to Nobunaga with the understanding that this act of
giving also benefits Nobunaga. It conveys the impression that Doosan is doing
Nobunaga a favor. Totsugaseru ‘(lit.) to cause someone to marry (into the
husband’s family)’ is a causative depicting the act of Doosan forcing the marriage
on his daughter. Yaru ‘(lit.) to give’ is a verb that depicts an action of giving
something to someone, where the will of this ‘‘something’’ is ignored. Note that
the entire conversation follows the propositional structure in which Doosan is
the agent of forcing the daughter to marry. This holds true even when the speaker
is Noo. In other words, Noo’s marriage is described from Doosan’s perspective,
and the perspective of the person who is marrying is absent. This particular
perspective encourages the viewer to take the 〈perspective of becoming〉 to align
with Doosan’s perspective. In this sense, the 〈construction of proposition〉
Linguistic Emotivity
projects not only on to the 〈cognitive place〉 but on to the 〈emotive place〉 as well.
Note also that the power structure displayed in the lexical choice reflects
different kinds of emotion associated with Doosan and Noo. The lexical choice
among kureteyaru, totsugaseru, and yaru primarily identifies propositional
information, and yet it is emotive in that the relative power structure is revealed.
Consequently, accompanying emotion and feelings are inevitably revealed. As in
the case of referential and vocative terms discussed earlier, the 〈construction of
proposition〉 in the 〈cognitive place〉 cannot but involve linguistic emotivity.
.
In the emotive place
In the 〈emotive place〉, two different functions are foregrounded, i.e., 〈expression
of emotional attitude〉 and 〈communication of attitudes toward others〉. In Oda
Nobunaga, emotive meanings are negotiated in multiple and overlapping ways as
explained below.
. Expression of emotional attitude
Devices foregrounding the expressivity of emotion in Oda Nobunaga are many,
e.g., exclamative noun phrases, independent nominals, interrogatives, nan(i)
expressions, repetition, and so on. (7) and (8) illustrate cases of exclamative noun
phrases. (7) is an utterance made by Doosan’s subordinate as he observes the
shabby clothing Nobunaga is wearing to the meeting place. (8) appears as a voiceover narrated by Noo as she laments her bad luck in marrying Nobunaga.
(7) Hotta:
Nan to // anoyoona kakkoo
de! Masaka, asokomade
what qt such
appearance be never that.extent
utsuke to wa!
fool qt T
‘What, that appearance! I never guessed that he was that
much of a fool!’
(8) Noo:
Daremo ga, Owari ichi
no ooutsuke to yuu
everyone S Owari number.one lk big.fool qt say
wakamono no koto wa, hanashi ni kiite shitteimashita ga,
young.man lk fact T story as hear knew
but
masaka,
watashino dannasama ni naru to wa!
by.no.means my
husband as become qt T
‘Everyone had heard about the young man who was called
the biggest fool in Owari, but I never dreamed that he would
be my own husband!’
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
Exclamative noun phrases (often co-occurring with the adverb masaka and the
topic marker wa) facilitate the emotive futaku-like effect. Instead of describing
one’s emotion in verbal predicates, for example, odorokimashita ‘was surprised’,
exclamative noun phrases are suited for the futaku effect. Nominalized concepts
are uttered as targets of emotion, by way of which deep emotion is shared.
Independent nominals also appear as targets of futaku. For example, (9) is a
voice-over narrated by Noo in which the two important characters are dramatically presented as nominals.
(9.1) Noo:
Mawarijuu teki darake no Nobunaga-sama.
all.around enemy all.over lk Nobunaga
‘Lord Nobunaga, who is totally surrounded by enemies.’
(9.2)
Tekijin ni tatta hitoride totsuidekita watashi.
enemy to only alone married
I
‘I myself who married into an enemy all alone.’
Through the presentation of the nominal as a target of futaku, the viewer is
encouraged to see the world in the same 〈perspectivized appearance〉 as that of
Noo. A similar effect is expected from sentential nominals, as given in (10).
(10) Noo:
Chichi Doosan ga musuko, yooshitachi
no
father Doosan S son
son-in-law and others lk
inboo ni inochi o otoshita no wa kono sannengo.
uprising for life
O lost
nom T this three.years.later
‘The moment when my father Doosan was killed by an uprising initiated by sons and sons-in-law (was) three years
later.’
The ja-nai ka expression projects on to the 〈emotive place〉, expressing shades of
the speaker’s attitude and feelings. For example, as shown in (2.11) (reproduced
for convenience), ja-nai ka indexically signals surprise.
(2.11) Doosan: Nagayari ja-nai ka. Shikamo washi ga atsuraeta
long.lances be-neg q besides I
S have.made
yari yori nagai dewa-nai ka. Yariotta na, Nobusuke.
lance than longer be-neg q did
ip Nobusuke
‘Those are long lances! Aren’t those longer than the ones I
have made! You got me, young Nobu!’
Self-acceptance interrogatives index the psychological process of acknowledging
unusual and surprising information as shown in (11). (11) occurs when Nobunaga
and Noo see each other for the first time, trying to gauge each other’s measure
and stature. Interrogatives in (11.1) and (11.2) signal the processing of informa-
Linguistic Emotivity
tion, and do not function as a question. Although Nobunaga responds in (11.3),
the response provides no straightforward answer, but rather, it signals acknowledgment. This interpretation is contextually supported by the ensuing suggestions
of running away.
(11.1) Nobunaga: Kore ga mamushi no Doosan no musume ka.
this S snake
lk Doosan lk daughter q
‘So, this is the daughter of Doosan, the snake.’
(11.2) Noo:
Kore ga Owari ichi
no ooutsuke desu ka.
this S Owari number.one lk big.fool be q
‘So, this is the biggest fool in Owari.’
(11.3) Nobunaga: Maa na. // Nigedasu n
dattara imanouchi da zo.
maybe ip
run.away nom if.be now
be ip
‘I guess. If you want to run away, now is the time to do so.’
Rhetorical questions also add to the interpretation of linguistic emotivity.
(12) Mother:
Dokoni wagako o kokoro kara nikumu hahaoya ga
where own.child O heart from hate
mother S
iru
to omou?
there.is qt think
‘Where in the world do you think there is a mother who
hates her own child from the bottom of her heart?’
Rhetorical questions may be used among characters in the narrated place as well
as in the narrating place to directly appeal to the viewer. (13) is presented in
Noo’s narrative voice, movingly appealing to the viewer.
(13) Noo:
Sono kodokuna kokoro no okuni, jidai o kae, ikusa no
that solitary heart lk deep era O change war S
nai
sekai o nozomu kimochi ga atta
koto wa
be-neg world O wish
feeling S there.was nom T
nanninno hito ga shitteitadeshoo ka.
how.many people S knew
q
‘How many people knew, deep in his solitary heart, he had
wished to change the times and to bring about the society
without wars!’
The use of emotive nan(i) further adds to the emotive dimension of Oda
Nobunaga. For example, nan(i) appears as an expression of criticism. In (14),
Nobunaga’s mother, outraged by Nobunaga’s behavior, screams.
(14.1) Mother:
Nan desu ima no taido
wa!
what be now lk behavior T
‘What is this behavior!’
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
(14.2)
Moriyaku wa ittai // nani o oshietekita no da.
guardian T emph what O taught
nom be
‘What have you, as the guardian, been teaching him!’
Nan(i) for criticism and confrontation appears in the scene where the Lord of
Owari lies dead. Nobunaga’s mother, who conspired the poisoning assassination
of her husband, makes the statement that at least the Lord did not suffer at his
dying moment. Nobunaga’s outrage is expressed in (15.2), in part, through the use
of nan(i). Contextually, the impossibility of answering Nobunaga’s utterances
further supports nan(i)’s emotive interpretation.
(15.1) Mother:
Makotoni yokatta. Semetemono sukui desu.
really
fortunate at.least
relief be
‘It was fortunate. At least it gives some sense of relief.’
(15.2) Nobunaga: Nani ga yokatta! Nani ga sukui da.
what S fortunate what S relief be
‘What (do you mean by) fortunate! What (do you mean by)
relief!’
(15.3)
Oyaji wa ikkaino bugyoo kara, Owari ikkoku o ubatta
father T simple magistrate from Owari provice O won
bushoo da zo. // Sonna oyaji ga kurushima-zuni shineta
warrior be ip
such father S suffer-neg
could.die
to, yorokobu hazuganai daro.
qt be.pleased cannot.be be
‘Father is a warrior who, starting from a simple magistrate,
has won the province of Owari. There is no way that such a
father would have been pleased that he could die without
suffering.’
Interjectional nan(i) in the form of nan te and nan to in (16) and (17) also
appears expressing emotivity, surprise and outrage in particular.
(16) Chisato:
Nan taru koto! Mino kara Owari kundarimade kiteyatta
what qt fact Mino from Owari all.the.way came
to yuu noni, konrei no seki
ni de-nai
to
qt say despite wedding lk ceremony at attend-neg qt
wa shitsurei nimo hodo
ga aru!
T rudeness T
limitation S there.is
‘What an outrage! From Mino all the way to Owari, we were
gracious enough to come; not showing up at his own wedding is beyond excuse!’
Linguistic Emotivity
(17) Masahide: Wakatono! // Shisha no makuramoto ni nan to yuu koto o!
lord
dead lk head
at what qt say fact O
‘Dear Lord, what a thing to do near the head of the deceased.’
As discussed earlier, nan(i) functions as a conversation filler, adding a preface to
the dispreferred utterance. And such a case is observed in (18), where nan creates
a buffer that warns the partner. This nan, which expresses compassion and
sensitivity toward the partner, projects on to the 〈emotive place〉 as well as the
〈interactional place〉.
(18) Hayashi: Soreni, konna koto o itte wa nan desu ga, Nobunaga-sama
besides such fact O say T what be but Nobunaga
wa, kachuu no hyooban ga yoroshiku-arimasen.
T clansman lk reputation S good-neg
‘Besides, perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but Lord Nobunaga’s
reputation among clansmen is not too favorable.’
Another strategy projecting on to the 〈emotive place〉 is repetition. There are two
kinds of repetition, self-repetition and allo-repetition (repetition across speakers).
In my earlier work (Maynard 1983), I discussed functions of repetition in Japanese
conversation and emphasized that repetition is a device to enhance a sense of
community in an effort to achieve rapport and feeling of solidarity among
speakers. Also Tannen (1989) points out that repetition functions on the interactional level of talk, such as showing listenership, providing back-channel
response, linking one speaker’s idea to another, and ratifying another’s contribution. Above all, Tannen states that repetition ‘‘bonds participants to the discourse
and to each other, linking individual speaker in a conversation and in relationship’’ (1989: 51).
Repetition is frequently observed in Oda Nobunaga. First is the self-repetition
which often adds emphasis to the utterance. For example, in (19), an utterance
made by Nobunaga’s father, the Lord of Owari, omae ‘you’ is repeated three times.
Repetition brings to the 〈topica〉 senses of urgency and emphasis.
(19) Lord:
Washi wa mooichido tatakau. Isshoni ikusa o suru no wa
I
T once.again fight
together war O do one T
omae shika i-nai. //
Dare ga nan to, iooto washino
you only there.is-neg anyone S what qt say my
atootsugu no wa omae da. // Omae dake da.
be.heir one T you be you only be
‘I will fight once more. There is nobody else to wage war
with. Whoever says whatever, the heir to my province is you.
Only you, it is.’
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
In addition, in the final scene of the drama, Nobunaga emphatically utters Ore wa
tenka toru zo. Zettai tenka totteyaru! ‘I will conquer the country! I will definitely
take the entire country!’
Second is the allo-repetition that encourages an intense level of negotiated
emotivity. A portion of (6) reproduced below is a case in point.
(6.11) Doosan: Washi wa noo tsukuzuku ningen
ni akita. Jaga
I
T ip deeply
human.beings at bored but
noo kono Nobunaga to yuu otoko no hanashi o kiku
ip this Nobunaga qt say man lk story O hear
nitsuke kono otoko washi o akisase-nu rashii.
whenever this man I
O bore-neg seem
Soreyue sonata o Nobunaga ni totsugaseru koto ni
so
you O Nobunaga IO make.marry nom as
kimeta. Yuutemireba washi no dooraku ja.
decide if.say
I
lk hobby be
‘You know, I am totally bored with human beings. This man
called Nobunaga, as I hear about him, does not bore me. So,
I decided to make you marry Nobunaga. To put it in a word,
I would say it is for my hobby.’
(6.12) Noo:
Dooraku.
hobby
‘Hobby!’
(6.13) Doosan: Dooraku no nai
ningen
wa nagatsuzuki wa
hobby S be-neg human.beings T last
T
se-nu zo.
do-neg ip
‘Person without hobbies won’t last, I warn you.’
(6.14) Noo:
Dooraku nadode watashi o totsugasete moshi hontoni
hobby such I
O make.marry if
really
tadano utsuke nara doo suru tsumoridesu.
simple fool if.be how do intend
‘You make me marry him for your hobby, but what will you
do if he turns out to be a real fool?’
Here the phrase dooraku ‘hobby’ is used across speakers, helping to maintain the
cohesion in interaction. In the process Doosan and Noo negotiate the meaning
surrounding the phrase dooraku. The joint repetition of specific words or phrases
encourage 〈empathetic conformity〉 and shared perspectives. In the case of the
conflict interaction depicted in (6), repetition operates accordingly, zeroing in on the
Linguistic Emotivity
appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉. These exchanges often require the participants’
commitment to the interaction itself, thus resulting in their sense of co-experience.
At the same time, choosing an item appearing in the partner’s prior utterance as a
topic shows interest in the partner, which engenders a sense of camaraderie.
N(o) da construction functions as another device for the 〈expression of emotional attitude〉. The distribution of n(o) da spans across the entire drama, but
when the n(o) da construction appears paired with a similar utterance without
n(o) da, the 〈emotive meaning〉 becomes that much more obvious. Observe (20),
an explanation Nobunaga’s mother gives when the war Nobuyuki raised against
Nobunaga results in Nobuyuki’s defeat.
(20.1) Gonrokuroo: Kono tabi no koto, // subete
kono Gonrokuroo
this time lk incident everything this Gonrokuroo
ga kuwadatemashita koto. Nobuyuki-sama wa,
S planned
incident Nobuyuki
T
nanimo gozonji-arimasen.
anything know-neg
‘This incident (war), the entire plan was made by myself
Gonrokuroo. Lord Nobuyuki doesn’t know anything
about it.’
(20.2) Mother:
Soo da. // Soo na no desu. Nobuyuki wa, kashin
so be so be nom be Nobuyuki T subordinate
ni, sosonokasareta dake desu.
by was.tempted only be
‘That’s it. That’s right. Nobuyuki was simply tempted
into war by his subordinates.’
The psychological process the mother experiences is expressed through two
different types of predicates, first with da, and second with no desu in (20.2). As
discussed in Chapter 12, the n(o) da expression is based on the coceptualization of
the event, followed by the expressive comment. The mother, at first, self-revealingly
blurts out her feelings by using the da style, and yet, as she composes herself, she
chooses the nominalization in the desu style. These two expressions convey
different kinds of emotivity (i.e., surprise and composed commentary). At the same
time, partly because desu is emotive and partly because Soo na no desu ‘That’s right’
enhances the topic–comment dynamic, it helps foreground the 〈feeling selfƒ〉.
. Communication of attitudes toward others
The second feature projecting on to the 〈emotive place〉 is the 〈communication of
attitudes toward others〉. One representative strategy for achieving this is the com-
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
mentary question. Similar to n(o) da, the use of n(o) (desu) ka or interrogative n(o)
da conjures up the speaker’s deep emotion. Observe (21) where Kitsuno is asked by
her brother, one of Nobunaga’s subordinates, about her feelings toward Nobunaga.
(21.1) Brother: Omae wa doo omotteru?
you T how think
‘What are your feelings?’
(21.2) Kitsuno: Hai?
what
‘What?’
(21.3) Brother: Tono no koto o doo omotteru n
da? // Ichido
lord lk fact O how think
nom be
once
kikitakatta.
wanted.to.ask
‘What are your feelings toward the Lord? You know, I’ve
been wanting to ask you about this for some time.’
Kitsuno, who is secretly (and yet not so secretly to the viewer) in love with
Nobunaga, is caught by surprise at her brother’s question, and thus fails to answer
directly. Her brother asks the second time, by using the commentary question. As
evidenced by the brother’s utterance in (21.3), he had been wanting to ask how
Kitsuno felt toward Nobunaga. In the drama, Kitsuno does not answer this
question either, and they both hear Nobunaga’s horse galloping toward the house.
The brother ‘‘knows’’ that her sister is in love with Nobunaga, and the lack of
Kitsuno’s answer (that she does not vehemently deny the possibility) confirms
this. Thus, when he asks about her feelings the second time, he is not so much
asking for a yes/no answer, but rather, he is expressing his concern. Here emotivity is enhanced, in part, by the use of a commentary question.
As discussed in Chapter 11, the use of da itself also adds to the attitudes
toward others, i.e., the telling-it-as-is attitude. Observe (22) and (23) uttered by
the mother who gives orders to Nobuyuki’s troops at the beginning of the war.
(22) Mother:
Minanomono // iyoiyo
da zo!
everyone
right.now be ip
‘Everyone, the time has come!’
(23) Mother:
Yatsura ga Owari ni semeiru madeni, ikkokumohayaku
they
S Owari to invade before as.soon.as.possible
Nagoyajoo
o otosu
no da! // Yoi na!
Nagoya Castle O gain.control nom be good ip
‘Before they (Doosan’s troops) invade the Owari territory, as
soon as possible gain control of the Nagoya Castle! That’s an
order!’
Linguistic Emotivity
In both cases, da is used not so much for the purpose of providing information, but as an indexical signal of one’s desire. This is particularly so in (22),
the utterance the mother makes when giving orders to the troops. Recall that
the emotive da does not so much point to the action itself as express the
speaker’s assertive attitude of ‘‘I’m telling you.’’ The mother asserts the event as
if it were a fact, with the hope that the situation actually be as she wishes. Da
illustrates the centrality of the concept of place, instead of the priority of action
attributed to a particular participant. A similar use occurs when Nobunaga
shouts out during the battle Kono ikusa, zettaini katsu n da! ‘This war, win, no
matter what!’
Among strategies functioning to communicate interpersonal attitudes,
perhaps interactional and interjectional particles present the most obvious cases.
A variety of particles appear in Oda Nobunaga, but here I concentrate on the
utterance-final zo. According to Koojien (1955: 1384), the 〈potential meaning〉 of
zo includes the function ‘‘to explain about the matter, and to present it as an
assertion.’’ Curiously, Nobunaga is the one character in the drama who consistently uses zo.
Nobunaga uses zo a total of 16 times when addressing his subordinates as well
as his younger brother, Nobuyuki. The mother uses zo five times, mostly when
addressing her subordinates, and all other characters use zo less frequently. Out of
the total 29 occurrences of zo in the entire drama, more than half are used by
Nobunaga. One may argue that this is simply because Nobunaga is the main
character and he simply has more opportunities to speak. However, this is not the
case. For example, Nobuyuki’s role is quite prominent, and he appears frequently
and consistently in the drama. After all, the central theme of the drama is the
conflict between these two brothers.
Nobuyuki, Nobunaga’s younger brother, is timid, and indecisive. He knowingly succumbs to his mother’s desire to kill his brother. Yet, he presents himself,
on the surface (in his behavior, posture, and attire) as an ideal young lord.
Nobuyuki uses zo only once when addressing his subordinate. This contrasts with
Nobunaga who is wild, bold, ambitious, and determined. The use and non-use of
particles, through an accumulative effect, contribute significantly toward the
character depiction. Given that zo is used for strong assertion, it agrees with
Nobunaga’s personality, and particularly his intense emotion.
. In the interactional place
In the projection on to the 〈interactional place〉, two functions are prominent.
These are 〈management of participatory action〉 and 〈coordination of joint
utterances〉. Let me start with the former.
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
. Management of participatory action
Strategies for achieving 〈management of participatory action〉 in Oda Nobunaga
come in two types; (1) the designing of utterances in conversation, and (2) metalinguistic expressions referring to the speech act.
In conversational interaction, under normal circumstances, rules and
expectations (e.g., turn-taking context, adjacency pairs, and conversational topic
structure) are followed. But, obviously, there are cases where these conventions
are violated. For example, observe (24) which occurs when Nobunaga fails to
show up at his wedding. Masahide, Nobunaga’s guardian, responds.
(24.1) Hayashi:
Hirate-dono, doo natteru n
da!
Hirate
how become nom be
Wakatono wa modotteko-nai dewa-nai ka!
lord
T return-neg
be-neg q
‘Hirate, what’s happening here! The Lord hasn’t returned.’
(24.2) Masahide: Mamonaku.
shortly
‘Shortly.’
(24.3) Mother:
Mamonaku wa kikiakita.
shortly
T tired.of.hearing
‘I am tired of hearing ‘‘shortly.’’’
(24.4) Masahide: Mamonaku degozaimasu.
shortly
be
‘Shortly, I say.’
Nobunaga’s mother explicitly states that she doesn’t want to hear the word,
‘‘shortly.’’ But Masahide repeats his answer. Obviously, in (24.4) Masahide does
not try to convince Nogunaga’s mother with the 〈potential meaning〉 of the phrase
mamonaku ‘shortly’. The givenness of the information is already explicitly
mentioned by the mother’s complaint. By repeating this already known and
refused answer, Masahide continues to participate in the interaction. However, by
not following the ordinary question-answer adjacency pair, Masahide refuses to
give in to her criticism. This interaction lacks information, but is filled with
intense emotion. As we observed in the case of the anti-sign nan(i), one could
speculate that there is also an anti-speech act, so to speak, in that such acts convey
no information, and instead, foreground interaction-based linguistic emotivity.
Another strategy contributing to the 〈management of participatory action〉 is
the metalinguistic expression related to the verb yuu ‘say’. By referring to the
action itself in the form of quotation, characters in Oda Nobunaga succeed in
Linguistic Emotivity
adding different dimensions to 〈topica〉. An example appears in (6) partly duplicated below.
(6.2) Noo:
Chichiue wa Owari ichi
no utsuke no moto e
father
T Owari number.one lk fool lk place to
watashi o totsugaseru to ossharu no desu ka.
I
O make.marry qt say
nom be q
‘Are you saying, father, that you are making me marry a man
who is called the biggest fool in the Owari province?’
(6.3) Doosan: Soo ja.
so be
‘Yes, I am.’
(6.4) Noo:
Iya da to ittara doo shimasu?
no be qt if.say how do
‘What will you do if I say no?’
(6.5) Doosan: Inaya wa iwasa-n.
no T make.say-neg
‘I won’t allow you to say that.’
When Noo refers to the father’s utterance by saying ossharu no desu ka? ‘are you
saying?’, her expression focuses on the speech act. Because the speaker frames the
content by quotation and comments on the speech act instead, the utterance is
qualitatively switched from information-focus to interaction-focus. The same is
true for the negotiation between Noo and her father shown in (6.4) and (6.5). The
interaction is transposed to a different dimension, i.e., to the place where negotiation of the speech act is prioritized. Once the conversation shifts its focus to the
speech act, it inevitably carries with it a sense of interactional attitude and feelings.
This effect is generally observed when quotation is used. As already discussed
in Chapter 9, quotation offers a mixture of different dimensions/places with
multiple voices echoing within. By integrating places where the quoted person and
the quoting person inhabit, the speaker manipulates the world where dual voices
echo. In addition, quotation enables the switching of the interactional focus
through a metalinguistic process. Note that in (6.4), Noo downplays her emotional
refusal by self-quoting; Iya da to ittara doo shimasu? ‘What will you do if I say no?’.
Metalinguistic expressions provide a means for the speaker to control potential
emotional outbursts by way of incorporating another dimension of place.
The metalinguistic expression yuu ‘to say’ is also used for criticizing the
partner’s way of thinking. For example, Nobunaga answers in response to one of
his subordinates reporting to him that his brother Nobuyuki is about to wage war
against him. Here the criticism is not aimed toward the speech act, but rather,
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
toward the subordinate’s ways of thinking. By using yuu ‘say’, however, the
criticism becomes as if it had something to do with the speech act.
(25) Nobunaga: (laugh) Nani o itteiru n
da! (laugh) Nobuyuki ga
what O say
nom be
Nobuyuki S
damashiuchi nanka suru hazuganai daro.
betray.to.kill such do cannot.be be
‘(laugh) What are you talking about! (laugh) There is no
way that Nobuyuki would betray to kill me.‘
Nani o itteru n da! ‘What are you talking about!’ in (25) illustrates the way
linguistic emotivity is enacted in actual speech. In this brief utterance, emotive
nani and the n da expression mutually construct cotext to enhance emotivity. The
fact that Nobunaga does not expect a response after this utterance (he laughs
briefly and continues to speak) also indicates that this is not an informationseeking interrogative. These cotextual and contextual cues project on to the
〈topica〉 where ultimately the 〈negotiative meaning〉 is reached.
Focus on the speech act enacts a confrontation in an interesting way. Observe
(26) in which Nobuyuki suggests reconciliation, which Nobunaga angrily challenges.
(26.1) Nobuyuki: Aniue // hahaue ni atamaosagetekudasai.
brother mother IO apologize
‘Dear brother, please apologize to our mother.’
(26.2) Nobunaga: Ima nante itta!
now what said
‘What did you say now!’
(26.3) Nobuyuki: Hahaue wa aniue o nikundeiru wake dewa-arimasen.
mother T brother O hate
nom be-neg
‘It’s not that she hates you, brother.’
Nobunaga confronts his brother by saying Ima, nante itta! ‘What did you say
now!’, a metalinguistic remark. No answer is sought for this interrogative; what is
conveyed here is his outrage. But Nobunaga succeeds in conveying his outrage
indirectly, on the level of speech act, by avoiding a direct expression of anger.
Using metalinguistic forms allows the participants to step back into a different
dimension of the place.
. Coordination of joint utterances
The second function associated with the 〈interactional place〉 is the 〈coordination
of joint utterances〉. In Oda Nobunaga, several interactional strategies that
Linguistic Emotivity
coordinate utterances appear, including back channels, echo questions, and allorepetition. In some cases two participants create joint utterances as well. (27.3)and
(28.3) are examples of echo questions. In both cases, echo questions function as
back channels and invite the partner to elaborate on the relevant point in subsequent turns. In (27.4), in response to Nobuyuki’s utterance, Noo elaborates why
she feels as she does as depicted in (27.2). In (28.4) (identical to data [19]) the
Lord of Owari explains why there is no one but Nobunaga with whom he would
fight with when he rages war next time. The echo question in (28.3) includes a
shift of pronouns from omae ‘you’ to ore ‘I’, reflecting different perspectives.
(27.1) Noo:
Watashi wa tomemashita. // Goshoochi no yooni, chichi
I
T advised.againt know
lk as
father
wa nani o suru ka wakara-nai hito da kara. // Dame
T what O do Q know-neg person be since bad
deshita. // Ore wa iku. Soo kotaeta dake.
be
I T go so answered only
‘I advised against it. As you know, my father is the kind of
person who would do just about anything. But, to no avail.
Lord Nobunaga said ‘‘I’m going.’’ He just answered so.’
(27.2)
Demo yokatta to omotteimasu.
but was.right qt think
‘But, now I think that was the right way to be.’
(27.3) Nobuyuki: Yokatta?
was.right
‘Right way?’
(27.4) Noo:
Nobunaga-sama wa, doko e iku no mo, ika-nai
Nobunaga
T where to go nom T go-neg
no mo, zenbu jibunde kimeru hito desu.
nom T all
by.oneself decide person be
Watashino iken nado kiite wa, Nobunaga-sama
my
advice such listen T Nobunaga
dewa-naku natteshimaimasu.
be-neg
become
‘Lord Nobunaga is a kind of person who decides on his own
whether or not he goes somewhere. If he follows my advice,
he no longer will be Lord Nobunaga.’
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
(28.1) Lord:
Shikashi, sore dewaikan. // Ikusa wa, ikusa de shika
but
that should.not.be war T war by only
shizumerare-n.
can.settle-neg
‘But, that is not right. Wars can be settled only by wars.’
(28.2)
Nobunaga. // Omae shika ora-n.
Nobunaga you only there.is-neg
‘Nobunaga. There is no one else but you.’
(28.3) Nobunaga: //Ore shika?
I
only
‘Only me?’
(28.4) Lord:
Washi wa mooichido tatakau. Isshoni ikusa o suru no wa
I
T once.again fight
together war O do one T
omae shika i-nai. //
Dare ga nan to, iooto
you only there.is-neg anyone S what qt say
washino atootsugu no wa omae da. // Omae dake da.
my
be.heir one T you be you only be
‘I will fight once more. There is nobody else to wage war
with. Whoever says whatever, the heir to my province is
you. Only you, it is.’
The use of repetition in back-channel-like echo questions in (27.3) and (28.3)
helps the participants bond, engendering a sense of closeness. These exchanges of
words are linguistic evidence that meaning is progressively negotiated. Partners in
conversation engage in this reciprocal interaction and interpret the meaning on
the basis of 〈empathetic conformity〉.
In conversation, a single sentence may be jointly created by speaker and
partner. For example, the following conversation between Nobunaga’s mother and
Hayashi, her trusted co-conspirator, illustrates such co-construction. Here, by coconstruction I refer to the syntactic unit produced by more than one speaker
(Ono and Yoshida 1996).
(29.1) Mother:
Nantoka // shimatsusuru hoo wa nai
no ka?
somehow get.rid.of
way T be-neg nom q
‘Isn’t there a way to get rid of him somehow?’
(29.2) Hayashi: Shimatsu?
get.rid.of
‘Getting rid of him?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(29.3) Mother:
Samukegasuru no da. Ano yabanna me, koe. //
shiver
nom be that barbaric eye voice
Chittomo watashi ni nitei-nai.
at.all
I
IO resemble-neg
‘It sends shivers to me. Those barbaric eyes, voice; they don’t
resemble mine at all.’
(29.4) Hayashi: Shikashi okatasama wa Nobunaga-sama no=
but
lady
T Nobunaga
lk
‘But, you are Lord Nobunaga’s’
(29.5) Mother:
=Haha da kara shimatsusuru no da.
mother be since get.rid.of
nom be
Inosowa-nu
ko wa akanotanin yori mezawari da.
follow.will-neg child T unrelated than eyesore be
‘Mother, and that’s why I want to get rid of him. A son who
does not follow my will is even more of an eyesore than anyone unrelated and outside of my family.’
In (29.4) Hayashi hesitates at the point where he could continue, pointing out that
she is Nobunaga’s real mother. Anticipating, the mother in (29.5) picks up where
Hayashi leaves off, and finishes the sentence. This co-construction of the sentence
shows how similarly they understand the situation. They are on the same wave
length, so to speak, and the negotiation of meaning and interaction is on-going. In
addition, shimatsu in (29.2) is a case of echo question enhancing the cohesion of
interaction across participants. Ono and Yoshida (1996) state that co-construction
of syntactic construction is rare in Japanese conversation, but when it occurs, it
highlights the collaborative nature of interaction. (29) is a case where this sense of
collaboration is observed.
So far in this chapter, I have analyzed verbal interaction of characters, and
discussed that Oda Nobunaga is rife with linguistic emotivity. I have argued that
even strategies seemingly unrelated to emotivity project on to different dimensions
of place with varied kinds and shades of emotion, including confrontation,
surprise, amae, excitement, outrage, and so on. Ultimately, these feelings project
on to the 〈topica〉 where 〈negotiative meanings〉 are instantiated.
I emphasize that an utterance is realized by multiple means of emotives. For
example, an utterance such as Nani o nonbirishita koto o ‘What are you talking
about!’ utilizes emotive strategies of the emotive nani and nominalization
through koto which encourages the futaku effect. And Nani o itteiru n da! combines the emotive nani, the metalinguistic expression of yuu ‘say’, and the
nominalization plus emotive da in the form of n da. This overlay of emotives is
the norm, and linguistic expression, even when it seems to involve little emotion,
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
indexically signals varying types and intensities of personal attitude and feelings.
Let me also emphasize that various functions under which different emotives
are discussed in this chapter are not mutually exclusive. Functions often overlap
and the 〈negotiative meaning〉 is reached by integrating multiple functions.
As we have observed in Oda Nobunaga, one’s deep emotions may not be
expressed successfully through propositions or lexicon; Nobunaga wa okotteiru
‘Nobunaga is angry’ can hardly do justice to his feelings when he screams Nani ga
yokatta! ‘What (do you mean by) fortune!’ Nani ga sukui da! ‘What (do you mean
by) relief!’ as discussed regarding example (15). Language functions in a metaphorical way, only to express emotions that cannot be easily expressed in a phrase
or a proposition. Expression of emotion requires more than the 〈cognitive place〉.
And language functions to provide opportunities for partners to co-experience
attitude and emotion indirectly through the futaku effect.
Although emotives are closely related to the 〈informational meaning〉, emotive
meaning differs in quality. Although logos and pathos are closely connected, they
differ in quality. Interpretation of logos may be achieved on the basis of an
individual cognitive process, but appreciation of pathos requires negotiation of
meaning indexically linked to the place of interaction.
.
Visual images and pathos in mass culture
Oda Nobunaga was created, produced, broadcast, and consumed as a fragment of
contemporary Japanese mass culture. How is this piece of television drama interpreted and appreciated? What are the sources of emotional experience the viewers
undergo? So far, I have attempted to answer these questions by interpreting the
verbal messages of the drama from the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation theory.
In Oda Nobunaga, the viewer experiences not only verbal but visual signs.
Visual signs can be interpreted from the Place of Negotiation theory as well.
Specifically, some visual signs function similar to emotives that bring about the
futaku effect. The situation to be presented below generally falls into what Carroll
(1997, 1998) calls 〈emotive focus〉.
After finding out about his father’s death, Nobunaga returns to his castle. He
ignores Noo who comes running out to the corridor to greet him, and walks into
his room. The screen depicts a montage of his father’s memories, immediately
followed by Nobunaga’s pensive, sad face. The viewer notices Noo coming into
the room with a vase of peach blossoms. Nobunaga yells at her, asserting that
there is no need to utter words of sympathy. Silently, Noo places the vase at the
alcove, turns around and says Hana wa dare mo kizutsuke-naishi, dare mo uragiranai wa ‘Blossoms do not hurt anyone, blossoms do not betray anyone’. The
meaning of this utterance must be interpreted metaphorically. Noo says nothing
Linguistic Emotivity
about the death of Nobunaga’s father. She does not use any of the possible emotion words, either. Yet, she offers her consolation to Nobunaga through the
statement about blossoms, which serves as a target of futaku.
At Noo’s line about the blossoms, the camera pulls out to frame a wider
tableau. Now the viewer takes in the entire place within which two people are
sharing deep emotion. Through the observation of this scene as a target of futaku,
the viewer interprets the emotion as filling out the entire scene. To interpret the
〈emotive meaning〉 associated with this scene requires cultural knowledge and
experience. The ways of interpreting (or not interpreting) certain signs are a part
of sensus communis shared by people both on individual and societal levels.
The futaku effect of Noo’s behavior can be considered, in a broad sense, a case
of Carroll’s (1998) 〈emotive focus〉, but it differs from the point-of-view editing.
Point-of-view editing minimally requires two images, the point/glance shot and the
point/object shot. According to Carroll, the point/glance shot ‘‘involves a character
in the act of looking, generally off-screen,’’ and the point/object shot ‘‘follows,
putatively showing us what the person in the point/glance shot sees’’ (1998:284).
This may be repeated several times, but once suffices to be identified as the pointof-view editing. The order of these two images is not restricted to that of point/
object followed by point/glance, and the reverse order is also possible. At any rate,
Carroll insists that through the point-of-view schema, the author is able to tell the
story by showing the viewer what a character is looking at and by indicating what
is on his or her mind. The point-of-view method conveys ‘‘with some precision
what the character feels about whatever it is that she is seeing’’ (1998:284). In the
point-of-view schema, the two shots are connected with a cause-effect relationship.
The scene discussed above regarding the death of Nobunaga’s father differs
from this point-of-view editing. Individual elements within the scene are not the
targets of primary focus, and the shots are not connected in terms of a causeeffect. What is in focus, or more accurately, in general focus, is the entire scene,
from which emotivity permeates. And the viewer realizes that the entire place is
the target of futaku. The viewer observes the place, the space where deep feelings
pervade. Let me call this technique ‘‘place-of-view’’ editing.
This design requires a scene within which characters are placed with little
movement or action. Resembling still photography, the place-of-view editing shoots
a quiet scenic place, often accompanied with some background (moving) music
and/or voice-over. The person found in such a place is often deep in thought, being
calmly reflective and/or suffused with feelings. Unlike the point/glance shot of the
point-of-view editing, the person does not show emotion, or at least he or she is
shot without overwhelmingly visible emotional expressions. The cases of the placeof-view editing in Oda Nobunaga include scenes in which; (1) Nobunaga is sitting
on a huge tree branch on top of the mountain, (2) Nobuyuki is standing motionless as he makes up his mind to wage war against his brother on a plateau looking
Analyzing expressions of pathos in Oda Nobunaga
toward the setting sun, and (3) Nobunaga, placed at the summit of a mountain
looking toward the evening sky, vows to one day rule the entire country of Japan.
In all these cases, the character is quietly absorbed in thoughts and/or feelings such
as yearning, sadness, regret, doubt, determination, and so on.
Placing a person in a scene is one of the cultural codes of Japanese sensus
communis. This place-of-view editing encourages the viewer to take in the place in
its entirety, while ignoring the details of characters and objects. The still-life
tableau as a whole permeates emotion, a kind of sentiment deeply rooted in the
cultural pathos. Naturally, as we discussed regarding data (2), the point-of-view
technique is used in Oda Nobunaga, but the place-of-view editing plays important
and different roles in the visual images of Japanese mass culture.
In the place-of-view editing, emotion is expressed indirectly and metaphorically. The viewer witnesses the scenery which the character views in the same
〈perspectivized appearance〉. And at the same time, the viewer absorbs that entire
scene from the perspective of the viewing place. Viewing the scene from the same
perspective as the character, and then viewing that scene as a target of futaku offer
the viewer the opportunity to co-experience emotion in dual perspectives. Here,
dual places are called for, and in the layered perspectives of places, the viewer
experiences emotion.
I should emphasize that I am not making a point here that the place-of-view
technique is used only in Japanese mass culture. In fact it is known that other
forms of art, for example, American movies, westerns in particular, incorporate
vast scenery. However, to express deep emotion by means of a visual image as
explained above seems to play a critical role in the Japanese mass art.
The role the concept of place plays in the expressivity of Japanese language
and culture noted here does not contradict other views. Ikegami (1981, 1988)
argues that Japanese language has a noted preference toward expressing an event
as something which ‘‘becomes.’’ In Japanese grammar, rather than focusing on the
individual objects or agents of action, the entire scene and its change of state are
often prioritized. The preference of the Japanese language Ikegami describes is in
basic agreement with the interpretation of emotivity pursued here. And of course,
the place-dependent expressivity of emotion agrees with the Japanese preference
for the Rhetoric of Pathos, which endorses the significance of the concept of place.
We have observed in Oda Nobunaga a variety of emotives, all of which are
interpretable from the Place of Negotiation theory. Some of the Japanese mass
culture encourages the viewer to experience characters and places as targets of
futaku, and encourages the futaku-like interpretation. It requires the sharing of
emotional experience based on the objects viewed from the same perspective.
Through the negotiative process of both verbal and visual signs in the 〈topica〉,
pathos in the Japanese cultural discourse is created, shared, consumed, and
perpetually reproduced.
Chapter 15
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo
newspaper articles
.
Introduction
This chapter shifts the focus of analysis to text organization. Linguistic emotivity
pervades on multiple levels of language, and how it is expressed in an entire piece
of written text is a question that has not yet been addressed. The manner in which
the writer expresses his or her own attitude and feelings in a piece of written text
is a part of 〈emotive meaning〉. This textual emotivity is also significant to the
Place of Negotiation theory because it illustrates how the writer presents the
writer’s view for the negotiation of meaning with the reader.
In this chapter I explore the Japanese rhetoric enacted in text organization as
a part of the Rhetoric of Pathos. In Chapter 6, under the Rhetoric of Pathos I listed
two specific features related to text organization; (1) the conclusion is presented,
if at all, at the end of the text, and (2) an essay-like progression (e.g., ki-shoo-tenketsu) is important for the organization of text. Based on the examination of
newspaper articles, this chapter provides empirical evidence to support these
features of the Japanese Rhetoric of Pathos, especially the rhetorical preference for
the textual topic–comment dynamic.
Scholars have argued that differences exist in rhetorical styles across genres
and across languages (Abelen, Redeker and Thompson 1993; Hinds 1983, 1990;
Honna 1989; Kaplan 1972; Kirkpatrick 1993; Kobayashi 1984; Kubota 1992;
Maynard 1996b; Nagano 1983; Nishihara 1990; Tirkkonen-Conduit and Liefländer-Koistinen 1989). In this chapter I specifically ask how and in what sequential context the writer presents his or her view in one kind of Japanese text. If the
purpose of writing a short newspaper article called Mini Jihyoo ‘Mini Current
Issue Commentary’ is to present the writer’s commentary as the article designation implies (and such is assumed here), in what ways, at which point in the text
within what text-internal context does the writer commit to expressing his or her
opinions, attitudes, and feelings? In addition, I compare the results with my earlier
study (Maynard 1996b) with a view toward generalizing Japanese rhetorical
sequencing in newspaper opinion columns/articles.
Data selected for this chapter consist of 69 newspaper articles titled Mini-Jihyoo
‘Mini Current Issue Commentary’, which fall in the genre of short opinion
columns. I collected all of the Mini-Jihyoo articles appearing in the Asahi Shimbun
Linguistic Emotivity
International Satellite Edition for the months of January, February, and March,
1996. Of the 72 articles I excluded the three cases of second occurrences of the
article written by the same writer. This precaution was taken so that the data would
not reflect the style of a particular writer unfairly due to its duplication. Sixty-nine
Mini-Jihyoo articles were written by 69 writers, 63 of whom were, at the time of
writing, employees of Asahi Newspaper. Of the six outsiders, four were university
professors and two were journalists. The Mini-Jihyoo column contains two brief
articles side by side and appears in the newspaper’s political and economic sections.
Each Mini-Jihyoo article consists of approximately 750 character spaces.
Topics covered in Mini-Jihyoo vary including both domestic and international
issues, e.g., Oozumoo ni Shindeshi: Gendaikko Sodateru Hairyo o ‘New Trainees in
the Grand Sumo: Take Measures to Nurture Today’s Youth’ (March 4, article by
Takahashi) and Kakujikken Hantai: Shoosuusha no Shiten o Taisetsu ni ‘Opposition
to the Nuclear Test: Give Priority to the Minority’s Perspective’ (January 5, article
by Shimada).
.
Background
Significant to the present discussion are the works of Hinds (1983, 1990).
Analyzing Tensei Jingo, an essay-like column in Asahi Shimbun, Hinds (1983)
argues that Japanese rhetorical structure in expository discourse differs from that
of English in that it follows the traditional ki-shoo-ten-ketsu principle.1 In addition,
again using Tensei Jingo and its English translation as data, Hinds (1990) contrasts
expository writings in Japanese, Chinese, Thai, and Korean and concludes that
these writings follow an organizational pattern of ‘‘quasi-inductive.’’ English
readers usually assume deductive discourse, and if that assumption fails, they will
assume that the discourse follows the inductive process. ‘‘(I)nductive writing is
characterized as having the thesis statement in the final position whereas deductive writing has the thesis statement in the initial position’’ (Hinds 1990: 89).
Japanese discourse is neither deductive nor inductive; rather it is ‘‘quasi-inductive.’’ According to Hinds (1990), in quasi-inductive discourse, (1) the thesis
statement appears in the final position, (2) the presentation of the writer’s
purpose is delayed, (3) pieces of information contained in the writing are related
loosely to a general topic, and (4) the concluding statement does not necessarily
tightly follow the direction of the preceding statements.
Two additional studies contrasting the Japanese information sequencing in
discourse with that of English are also relevant to this chapter. Honna (1989)
discusses information sequencing in an essay in English and its Japanese translation. To our immediate interest are the initial two sentences (in English and
corresponding Japanese) as shown below.
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
(1.1) By the year 2000, if current birth rate trends remain unchecked, world
population will reach a staggering six billion people.
(1.2) All other world problems — pollution, depletion of natural resources,
poverty, etc. — can be linked to world over-population.
(2.1) Sekai no dekigoto ga kono mama tsuzukeba, seireki
world lk happenings S this as
if.continue year
nisennen
ni wa, sekai no jinkoo
wa rokujuuoku to yuu
year.two.thousand in T world lk population T six.billion qt say
taihenna kazu
ni naru daroo.
staggering number as become be
(2.2) Koogai ya hinkon, ten’nenshigen
no kokatsu nado
pollusion and poverty natural.resources lk depletion and.so.on
zensekai
ga chokumenshiteiru hokano ookuno mondai wa, sekai
entire.world S face
other many problem T world
no jinkoo
mondai to missetsuni kankeishiteiru.
lk population problem with closely
are.linked (Honna 1989: 380–1)
While native English speakers found the ordering of (1.1) and (1.2) most appropriate, Japanese native speakers, when given (2.1) and (2.2), responded that the
sequencing of (2.2) followed by (2.1) is also acceptable. In fact, out of 38 Japanese
subjects, 17 responded that this reverse ordering is preferable. Significantly, (2.1)
is the topic-sentence (to be discussed later) in English. (2.1) also shows an
interesting linguistic feature of being a speculative statement marked by daroo ‘be’.
The Japanese preference for placing the English topic sentence after the non-topic
sentence is evident in this study.
Nishihara’s study (1990) also shows an interesting result. Nishihara compares
the order of sentences in a report written in English by a native Japanese speaker
with that of a native English speaker’s correction. She also compares a report
originally written in Japanese that is literally translated into English with its rewritten English version (by a native English speaker). In both cases, statements
appearing toward the end in Japanese discourse are moved up to the front in
English versions. Nishihara (1990) concludes that while English rhetoric prefers
presenting information that gives an overall introduction to the statements to
follow, Japanese rhetoric prefers presenting information gradually and the text
leads to the conclusion following the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu order. Both Honna’s (1989)
and Nishihara’s (1990) studies have confirmed that Japanese discourse prefers the
order as suggested by many others.2
Also noteworthy are two studies from the applied linguistics perspective. First
is Kobayashi (1984) in which she examines 676 writing samples written by 226
students. These students fall into four groups; (1) U. S. university students, (2)
Linguistic Emotivity
Japanese advanced ESL university students studying in the U. S., (3) university
English majors in Japan, and (4) non-English majors in Japan. Kobayashi reports
that US students follow the general-to-specific rhetorical sequencing, while
Japanese students in Japan show a tendency to follow the specific-to-general
sequencing. Japanese ESL students studying in the US follow the style somewhere
between these two sequencing preferences. Differences in these preferences
illustrate that Japanese writers tend to offer generalizing conclusion toward the
end of the text.
Second, Kubota’s (1992) study analyzes essays Japanese students wrote in
Japanese and English. Interestingly, Kubota points out that students, including
those who placed the conclusion toward the end of the essay, were critical of the
Japanese rhetorical style. This self-critical attitude, nurtured, in part, by the
prioritization of Western rhetoric among Japanese and Japanese intellectuals,
reflects the politics and ideologies associated with rhetoric. Kubota’s study
reminds us that one must understand cultural discourse as it is, not from a
predetermined and presumed standard.
In contrast with this observed preference of Japanese rhetorical sequencing,
English text is known to prefer a deductive organization, especially the syllogistic
argument. According to Werlich (1976), for example, in the text genre of ‘‘comment,’’ in which the writer ‘‘passes judgment by relating concepts of events,
objects, and ideas to his private systems of thought, values and beliefs’’ (1976:
107), the dialectical text structuring is typical. Werlich continues that ‘‘the
composition plan for organizing the material of comments is that of the syllogistic
argument’’ and that of the ‘‘factual argument’’ (1976: 110). In the syllogistic argument, the text is organized as the following.
1. The rejected view briefly cited:
Some people claim that St. Paul’s is no longer needed as a public school in
London.
2. The favored thesis in opposition to the cited view:
But we think that St. Paul’s still serves an important purpose outside the State
school systems.
3. Evidence for the favored thesis:
3.1 The general proposition:
The great English public schools are generally accepted as having both a high
academic record and developing the individual to the best of his abilities.
3.2 The particular proposition:
St. Paul’s ranks among the great public schools in England.
4. Conclusion:
Therefore St. Paul’s still serves an important purpose outside the State school
system. (Werlich 1976: 110)
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
The factual argument is organized in a similar way except that the evidence for the
favored thesis contains particular facts leading to a conclusion.
Furthermore, in the leading article (or editorial) in English, which is also
considered a variant of comment, the compositional plan incorporates an additional element, i.e., instruction. The text is organized as; (1) thesis, (2) evidence,
(3) conclusion, and (4) instruction. Significantly, according to Werlich (1976), the
English text genre of comment, comparable to Mini-Jihyoo, organizes its text in
the deductive manner. The thesis is explicitly presented early on (either the second
or the first element) in comments (including the leading article).
This sharply contrasts with the quasi-inductive as well as the general Japanese
rhetorical sequencing confirmed so far in Japanese discourse studies. Past studies
suggest the Japanese preference (in certain genres of discourse) for a rhetorical
movement that differs from the proposition-based logical progression. Quasiinductive and ki-shoo-ten-ketsu, for example, prioritize not the Rhetoric of Logos,
but the general-conclusion-last rhetoric. Following this line of thought, in this
chapter I add an analytical specificity by appealing to the topic–comment dynamic
in Japanese text, as well as the concept of commentary sentences.
.
The topic–comment dynamic and text organization
This section discusses the Japanese traditional rhetorical movement ki-shoo-tenketsu, and, in particular, how it represents the topic–comment dynamic on the
textual level. I adhere to the concept of topic as explained in Chapter 6. In a
general sense, one can think of topic as something the relevant information is
linked to, and more specifically, as something being talked about within a
sentence, paragraph, and within an entire text. Given the task we face in this
chapter, however, additional clarification concerning topic on the textual level is
necessary.
First, the concept of topic differs from the so-called topic sentence in English
rhetoric. In English, the topic sentence summarizes the content to follow and
often specifies the concluding main point. Presenting a topic in Japanese discourse
does not necessarily mean summarizing or concluding; rather, topics identify
items and issues that define the framework for the ensuing text. The topic is also
distinct from the so-called thesis summary. For example, Tirkkonen-Conduit and
Liefländer-Koistinen (1989) define thesis summary as ‘‘a sentence or a complex of
sentences in which the opinion or position, i.e., thesis argued for in the article is
expressed at a general level’’ (1989: 175). Again, topic in Japanese does not usually
present a thesis summary. It simply presents a general framework to which the
relevant information is linked, and in association with which the meaning of
comment is interpreted.
Linguistic Emotivity
Second, I should point out some differences between my concept of comment
and that of the Praguean understanding. Comment refers to more than new
information that substantially enriches the partner’s knowledge. I use the term
comment in the sense that the writer offers commentary, i.e., the writer’s personal
view, opinion, interpretation, information, emotional attitude, feelings, and so on.
This characterization of comment is better understood in light of the text genre of
comment described by Werlich (1976) mentioned earlier. In the form of comment, the writer offers his or her own view by relating concepts of events, objects,
and ideas to his or her private thoughts, values and beliefs. In this sense, what I
mean by comment in this chapter is even broader than Werlich’s. The ‘‘conclusive
comment’’ to be used in the analysis of the Mini-Jihyoo articles is a broader
notion, and refers to a number of things; the summary of the message, the writer’s
central concern, some additional information, personal opinion, emotional attitude, feelings and so on.
Now, critical to the current task is the sequencing of information assigned by
the topic–comment dynamic, particularly as it applies to text. This organizational
view can be traced back again to the Praguean tradition, particularly to the
understanding of theme, rheme, and the Functional Sentence Perspective.
According to Mathesius (Firbas 1964: 268), theme and rheme are, under normal
situations, arranged so that theme precedes rheme. This sequential organization of
information is applicable to text, since it is based not strictly on the sentence
grammar but on how information is organized in the text through what is called
Communicative Dynamism. (See, for example, the application of Functional Sentence Perspective to the organization of the discourse by Daneš [1974].)
One important text-level structure supporting the topic–comment dynamic in
Japanese is the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu organizational principle. Recall that in Chapter 6,
I presented ki-shoo-ten-ketsu as a representative characteristic of the Rhetoric of
Pathos. Ki-shoo-ten-ketsu originates in the structure of four-line Chinese poetry
and is frequently referred to in Japanese as a model rhetorical movement or
structure in expository (and other) writings (Ishimori et al. 1985). The four elements are; (1) ki (topic presentation) presenting topic at the beginning of one’s
argument, (2) shoo (topic development) following ki, developing the topic further,
(3) ten (surprise turn) after the development of the topic in shoo, introducing a
surprising element, indirectly related to or connected with ki, and (4) ketsu
(conclusion) bringing all of the elements together and reaching a conclusion.
A classic example often given in explaining the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu four-part
organization is a well-known four-line description presented in the following.3
(3.1) Oosaka Motomachi Itoya no musume.
Osaka Motomachi Itoya lk daughter
‘Daughters of Itoya (the thread shop) in Motomachi of Osaka.’
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
(3.2) Ane
wa juuroku, imooto
wa juugo.
elder.daughter T sixteen younger.daugher T fifteen
‘Elder daughter is sixteen and the younger daughter is fifteen.’
(3.3) Shokoku
daimyoo wa yumiya
de korosu.
many.provinces lord
T bow.and.arrow with kill
‘Lords from many provinces kill (you) by bow and arrow.’
(3.4) Itoya no musume wa me de korosu.
Itoya lk daughter T eye with kill
‘Itoya’s daughters kill (you) with their eyes.’
[1960]: 71)
(Tokieda 1977
Example (3) contains four sentences each of which corresponds to ki, shoo, ten,
and ketsu. At first two daughters of Itoya, a merchant family in Osaka, are
introduced as the topic, something being talked about, or, a framework to which
the consequent text is linked. Following this ki, the topic is further developed,
and the two daughters’ more detailed descriptions are given. But (3.3), ten,
presents a seemingly unrelated example (of feudal lords’ custom of killing people
by bow and arrow). In (3.4) we find that just as feudal lords ‘‘kill’’ people with
bow and arrow, Itoya’s daughters ‘‘kill’’ (that is, ‘‘attract’’) men with their
(seducing) eyes.
Given this rhetorical movement, a few points are of immediate interest. First,
ki offers a topic, i.e., a framework, for the subsequent text, and does not offer a
summarizing or concluding statement. Second, ketsu is derived not on a logical
basis, but by appealing to an analogy, and by associating the information with the
writer’s personal way of thinking, values, and beliefs. Third, the conclusion is not
mentioned, or even suggested anywhere else in the discourse but at the very end.
Thus, the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu organization features rhetorical open-endedness.
This feature shows a striking difference from other known rhetorical movements.
Ki-shoo-ten-ketsu differs from logical progressions (such as [problem → hypothesis → testing → results → discussion/conclusion] or [problem → statement →
evidence → solution/claim] and so on). The ki-shoo-ten-ketsu progression also
differs from the ideational logical relationship such as BECAUSE — THEREFORE,
the kind of relationship discussed by Kirkpatrick (1993).
The ki-shoo-ten-ketsu progression is also distinct from Schiffrin’s (1987)
concepts of ‘‘position’’ and ‘‘support.’’ In Schiffrin’s work, analyzing spoken
English, position is the speaker’s commitment to an idea (such as descriptive
information about situations, states, events and actions), and support is what the
speaker offers to back up the position by explaining an idea, justifying a commitment and defending a presentation. Although what is presented as ki-shoo-ten may
‘‘support’’ the ‘‘position’’ taken by ketsu, the relationship implied by the ki-shoo-
Linguistic Emotivity
ten-ketsu progression is broader. As the discourse segment (3) indicates, ketsu is
reached not necessarily through logical consequence nor in terms of speech act.
Rather, ketsu offers the concluding comment through broader associations, such
as analogy, pun, and the general gathering together of all relevant facts and
comments.4 And in this broader association, the writer’s personal thought, values,
beliefs, and attitudes play a decisive role.
Given the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu’s open-endedness, Japanese rhetorical movements
are not necessarily likely to be syllogistic or to strictly follow logical progressions.
Considering the significance of the topic–comment dynamic in the Japanese
grammar and text, and given that the ketsu conclusion offers personal commentary, it is reasonable to view the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu progression as a concrete rhetorical design that realizes the topic–comment dynamic on the textual level. Looked
at from a different point of view, the force of the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu topic–comment
dynamic supports a preference for the Rhetoric of Pathos not only on the sentential level but also on the textual level.
. Commentary sentences
For the purpose of investigating the force of the topic–comment dynamic in a
concrete manner, I make use of the concept of ‘‘commentary sentence’’ (henceforth CS). Sentences appearing in our data (and in fact in Japanese discourse in
general) are divided into two groups, CS and ordinary sentence (henceforth OS).
CSs strongly express the writer’s views, opinions, attitude, and feelings. CSs are
marked by a set of linguistic features; (1) nominal predicates, including n(o) da,
koto da, mono da, and wake da expressions, (2) phrases commenting on the
writing and speech act, and (3) speculative modal expressions.
Nominal predicates such as no da as in (4) signal the writer’s explanatory
attitude, often with emotion.5 Expressions referring to the ‘‘speaking’’ (and
writing) as ie-nai ka ‘won’t it be possible to say’ in (5) marks the writer’s voice.
Verbs of ‘‘thinking,’’ ‘‘feeling’’ and so on, as omou ‘think’ in (6), expose personal
thoughts and feelings, allowing direct access to the writer’s emotivity. Speculative
modal expressions (e.g. daroo, rashii, kamoshirenai) qualify the level of certainty
and evidentiality, an aspect also associated with the writer’s emotivity. Sentencefinal manipulations such as idondara doo ka ‘how about challenging’ in (7), used
for making a suggestion, also indexically signals the writer’s emotivity.
(4) Oyako
de shutsubasuru rei
ga fuehajimeta
no da.
parent-child as run.for.election example S began.to.increase nom be
‘Cases have begun to increase where both parent and child run for
political office.’ (January 17, article by Inaka)
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
(5) (. . .) sore koso reisen
no shikoo to ie-nai ka.
that emph Cold.War lk thinking qt say-neg q
‘Won’t it be possible to say that it represents a way of thinking typical
of the Cold War?’ (January 8, article by Tomaru)
(6) Kono kikai
ni, mori zentai o taishoo ni tashoono
this opportunity in forest entirety O target as some
araryooji
o subekida to omou.
drastic.measure O should.do qt think
‘I think at this time, they should take some drastic measures to cure the
ills of the entire forest.’ (January 19, article by Ishida)
(7) Seiji
ni hontooni joonetsu to nooryoku ga arunara,
politics in really
passion and ability
S if.there.is
oyagakari
dewa-nai shoobu o idondara doo ka.
parental.assistance be-neg contest O if.challenge how q
‘If they possess true passion for and ability in politics, how about challenging the opponents without parental assistance?’ (January 17,
article by Inaka)
It is true that all sentences express the writer’s emotivity one way or another. The
syntactic choice of a sentence itself conveys the writer’s linguistic emotivity to a
certain degree. However, the proposed category of CSs is marked by limited types
of linguistic features, and therefore, CSs are identifiable in terms of their form.
These features indexically signal the writer’s textual emotivity. In CSs, primary
importance is placed on the personal attitude, infused with varied types and
intensities of emotivity.
In addition to the overt linguistic strategies mentioned above, CSs satisfy the
following condition. All CSs must directly reflect the writer’s modality. The writer
of Mini-Jihyoo is expected to present, along with a topic, some relevant information, his or her personal evaluation, view, and suggestion. When the writer takes
the position of ‘‘talking’’ to the reader directly with the intention of sharing his or
her own views, from the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation theory, the writer
and the reader find themselves in the 〈interactional place〉. Or, more accurately, the
writer locates himself or herself in the writing place, and the sense of this place is
foregrounded, more than the article-internal written place. In other words, the
position the writer takes, or, what Talbot (1992) calls ‘‘subject position,’’ is that the
writer ‘‘talks’’ to the reader as a writer-commentator.6 Being in direct discourse is
a necessary condition for a sentence to be identified as being a CS. In short,
nominal predicates such as those presented in no da, koto da, mono da, and wake da
must be attributed to the writer himself or herself in order to qualify as CSs.
Of the total 1,170 sentences appearing in the data, I find 30 sentences in direct
Linguistic Emotivity
quotation graphologically so marked. Since direct quotation dominantly represents voices other than the writer’s, excluding those, the number of sentences
attributable primarily to the writer’s voice numbers 1,140. Of these 1,140 sentences, 236 (20.70%) are CSs.
OSs, as opposed to CSs, present relevant information as facts including public
or general knowledge, and detailed description of the situation, event, or affair. In
Mini-Jihyoo, these OSs dominate, comprising approximately 80% of the sentences
(again excluding direct quotations).
.
The topic–comment sequencing in headline and text
Headlines appearing in Mini-Jihyoo visually mirror the articles’ rhetorical structure. The first half of the headline appears in a white boxed space against a grey
headline banner, and the second half is printed in slightly larger characters against
the grey banner running across the width of the entire column. This visual
division coincides with the sequencing of the topic and comment described
earlier. The first part refers to the specific issue (topic) to be discussed. The second
part offers additional information or the writer’s personal view (comment) about
the issue. Let me refer to the topic and comment observed in the headline as
‘‘headline-topic’’ and ‘‘headline-comment,’’ respectively.7
The different communicative roles the headline-topic and headline-comment
play are further evidenced by the linguistic forms they employ. The headline-topic
most often takes a noun phrase, defining the framework within which the ensuing
text develops. Out of a total 69 headlines, 62 (89.86%) are noun phrase headlinetopics (i.e., topic is presented in the form of a noun phrase). In contrast, the
headline-comment in noun phrases appears only 33 times (47.83%) out of 69
headlines. The headline-comment takes a noun phrase, verb and adjective (frequently with a particle), as well as an adverb. For example 27 out of 69 headlinecomments contain particles (17 cases following noun phrases, 8 cases following
verbs, and 2 cases following adjectives). Verbs are used in the headline-comment a
total of 13 times; adjectives and adverbs, 6 times. Compared with the headlinetopic, the headline-comment more frequently uses expressions that suggest some
action through action-evoking, often advisory phrases. (For convenience, in the
data presentation I separate the headline-topic and headline-comment by a colon.)
Some examples follow.
(8) Oozumoo ni Shindeshi: Gendaikko
Sodateru Hairyo
o.
grand.sumo in new.trainee modern.youth nurture consideration O
‘New Trainees in the Grand Sumo: Take Measures to Nurture Today’s
Youth.’ (March 4, article by Takahashi)
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
(9) Kakujikken Hantai:
Shoosuusha no Shiten
o Taisetsuni.
nuclear.test opposition minority
lk perspective O give.priority
‘Opposition to the Nuclear Test: Give Priority to the Minority’s
Perspective.’ (January 5, article by Shimada)
(10) Daigakuin
no Kakujuu: Gakubu
Kyooiku,
graduate.school lk expansion undergraduate education
Teusunisuru-na.
slight-neg
‘Expansion of Graduate Schools: Do Not Slight Undergraduate Education.’ (February 5, article by Yamagishi)
(11) Puro
Yakyuu no Nenpoo
Chootei: Senshu wa
professional baseball lk annual.salary negotiation player T
Doodooto Shuchooseyo.
with.pride demand
‘Salary Negotiation of Professional Baseball Players: Demand With
Pride.’ (February 7, article by Yamada)
The internal structure of the Mini-Jihyoo headline as stated above is reflected
throughout the text as well. I examined how frequently the headline-topic
paraphrase and headline-comment paraphrase appear in article-initial and articlefinal paragraphs. Here, paraphrases include the use of identical phrases and
synonyms. A paraphrase of the headline-topic appears in 59 article-initial paragraphs of the total 69 articles (i.e., 85.51%). A paraphrase of headline-comment
appears for the first time in 38 article-final paragraphs of the 69 articles (i.e.,
55.07%). If the repeated appearance of the headline-comment paraphrase is
included, the figure is 45 (65.22%), further substantiating that the headlinecomment occurs frequently in the article-final paragraph. Headline-comment
paraphrases rarely occur in article-initial paragraphs; out of 69 total, only four
such occurrences (5.80%) are found.
. Opening with topic and closing with conclusive comment
To investigate the topic–comment dynamic operating on the text level, this section
examines the presentation of topic (not necessarily the paraphrase of the headlinetopic) by focusing on how the article begins and ends. In Mini-Jihyoo the content
of the article-initial paragraph tends to be the main topic. In 46 out of 69 articles,
in fact, the initial paragraph presents the main topic. This is the most dominant
framework within which the consequent text develops. In 11 cases, the initial
paragraph offers only what one may call a pre-topic or a prelude to the main topic.
Linguistic Emotivity
The pre-topic paragraph lacks clear presentation of the topic, and yet functions as
a prelude. For example, the following initial paragraph appears in the Mini-Jihyoo
titled Guroobuza no Fukugen: Engeki ni Yasei Fukikomu ka ‘Reconstruction of the
Globe Theater: Would It Add a Natural Atmosphere?’ Although related, the
popularity of Shakespearean plays in Japan is not the topic of the article.
(12) Sheekusupia geki no ninki
wa, nihon demo ikkooni otoroeru
Shakespearen play lk popularity T Japan in
not.at.all wane
kehai
ga nai.
Kotoshi mo rainichi
kooen,
appearance S be-neg this.year also coming.to.Japan production
hon’yaku jooen,
kyakushoku jooen
ga aitsugu.
translation production edited
production S continue
‘The popularity of Shakespearen plays in Japan does not seem to wane
at all. Again this year, its original production, translated production and
the edited production (of Shakespearean plays) follow one by one.’
(March 8, article by Senda)
In eight cases, the article initial paragraph does not contain a headline-topic
paraphrase or topic-related content. Rather, these paragraphs recount personal
experiences which are later connected to the main topic. For example, the
following paragraph opens the article titled Doku no Heiten Jikanhoo: Toogoo de
Yureru Kuni no Kosei ‘(New) Regulation for the Store (Closing) Hours in Germany: Characteristic Being Threatened by (European) Common Market’.
(13) Kotoshi, gantan kara mise o aketa oogata suupaa
ga
this.year January.1 from store O open large supermarket S
atta.
Fukyooka
dake ni, senden kooka to
there.was slow.economy only in publicity effect and
uriagezoo
o neratta kisaku
datta no daroo ga,
increased.sales O aim
unexpected.strategy be nom be
but
kuridasareta
juugyooin ga kinodokuni omoeta.
were.called.for.work employee S sorry
thought
‘A huge supermarket opened on New Year’s Day this year. Because of
the current slow economy, this probably was an unexpected strategy for
aiming the publicity effect and increased sales, but I felt sorry for the
employees who were forced to work (on an important national holiday).’ (Jan. 10, article by Yukiyama)
The article then discusses the store hours in Germany, an issue not mentioned in
this initial paragraph. The writer shares with the reader his personal experience/observation. Starting the newspaper article with the writer’s personal
experience often adds to its authenticity. Sharing a personal experience also
appeals to the reader on a personal level, enhancing the sense of intimacy. This
strategy also fits into the ki segment of the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu principle in that it
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
starts the text by introducing (the prefacing of) the general topic. I should also
add here that four articles explicitly mentioned the issue raised by the writer,
which led to the main topic.
The observation made above provides evidence to conclude that most often
Mini-Jihyoo articles start with an explicit topic presentation. When the topic is not
explicitly stated, the initial paragraph offers a prelude to it, or a comment on the
personal experience leading up to the topic. Notably, in all cases the initial
paragraph does not offer a general summary nor a conclusive comment. This
contrasts sharply with the rhetorical style in English. Most likely deductive in
organization, the text initial paragraph in English is expected to contain the topic
sentence which specifies more than an introduction or a preliminary description
of the topic.
Now I focus on the issue of the conclusive comment. First, I examine the
location of the statement that paraphrases the headline-comment. Second, I
explore the presentation of conclusive comment (not necessarily a paraphrase of
the headline-comment) by concentrating on how the article ends, specifically, by
examining the occurrence of CS.
All Mini-Jihyoo articles contain headline-comment paraphrases, most typically
in the manner shown in (14). (14) appears in the last paragraph of Mini-Jihyoo
whose headline is: Hayaru ‘‘Henshin Maiko’’: Dentoo to no Kyoozon ga Kadai ni
‘Popular ‘‘Transformation Maiko’’: Coexistence with Tradition Is the Dilemma’.
(14) ‘‘Dentoo tono kyoozon’’ wa, koto
ni ikiru hitobito no
tradition with coexistence T ancient.city in live people LK
kadai
dearu.
consistent.problem be
‘‘‘Coexistence with tradition’’ is a consistent problem for people living
in the ancient city.’ (February 2, article by Hida)
The headline-comment paraphrase occasionally appears early on in the text; one
such example is (15), titled Nisen’yo-nen Gorin: Rikkooho Toshi wa Shinkiroku ‘The
Olympic Games of the year 2004: The Record High Candidates of Cities’. In this
article, the headline paraphrase appears in the first paragraph.
(15) Nisen’yonen
kaki
gorin
no kaisai ni Atene ya
year.two.thousand.four summer olympics lk opening in Athens and
Rooma Keeputaun (Nan’a)
nado
juuichi toshi ga
Rome Cape.Town South.Africa and.so.on eleven city S
rikkoohoshita.
became.candidate
‘For the summer Olympic Games of the year 2004, eleven cities came
forward as candidates including Athens, Rome and Cape Town (South
Africa).’ (January 29, article by Daikoo)
Linguistic Emotivity
I must point out that the kind of information the headline-comment offers in this
article differs from that of many other articles. The phrase rikkooho toshi wa
shinkiroku ‘the record high candidates of cities’ simply describes the event. In fact
the writer’s conclusive comment appears in the last paragraph where he makes a
point that the International Olympics Committee members demand special favors
in return for their recommendation of certain cities. In short, the headlinecomment presented in (15) offers not the writer’s conclusive comment related to
the headline-topic but additional information related to the headline-topic. It
makes sense, then, for this article to contain the headline-comment (along with
the headline-topic) in the early part of the text, since both offer information
associated with the article topic. The data contain eight cases where a similar
sequencing appears.
It is important to note that not all Mini-Jihyoo articles aim to persuade the
reader of the writer’s opinion or position. In some cases, offering additional
information is the primary objective, although the writer’s view may be implicitly
presented. As Hinds (1990) argues, in many of the Japanese writings, the task of
the writer is not necessarily to argue, convince, or persuade the reader. Rather, the
task is to encourage the reader, by providing a number of observations and
perspectives, to contemplate on an issue or issues that might not have been
previously considered. The reader is expected to draw his or her own conclusions
based on what the article reveals. Some of the Mini-Jihyoo articles are good
examples of this rhetorical movement, a feature identified as a part of the Rhetoric
of Pathos.
For example, in a January 29 article by Daikoo cited in (15), the writer
concludes the article by stating Gyooshoonin dokoro dewa-nai yoo desu yo ‘I say
that they appear to be much more than traveling salesmen’. The writer uses the
last sentence as if talking to Princess Ann of England, a member of the International Olympic Committee, in response to her earlier claim that the IOC members
are not traveling salesmen. The writer’s view is implicitly expressed; clearly he is
criticizing the IOC members who demand favoritism.
Now, it should be noted that in some articles, the headline-comment paraphrase appears more than once. For example, paraphrases appear in the sixth and
seventh paragraph of Juu Sakokurei Ninenme: ‘‘No’’ no Kimochi Minna de ‘The
Second Year of No-Import-Order of Guns: Let All of Us Say ‘‘No’’’.
(16) (. . .) nichijoo seikatsu no nakade ‘‘juu wa ira-nai’’ koto o
daily
life
lk in
gun T need-neg nom O
toiteikitai
mono da.
want.to.persuade nom be
‘I would like to persuade people that we don’t need guns in our daily
lives.’
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
(17) (. . .) hitorihitori ga sakendeikoo. ‘‘Seikatsusuru no ni juu wa
each.one.of.us S proclaim
live
nom for gun T
ira-nai’’ to.
need-neg qt
‘Let each of us proclaim, ‘‘We don’t need guns to live our lives.’’’ (January 12, article by Kasuya)
In order to find out the overall structural preference (of topic followed by
conclusive comment) across articles, I examined the 69 articles as follows. First, I
identified the headline-comment paraphrase in 69 articles, and then assigned the
earliest-occurring paraphrase with the corresponding paragraph number (ranked
from first to last) in which it appeared. The paragraph number then was converted into a percentage figure which reflected the distance from the discourseinitial position. For example, in Kasuya’s article given in (16) and (17), the
headline paraphrase figure is 85.71% (occurring in paragraph 6 out of a total 7
paragraphs).
The average of this percentage figure for 69 articles turns out to be 81.25%.
This means that only after reading approximately four-fifth of the article text, can
the reader expect to find an explicit statement of the writer’s conclusive comment.
Recall the eight cases mentioned above where the article contains the headlinecomment paraphrase earlier on in the discourse. Since the writer’s view is expressed
elsewhere later in the article as well, if these eight cases are excluded from our
tabulation, the result is 87.44%. This figure supports the results of previous studies
reviewed earlier, i.e., Japanese text tends to delay explicit textual conclusions.
It may be pointed out that identifying headline-comment paraphrases does
not fully account for where the conclusive comment appears in Mini-Jihyoo
articles (one case of which was discussed earlier regarding [15]). Perhaps the
conclusive comment needs to be investigated further. With this in mind, I
examined how Mini-Jihyoo articles end. First, I checked if the conclusive comment
appeared at all in each of the article. Second, I examined the form the conclusive
comment were in, especially in terms of the CS. Of 69 articles, 59 article-final
paragraphs contained the writer’s conclusive comment (corresponding to the
topic). In the ten remaining articles, the final paragraph contained post-conclusive
supplementary information and commentary. While this information is associated
with the topic, it merely adds tangential information associated with the conclusive comment appearing earlier on in the text.
Of the 59 conclusive comments appearing in the article-final paragraphs, 45
are in the CS form (i.e., 76.27%). Concentrating on the very final sentence of the
final paragraph, of the 59 paragraphs, 46 end with the sentence conveying the
conclusive comment. Of the 46 article-final sentences of conclusive comment, 40
appear in the CS form (i.e., 86.96%).
Linguistic Emotivity
The observation made above illustrates that in an overwhelming number of
cases, Mini-Jihyoo’s conclusive comment appears toward the end of the text. Or,
more accurately, the conclusive comment appears mostly in the article-final
paragraph, and even when it appears earlier, the final paragraph offers information supplementary to the conclusive comment. The conclusive comment appears
not only within the final paragraph, but frequently in the article-final position,
i.e., 45 cases (66.67%) out of 69 articles. Coupled with the observation made
earlier about the conclusive comment in terms of the headline-comment paraphrase, I conclude that the conclusive comment in Mini-Jihyoo articles sequentially appears toward the end of the article.
The conclusive comment is also linguistically associated with the CS form
more frequently than not. 76.27% of all conclusive comment sentences and
86.96% of all article-final conclusive comment sentences take the CS form. Given
that CSs express various aspects of linguistic emotivity, it seems natural to find
this close association between the conclusive comment and the choice of the
linguistic form. Seen from the perspective of the force of the topic–comment
dynamic in Japanese, not only the sequencing but also the nature of the conclusive
comment observed here make sense. The article as a whole provides a space where
the topic–comment dynamic is enacted on multiple levels of the Japanese text.
.
Sequencing of commentary sentences within danraku
Given that the conclusive comment is located well into the text, I now examine
Mini-Jihyoo articles in terms of the sequencing of CSs in relation to the paragraph.
Each Mini-Jihyoo article is divided into segments normally called danraku in
Japanese discourse studies. Although danraku is most frequently used as a
translation of the English rhetorical unit of ‘‘paragraph’’, danraku is distinct from
the English paragraph, and therefore, a brief explanation is necessary.
As I reviewed in Maynard (1996b), the English paragraph is expected to
contain a topic sentence. According to Bain (1886: 142), whose study is known to
have introduced the concept of paragraph into Japan, the defining quality of the
paragraph is its unity ‘‘which implies a definite purpose, and forbids digression
and irrelevant matter’’ (1886: 151). Bain prescribes that in English, excluding the
initial introductory paragraph(s), the paragraph initial sentence is expected to
specify a paragraph topic, insisting that ‘‘(T)he opening sentence, unless so
constructed as to be obviously preparatory, is expected to indicate with prominence the subject of the paragraph’’ (1886: 150). In concrete terms, the paragraphinitial sentence, namely, the topic sentence, is expected to contain not only the
topic itself but also the writer’s position and to provide a clue for comprehending
the entire paragraph. Although this does not occur in all cases in real-life English
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
discourse, English paragraphs possess relatively well defined semantic consistency.
Characteristics of the English paragraph advocated by Bain (1886) seem to
sustain in contemporary American rhetoric as well. For example, Christensen
(1965) points out that the top sentence within a paragraph is the topic sentence
and ‘‘the topic sentence is nearly always the first sentence of the sequence’’
(1965: 146). From the reader’s perspective, Omaggio (1986) also maintains that in
English ‘‘the main idea is often the first sentence in the paragraph’’ (1986: 163)
and the reader can expect to locate the key ideas in the paragraph-initial segment.
It should be noted that the topic sentence in English foregrounds the propositional content, although such is not the case in Japanese. Consequently, although
the topic–comment dynamic also operates in English text, it differs qualitatively.
In Japanese, the topic–comment dynamic is supported by a general relationship
between the topic frame and personal commentary, and the propositional
structure is not prioritized. I should also mention that although in Japanese
language education the idea of topic sentence (as conceived in English) is advocated (e.g., Ishimori, et al. 1985), in practice this recommendation is not rigorously followed.
The Japanese concept of danraku remains less clear, and one finds danraku only
in its form (i.e., keishiki danraku), as well as the danraku as a semantic unit (i.e., imi
danraku) similar to the English paragraph. The danraku appearing in Mini-Jihyoo
articles are usually short and most are keishiki danraku, frequently lacking topic
sentences and semantic completeness. The average number of sentences per
danraku in Mini-Jihyoo articles is merely 2.78 (1,170 sentences in 421 danraku).
Since CSs reveal the writer’s personal view in direct discourse, they are less
likely to occur as a topic on the text level. Of the total 167 sentences appearing in
the article initial danraku, only 13 (7.78%) are CSs. The article final danraku, on
the other hand, are likely to contain CSs because they are expected to offer the
writer’s message. Of the total 200 sentences appearing in the final danraku of 69
articles, as many as 85 sentences (42.50%) turn out to be characterized as CSs.
The distributional discrepancy observed here corresponds to the sequencing of the
headline-topic and the headline-comment. Just as the headline-internal structure
follows the topic–comment dynamic, the entire article tends to follow the topic–
comment sequencing. Mini-jihyoo articles offer significantly more OSs in the
initial danraku, and more CSs in the final danraku.
The examination of the danraku-internal sequencing of CSs and OSs adds
further evidence to the preference toward the open-endedness associated with
ki-shoo-ten-ketsu, i.e., the comment-last sequencing. To identify the overall
danraku-internal sequencing of CSs, for each danraku the first-occurring combination of OS and CS (either order) was noted and the ordering label assigned.
Those danraku not containing at least one OS and CS (such as danraku consisting of commentary only, or danraku totally created by quotation) were excluded.
Linguistic Emotivity
The total number of danraku in our data was 421, out of which 142 danraku
contained at least one CS and one OS. The result of frequencies shows significant preference toward the direction of OS-to-CS sequencing within danraku.
OS-to-CS was observed 98 times (69.01%), while CS-to-OS occurred 44 times
(30.99%). This illustrates that, within danraku, the sequencing of OS followed by
CS occurs 2.23 times more than the reverse order.
To identify the location within the danraku the CSs are likely to appear, I
tabulated the frequency of CSs at the danraku-initial and danraku-final positions.
CSs appear at the danraku-initial position 38 times, while their occurrence at the
danraku-final position turns out to be 123. CSs appear 3.24 times more frequently
at the danraku-final position than at the danraku-initial position.
In light of the preference toward the topic-sentence-first sequencing found in
English, Mini-Jihyoo articles show a significant contrast. Admittedly, as mentioned
earlier, Japanese danraku is often a formal unit rather than a semantic one and is
often shorter than the English paragraph, and therefore, it can be argued that a
true comparison cannot be made. However, at least in text units of danraku versus
paragraph, the distribution of topic or initial sentence shows significant difference,
once again supporting the conclusion-last sequencing of the Rhetoric of Pathos.
While in the English paragraph, the topic sentence mentions the conclusion (e.g.,
generalization, the purpose of the paragraph, the writer’s opinion and evaluation,
and so on) in the paragraph initial position, in Japanese, the topic (not the topic
sentence) presents the framework to which the following statement (within that
danraku and elsewhere) is linked. And herein lies the most significant rhetorical
difference between the English paragraph and the Japanese danraku.
. Reflections: Textual pathos
This chapter has revealed rhetorical sequencing in terms of the topic–comment
dynamic by using the concept of commentary sentences in Japanese newspaper
articles. Similarly, in my earlier study (Maynard 1996b), I examined 38 newspaper
columns called Column, My View also taken from Asahi Shimbun. Although
Column, My View is twice as long with approximate character spaces being 1,450,
a similar rhetorical sequencing was observed. The conclusive comment appeared
86.73% into the text; the overall OS-to-CS sequencing in danraku was 81.5%
versus the CS-to-OS being 18.49%. Obviously, empirical studies on rhetorical
preference in other genres of Japanese text are necessary before making a general
conclusion. Needless to say, certain discourse types in Japanese (e.g., scientific
articles, some scholarly papers, legal documents, procedural manuals) are known
to follow logical sequencing more closely. Empirical studies across genres are
expected to reveal overall rhetorical preference in Japanese. However, it seems
Rhetoric of Pathos in Mini-Jihyoo newspaper articles
reasonable to generalize that newspaper articles in Japanese shorter than, say,
1,500 character spaces, share a similar rhetorical style.
Beyond the relative prominence of the topic–comment dynamic in the
Japanese text examined, the force that pushes the Japanese language toward the
OS-to-CS sequencing is evident in many of the syntactic features that add to the
conclusion-last, and consequently, bottom-heavy organization. For example,
Japanese is a verb-final language which is predicated at the sentence-final
position. The sentence-final verbal expressions are then followed by various
modality expressions, adding even further to the significance of the sentence-final
position. Even in a complex sentence the sentence-final location is where the
main commentary information is provided. For example, in (6), we saw an
example in which to omou ‘think that’ appears as a sentence-final commentary
strategy. Nominal predicates further enhance this bottom-heavy pattern. No da
in (4) is a good example of this structure.
As if corresponding to the syntactic features pointed out above, on the danraku
level, just as the topic precedes comment, OSs frequently precede CSs. Likewise,
within a larger unit of the entire article/column, OSs appear in the beginning of the
text while CSs tend to appear toward the end. The conclusive comment, in terms of
headline-comment paraphrases, also appear toward the end of the text.
The preferred order of sequencing coincides on the level of sentence, headline,
danraku, and even the entire text of the newspaper article/column. The strategic
combination of parallel phenomena on multiple levels exerts structural force and
contributes to the Rhetoric of Pathos. The topic–comment dynamic reflected in
quasi-inductive, ki-shoo-ten-ketsu, and general-conclusion-last rhetorical movements avoid the prioritization of the propositional structure, and, as a result,
offers opportunities for adding personal comments. These personal comments,
although they do not directly describe feelings in words, often express the writer’s
emotivity to be shared by the reader. It is as if the topic of Mini-Jihyoo article were
presented as the target of futaku about which the comment is followed. In this
way, the entire article aims for the futaku-based shared perspectives. In MiniJihyoo articles which exemplify a written text, the topic–comment dynamic plays
a significant role. Such text communicates information, but more significantly, is
organized to express textual emotivity. What is discussed in this chapter provides
additional evidence for the Japanese preference toward the Rhetoric of Pathos.
Chapter 16
Playing with pathos
Presentation and negotiation of selves
in Long Vacation
.
Introduction: Emotivity and aspects of self
This chapter focuses on how linguistic emotivity is associated with the presentation of various aspects of self. The investigation to follow broadens the scope to
sociocultural aspects of the Japanese language, in association with the cultural
pathos, in particular. The two linguistic strategies are examined; (1) stylistic choice
and shift, and (2) vocatives and reference forms. Emotive meanings of these
strategies are discussed separately in earlier chapters, stylistic shifts in Chapter 13
and vocatives in Chapter 7. However, I have not discussed fully how these
strategies are indexically linked to different aspects of selves. In this chapter I
apply the results of earlier chapters to understand the relationship between the
presentation/identification of selves and expressions of pathos in the television
drama series, Long Vacation. (See Appendix for a brief description of the story.)
Aspects of self to be considered in this chapter are, in addition to the
〈interactional selfƒ〉, ‘‘gendered self ’’ and ‘‘playful self.’’ Participants in interaction
foreground different aspects of self for various reasons, and those aspects are
negotiated in the 〈interactional place〉. At the same time, different aspects of self
are negotiated on the individual level as well. For personal and interpersonal
reasons, we present different aspects of our selves, sometimes as a result of reconciliation among competing desires, and at other times for the purpose of foregrounding contradictory images of our selves.
As for the kind of selves associated with gender, four categories are relevant to
the present discussion; (1) girlish self, (2) boyish self, (3) womanly self, and (4)
manly self. Girlishness refers to the cute, often helplessly protection-seeking, but
optimistically easy-going tendency, typically associated with adolescent girls.
Girlish self, however, as in all other gendered selves, is distinct from the biological
condition of the speaker; it can be associated with adult females, or males as well,
for that matter. Boyish self refers to care-free, bold, frank and outgoing characteristics often (but not necessarily) associated with adolescent boys. Womanly self
and manly self refer to characteristics typically associated with adult females and
Linguistic Emotivity
males. Womanly self is portrayed with polite, caring, and pleasant femininity, and
manly self is associated with direct manner and bold character, accompanied with
leadership, responsibility, and decisiveness.
Earlier in Chapter 3, we discussed the socially-bound 〈interactional selfƒ〉.
Socially-bound interactional self is foregrounded when the relative hierarchical
positioning of social status (primarily age, with higher status assigned to an older
person) becomes significant. In this chapter I discuss two kinds of interactional
selves, ‘‘subordinate’’ and ‘‘equal’’ selves. By the ‘‘subordinate self ’’ I mean the self
identified as being subordinate to the partner, often marked by speech style
expressing politeness and deference. The ‘‘equal self ’’ is the 〈interactional selfƒ〉
identifying the partner on an equal status, resulting in and supported by, among
others, a reciprocal speech style.
Obviously, gendered selves and interactional selves are not entirely distinct.
They constitute not only complementary aspects of selves, but also overlap, and
sometimes contradict among themselves. One must also recognize that the
presentation and identification of selves are achieved by a range of linguistic and
other expressive strategies, and therefore, the discussion to follow tackles only
limited aspects of the issue. It is possible, however, to distinguish those situations
where gendered selves are foregrounded from those situations where sociallybased interactional selves are prioritized. In what follows when I use the term
‘‘gendered’’ and ‘‘interactional’’ selves and specific selves (girlish, boyish, womanly, manly, subordinate, and equal), these terms are not meant to be exclusive; I
only mean that these aspects are more prominently foregrounded in comparison
to others. Each plays a part in the realization of self-identification.
In addition to the gendered and interactional selves, I discuss another dimension of self, i.e., the presentation of ‘‘playful self.’’ A speaker may use different styles
creatively to manipulate and juxtapose different dimensions of place. Through this
process the speaker playfully assumes different personalities associated with different genres, role-playing, and so on.
.
Gendered selves and interactional selves in Long Vacation
In Long Vacation, Minami is involved in two relationships. One is the love/
respect-leading-to-marriage-proposal relationship with Sugisaki, a photographer
who is a few years her senior. In this relationship, Minami presents her girlish and
womanly selves. Minami behaves as a 31-year-old woman is expected to behave
toward a man who is senior to her. In most situations Minami presents a womanly self. However, the self that Minami reveals to Sugisaki carries with it an
undeniable sense of girlishness (to be discussed later). Sugisaki, in response,
Playing with pathos
consistently presents a mature manly self, which complements Minami’s girlish
and womanly selves.
The other (and ultimately more serious) relationship is the friendshipturning-into-romantic-love with Sena, a pianist-to-be, 7 years younger than
Minami. Until the very end of the drama, Minami maintains a boyish self, deemphasizing feminine qualities. Minami and Sena initially consider themselves
primarily as co-habitants of the same apartment unit, whose relationship gradually
turns into friendship. The growing friendship is sustained until episode 10 in
which Minami and Sena spend a night together. But it is only at the drama’s
conclusion in the final (11th) episode that they recognize they are in love. Prior to
this turn of events, as a foreboding of the finale, Minami is portrayed as a person
shifting from a boyish friendly buddy to a womanly self who is seriously in love
with Sena. In response, Sena who, initially and through most of the drama
behaves as a subordinate self toward Minami, begins to show his manly self. In the
end Minami and Sena find themselves on a generally equal status within the social
hierarchy, with a clear sense of gender awareness.
Sena’s shift from subordinate self to manly self contrasts with another
relationship in which he is involved. Sena is secretly in love with Ryooko, a
sophomore at the university from which Sena recently graduated. Toward Ryooko, Sena primarily presents a manly self, to which Ryooko responds with
subordinate (but not girlish/womanly) self.
Minami also assumes different selves depending on partners. She moves from
boyish to womanly selves toward Sena, but maintains girlish and womanly selves
toward Sugisaki throughout. Minami also presents her playful self to Sena,
expressing her friendly and fun-loving personality. Sena presents subordinate and
manly selves toward different people, as well. In Long Vacation, gendered,
interactional, and playful selves are presented in multiple and complex ways. I
should add that it is possible to consider situations where speakers choose
relatively neutral self-images, de-emphasizing gender and social hierarchy.
Different aspects of selves discussed above are significant to our current
concern because stylistic choice/shift and vocatives contribute, in part, to the
realization of just such multiple aspects of the self. Language and self-identity are
inseparable; one’s self is constantly presented and negotiated by way of language
in the 〈interactional place〉. Choosing certain linguistic strategies reveals the kind
of self one wishes to present. That is to say, language indexically signals a self
which has been purposefully selected. Aspects of self are part and parcel of
language and its use, and at the same time, the use of language undergoes negotiation of selves in different dimensions of place. Through this reciprocal process
realized among participants, multiple senses of selves are presented, negotiated,
experienced, and shared.
Linguistic Emotivity
.
Stylistic choice and Minami’s gendered selves
. Background
In previous studies, style has often been partially attributed to gender, say, the
desu/masu style to women’s speech. For example, Suzuki (1993) summarizes that
the essence of feminine speech is the considerateness the speaker shows through
the speaker’s politeness speech. Because the desu/masu style indexes politeness, it
has been associated with femininity. Politeness has also been identified as women’s
expressive strategy that beautifies them (Ide 1989; Suzuki 1993). A woman who
uses polite language is likely to be thought of as educated, elegant, and even
beautiful. Given this social value, certain uses of the da style are known to mark
the user (especially a female user) with negative values such as being crude,
impolite, non-feminine, and so on.
Studies on language and gender in dramatic discourse have witnessed a
frequent use of the da style by female characters. Takasaki (1996) discusses
Minami’s language in Long Vacation, and points out that Minami’s use of both
men’s and women’s speech affords her rich expressive possibilities. Likewise,
Endoo (1997) reports on varied styles used by a female character in an NHK
(Japanese public broadcasting) television drama. In this drama, Reiko, a female
dentist, frequently uses men’s speech, and actually this manly speech style has
been one of the reasons for the drama’s popularity. However, as Endoo reports,
Reiko mixes varied styles depending on the context and the person she is addressing, illustrating the versatility a female speaker enjoys in the selection of speech
styles.
The use of men’s speech by females is interesting when viewed from the
concept of gender switch. As reported in Reynolds (1997), it is known that the use
of boku (male self-referencing term) by junior high school girls has become
common in Tokyo, and in fact ‘‘the use of boku-language has been escalated to a
larger area and to older groups of speakers’’ (1997: 306). A female speaker’s
selection of boyish self realized by often blunt da style is a case of the speechgender switch that female speakers may engage in. Female speakers are in a sense
bilinguals who have both boyish/manly and girlish/womanly speech styles at their
disposal, although male speakers are more restricted in the use of the feminine
speech style.
Endoo’s (2000) study on another television drama, Beautiful Life (TBS, 2000),
reports that the traditional image of woman’s speech is vanishing, and the
differences between woman’s and men’s speech styles are diminishing. In fact, in
Beautiful Life, female characters are often more aggressive than male characters,
and they routinely use speech styles traditionally associated with male speakers.1
It is true that these changes are received positively by viewers, and the gender-
Playing with pathos
based language choice is on the decline. However, this does not mean that
woman’s speech has lost its function. On the contrary, feminine speech has
become more meaningful in that it carries with it the speaker’s conscious decision
on the gender identity. By using womanly speech a woman conveys her identity
with her gender and feminine feelings. In what follows, we observe how Minami
in Long Vacation manipulates her speech styles, and along with her choices of
style, we note how she presents her (images of) gendered selves.
. Choosing between a friend and more-than-a-friend
As discussed earlier, stylistic choices offer expressivity of pathos since they are
indexically linked to the speaker’s emotive attitude toward the person addressed.
But that is not all. More fundamentally, stylistic choice reveals the kind of self one
identifies (or wishes to identity) with. In Long Vacation, Minami chooses
desu/masu versus da on the basis of how she wishes to present herself in a particular situation and toward a particular partner. Viewed from the other way around,
Minami presents different aspects of self depending on how she views her partner,
as a friend or as more-than-a-friend, for example.
Let me begin by contrasting the ways Minami presents herself toward Sena
and toward Sugisaki. The first situation depicts Minami in a pleading and
apologizing interaction, where Minami is placed in an interactionally weak
position. Examples (1) and (2) illustrate her behavior toward Sena and toward
Sugisaki, respectively. In (1) Minami meets Sena for the second time, and in this
instance she is trying to get permission to move into Sena’s apartment.
(1.1) Minami: A shokujichuu?
ah middle.of.a.meal
‘Oh, are you in the middle of a meal?’
(1.2) Sena:
Iya korekara na n
desu kedo.
no from.now be nom be but
‘No, I was going to, from now, but.’
(1.3) Minami: Gomennasai.
sorry
‘I’m sorry.’
(1.4) Sena:
Jaa.
then
‘Well, then.’
(1.5) Minami: Ja.
then
‘Then.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(1.6) Sena:
Nani su n
desu ka.
what do nom be q
‘What are you doing?’
(1.7) Minami: Onegai.
request
‘I have a request; I’m begging you.’
(1.8) Sena:
Nani ga.
what S
‘What is it that you are talking about?’
(1.9) Minami: Isshoo no onegai.
lifetime lk request
‘Please, I’m begging you, making a once-in-a-lifetime request.’
(1.10) Sena:
Dakara nani ga tte kiite n
desu yo.
so
what S qt ask nom be ip
‘So I’m asking you what.’
(1.11) Minami: Hikkoshitekite ii?
move.in
all.right
‘Is moving in OK?’
(1.12) Sena:
Dare ga?
who S
‘Who is moving in?’
(1.13) Minami: Atashi ga.
I
S
‘I am.’
(1.14) Sena:
Doko ni?
where to
‘Where to?’
(1.15) Minami: Koko ni.
here to
‘Here.’
(1.16) Sena:
Nande?
why
‘Why?’
Playing with pathos
(1.17) Minami: Nande, ima nande tte itta?
why
now why qt said
‘Did you say why?’
(1.18)
Zettai nande tte itta yo ne.
surely why qt said ip ip
‘Surely you said why, didn’t you?’
(1.19)
Jijoo
o kiku
ki ga aru
tte koto da yo ne.
situations O listen.to will S there.is qt fact be ip ip
‘That means you will listen to the explanation of my situations, right?’
(1.20)
Dame da ja-nakute nande tte itta yo ne.
no.way be be-neg why qt said ip ip
‘You said not no way but why, right?’
(1.21) Sena:
Nani itte n
desu ka anata.
what say nom be Q you
‘What are you talking about?’
(Long Vacation, episode 1)
In (1), although Minami is making a desperate plea to Sena, at all locations where
verbal and adjectival predicates appear, she chooses the da style in (1.11), (1.17),
(1.18), (1.19), and (1.20). The only desu/masu style uttered by Minami appears in
(1.3), a formulaic apology strategy (rather than gomen in the da-style). In contrast,
Sena maintains the desu/masu style in all verbal endings in (1.2), (1.6), (1.10), and
(1.21). Here Minami presents a boyish self, a persona somewhat carefree and
imposing. Minami certainly does not present a helpless girlish self.
Minami, realizing that Sena is only 24 years old (earlier Minami specifically
asked Sena his age), chooses the style ordinarily used toward a boy or a male
friend who is equal or junior to her. This speech style is identical to the one an
equal or senior male speaker usually chooses toward male (as well as female)
speakers. A female speaker who wishes to express gendered feminine self under
similar circumstances is expected to use the desu/masu style, or a mixture of da
and desu/masu (but primarily desu/masu). By choosing da, Minami leans toward
the boy/male identification. In turn, Sena’s desu/masu style affirms Minami’s
seniority, and as symbolized by this nonreciprocal stylistic choice, Minami
successfully negotiates her identity as such. The da style, the stylistic choice to
which Minami commits herself, bears little feminine politeness and indirectness.
Minami, in part, through the speech style she chooses, identifies her not as a girl
and a possible target of Sena’s potential romantic love, but as a boyish self, who
demands respect from another boy as a friend, partly based on her (perhaps I
should say ‘‘his’’) seniority.
Linguistic Emotivity
Contrast Minami’s encounter with Sena in (1) with her encounter with
Sugisaki in (2). In (2) Minami runs into Sugisaki for the second time. Earlier in
the initial encounter, Minami bumped into Sugisaki, causing him to drop his
camera on the floor.
(2.1) Sugisaki: Koitsu nee faindaa ni hibi haitchatte.
this ip finder in crack entered
‘This (camera), the finder got cracked.’
(2.2)
Soreni moo zuibun furui kara.
besides already very old since
‘Besides, this has gotten real old.’
(2.3) Minami: Doomo sumimasen.
very
sorry
‘I’m really sorry.’
(2.4)
Watashi, benshooshimasu
kara.
I
pay.for.the.replacement since
‘I’ll pay for the replacement.’
(2.5) Sugisaki: Iya, ii
n
desu yo.
no all.right nom be ip
‘No, it’s OK.’
(2.6)
Yasumon desu kara.
cheap.stuff be since
‘This is a cheap one, so.’
(2.7) Minami: Sonna wakeniikanai desu yo.
such cannot.do be ip
‘Such can’t be the solution.’
(2.8) Sugisaki: Soreni nee okane ni wa kaetaku-nai
n
da.
besides ip money to T want.to.replace-neg nom be
‘Besides, I don’t want to replace it monetarily.’ (Long Vacation, episode 5)
Minami maintains the desu/masu style in (2.3), (2.4) and (2.7). The style Minami
chooses toward Sugisaki is the style socially expected of a woman in such an
encounter. Minami successfully presents a polite womanly self, not denying the
possibility that Sugisaki may become someone more than just a friend (who
eventually makes a marriage proposal to Minami). Sugisaki mixes his style in (2),
using both da in (2.1), (2.2), and (2.8), and desu/masu in (2.5) and (2.6). Sugisaki shows manly and polite friendliness by using the mixed style, while Minami
Playing with pathos
maintains desu/masu. These stylistic choices support the complimentary
gendered selves.
The difference in stylistic choice toward Sena versus toward Sugisaki is
observed when Minami is in a situation where she takes an assertive position as
well. Observe (3) and (4) where such difference is revealed in Minami’s behavior
toward Sena versus toward Sugisaki. (3) takes place when Minami and Sena go to
a supermarket to pick up things needed for a barbecue planned for that evening.
Here Minami is in charge, and is responsible for the purchase of all the necessities
for the occasion.
(3.1) Sena:
Niku bakkari ja-nai desu ka.
meat only
be-neg be q
‘Only meat you are picking up.’
(3.2)
Yasai
wa?
vegetable T
‘How about vegetables?’
(3.3) Minami: Yasai
wa nee, Shinji ga, mise kara mottekuru tte
vegetable T ip Shinji S shop from bring
qt
ta kedo, ateninan-nai na.
said but depend.on-neg ip
‘Shinji said he will bring vegetables from his shop, but he
can’t be depended upon.’
(3.4)
Katchaoo.
buy
‘I’m going to buy them anyway.’
(3.5)
Nattoo. Chookotsubu
nattoo.
nattoo extra-small-bean nattoo
‘Nattoo. The extra-small-bean nattoo.’
(3.6) Sena:
Nattoo tte nan ni tsukau n
desu ka.
nattoo qt what for use
nom be q
‘Nattoo, what do you use that for?’
(3.7) Minami: Yaku n
da yo.
grill nom be ip
‘We’ll grill them.’
(3.8) Sena:
Hai?
huh
‘Huh?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(3.9) Minami: Yaku no.
grill ip
‘We’ll grill them.’
(3.10) Sena:
Nattoo wa yaka-nai desho.
nattoo T grill-neg be
‘Nattoo, you don’t grill them.’
(3.11) Minami: Yaku yo.
grill ip
‘We do.’
(3.12) Sena:
Yaka-nai desu yo.
grill-neg be ip
‘No, you don’t grill them.’
(3.13) Minami: Beekon toisshoni yaitara oishii.
bacon with
if.grill good
‘If you grill them with bacon, they are good.’
(3.14) Sena:
Sore Gifu dake desu yo.
that Gifu only be ip
‘That’s done only in Gifu.’
(3.15) Minami: Uso da.
lie be
‘That’s not true.’
(3.16)
Zenkokumin
yaku nee.
all.Japanese.people grill ip
‘People all over Japan grill them.’ (Long Vacation, episode 8)
Note that Minami chooses the da style for all verbal/adjectival predicates in (3.3),
(3.4), (3.7), (3.9), (3.11), (3.13), (3.15), and (3.16). Minami maintains her
identity as a person senior to Sena, continuing on with her boyish self. In the
context of (3), Minami’s leadership role enhances her senior position as well.
The da style allows her to present a self without the kind of femininity that
desu/masu may indexically signal. In response to Minami’s self-identity, Sena
presents himself as someone subordinate to Minami, and chooses the desu/masu
style consistently in (3.1), (3.6), (3.10), (3.12), and (3.14). In this manner, the
hierarchical relationship is maintained between the two. Minami communicates
her leader-like character through stylistic choice and continues to disassociate
her identity from a girlish self. Here Minami is bordering on the presentation of
a manly self; she shows traditionally manly traits such as assertiveness and
decisiveness.
Playing with pathos
In contrast, when Minami insists on her position toward Sugisaki, she does so
more hesitantly (which is understood to be more feminine) and the desu/masu
style appears as shown in (4). Having gone to see a movie, Minami and Sugisaki
have just come out of the movie theater.
(4.1) Minami: Iya
waratchaimashita ne.
you.know laughed
ip
‘You know, I was laughing.’
(4.2) Sugisaki: A?
uh
‘Huh?’
(4.3) Minami: Biriaado no shiai de, Maikeru ga Pooru no hoo
billiard lk match at Michael S Paul lk direction
miru tokoro.
see situation
‘The situation where Michael looks toward Paul in the billiard match.’
(4.4) Sugisaki: Atta
kke na.
there.was ip ip
‘Was there such a scene?’
(4.5) Minami: Hora atta
ja-nai desu ka.
see there.was be-neg be q
‘There was such a scene, wasn’t there?’
(4.6)
Maikeru ga Pooru no hoo
miru to
ne Pooru ga
Michael S Paul lk direction see when ip Paul S
ne kooyuu sain o okutte n
desu yo. Kooyuu.
ip like.this sign O send nom be ip like.this
‘When Michael looks toward Paul, Paul is sending this sign.
Like this.’
(4.7)
Datte fudan shibuku kimeteru Pooru na noni,
’cause usually seriously behave Paul be despite
antoki konna n
desu yo konna.
that.time like.this nom be ip like.this
‘You know, Paul, a cool guy who behaves seriously ordinarily, at that time, went like this, like this.’
(4.8)
A, taishita shiin ja-nakatta desu kara ne.
ah important scene be-neg be since ip
‘Oh, that wasn’t an important scene, so.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(4.9) Sugisaki: Tokorode sa, dokode meshi kuoo.
by.the.way ip where meal eat
‘By the way where should we eat?’ (Long Vacation, episode 6)
Minami consistently chooses desu/masu style in (4.1), (4.5), (4.6), (4.7), and (4.8),
in contrast to Sugisaki who responds with da style in (4.4), and (4.9). The
relationship between Minami and Sugisaki increasingly becomes gendered, both
being gradually more aware of self- and other-identification of womanly and
manly selves.
As evidenced in the four examples discussed above, Minami behaves differently by foregrounding gender identification in different ways and degrees. The
continued use of the da style toward Sena indexically presents a boyish self, and it
communicates her recognition of Sena as a friend. Meanwhile, the maintained
desu/masu style toward Sugisaki affirms and reaffirms Minami’s presentation of
girlish and womanly selves, and her recognition of Sugisaki as being more-than-afriend. Indeed, Minami views her self as varied gendered selves, and is viewed by
partners likewise.
. Awareness of style and negotiation of feelings
So far I have focused on the ways in which characters in Long Vacation participate
in conversational interaction. But the close association between the stylistic choice
and the gender identity is revealed in the character’s metalinguistic comment on
speech styles as well. For example, (5) provides evidence that participants themselves are aware of the relationship between their stylistic choice and gender.
Minami and Sena, while shooting basketball together, engage in the following
conversation.
(5.1) Minami: A, Sena-kun kekkon deki-nai kamoshirenai ka.
ah Sena
marriage can-neg may
q
‘Ah, Sena, you may not be able to marry.’
(5.2)
Soshitara roojinhoomu ni tazunetetteageru yo.
then
nursing.home at visit
ip
‘Then, I will visit you at the nursing home.’
(5.3) Sena:
Ii
desu.
unnecessary be
‘No thank you.’
(5.4) Minami: Soshitara engawa de ochashiyoo ze.
then
veranda at have.tea
ip
‘Then, let’s have tea together on the veranda.’
Playing with pathos
(5.5) Sena:
Shiyoo ze?
do
ip
‘You mean ‘‘ze’’?’
(5.6) Minami: Ze!
IP
‘Yes, ‘‘ze.’’’
(5.7)
De // tatoeba,
moshi uchino danna ga, moo
and for.example if
my
husband S already
shinjattete sontoki inakunatchattetara, atashi, Sena-kun to
passed.away then if.no.longer.alive I
Sena
IO
saikonshiteagetemo ii
yo.
remarry
all.right ip
‘And, for example, if my husband had already passed away
and is no longer alive, then I will be willing to remarry you.’
(Long Vacation, episode 6)
In (5.5) Sena overtly calls attention to Minami’s use of the interactional particle
ze. As discussed by McGloin (1993), ze is indexically linked to masculine speech.
Minami’s initial use of ze sharply foregrounds her boyish self, and even when that
action is challenged by Sena, she repeats the masculine particle, asserting her
persona of a boyish self.
Of course, the examples discussed above represent a small sample of the entire
drama. To place this exchange in the larger context, I examined the occurrences of
stylistic choice in all dyadic conversations between Minami and Sena, and Minami
and Sugisaki. For statistical purposes, I focused on overt verbal and adjectival
main predicates, and excluded nominal expressions, interjections, fillers, independent adverbs, and so on. I included main predicates even when they are followed
by postposed phrases, however. Likewise, main predicates followed by connectives
are included, if they take a sentence-final intonation contour. The desu/masu style
includes, beyond the verbal/adjectival desu/masu forms, polite version of ritualistic
expressions, desho and deshoo, as well as su (as in soo su ka ‘is that so?’).
Table 1. Minami’s stylistic choice toward different partners
Desu/masu
(%)
Da
(%)
Toward Sena
Toward Sugisaki
125
112
(13.80)
(74.67)
781
38
(86.20)
(25.33)
Total
237
P2 = 273.99, p < .001 with (1d.f.)
819
Total
906
150
1,056
Linguistic Emotivity
Table 1 illustrates that Minami chooses different styles depending on to whom
she is speaking, and more significantly, depending on how she wishes to be
identified. The style Minami presents to Sugisaki is overwhelmingly desu/masu
(74.67%), whereas the desu/masu style presented to Sena is minimal (13.80%).
Although Minami’s overall gender identification changes toward the end of the
drama series, Minami’s different presentation of selves (boyish, girlish, and
womanly) largely remain constant depending on with whom she is interacting.
Given that identity is a negotiated process occurring in the 〈interactional
place〉, Minami’s choice of self-presentation requires support from her partner. In
this flexible and fluid process Minami plays with various presentations of her
gendered selves, as boyish, girlish, and womanly selves. In fact, Minami’s stylistic
choice differs toward Sena and Sugisaki as do Sena’s and Sugisaki’s stylistic choices
toward Minami. Table 2 shows that Minami’s partners respond to her various
roles in different styles.
Table 2. Sena’s and Sugisaki’s stylistic choice toward Minami
Desu/masu
(%)
Da
(%)
Total
Sena
Sugisaki
222
8
(34.63)
(4.60)
419
166
(65.37)
(95.40)
641
174
Total
230
585
815
2
P =56.64, p < .001 with (1d.f.)
Sena mixes style and chooses desu/masu about once in every three utterances
(more about this in Section 4). Sugisaki’s use of desu/masu toward Minami is
severely limited (4.60% only). This figure shows a sharp contrast with Minami’s
style; Minami chooses desu/masu toward Sena only 13.80% of the time (once in
every six to seven utterances). This nonreciprocal style enhances the gender-based
social hierarchy between Minami and Sugisaki. It should also be noted that
stylistic choices observed in Long Vacation indicate that, among these three
individuals, Sugisaki ranks highest in the social hierarchy, followed by Minami,
and then by Sena.
The fact that speech style indexes gender is sometimes revealed through an
overt mention in the interaction itself. For example, Minami, when excitedly
talking about Sugisaki to Sena, begins to behave a bit like a girl/woman. Although
Minami maintains the boyish self toward Sena, occasionally her womanly self
reveals itself. (6) depicts such a situation. Preceding (6), Minami cheerfully shows
the photograph her new boyfriend (Sugisaki) took of her. And pretending as if she
were surprised that such a photograph is placed on the table, she utters the
interjection ara ‘my!’ three times. Ara and its elongated version, araa, are interjec-
Playing with pathos
tions that strongly index femininity. Observing Minami’s behavior, Sena immediately notices her feminine identity.
(6.1) Sena:
Otoko dekita no?
man found nom
‘Did you find a man?’
(6.2) Minami: Araa // hayai na.
my
quick ip
‘My, you notice quickly, don’t you?’
(6.3)
Dokode wakan no ka na.
where know nom q ip
‘How do you know?’
(6.4) Sena:
Tokidoki, kotoba ni onna ga haitteru
kara.
sometimes word in woman S is.contained since
‘Because sometimes I sense a woman in your words.’
(6.5) Minami: Ara, soo kashira.
my so wonder
‘Oh, my, is that so?’
(Long Vacation, episode 5)
Minami uses the interjection ara(a) ‘my!’ twice in (6.2) and (6.5), clearly revealing
her feminine quality. Utterance (6.5) is of particular interest. In response to Sena’s
comment on her femininity-signaling choice of words, Minami chooses strictly
feminine speech style Ara, soo kashira ‘Oh, my, is that so?’. Minami is exhibiting
womanly self in front of Sena perhaps because she teasingly wants to substantiate
Sena’s ‘‘discovery.’’
It is interesting to note here that girlish and womanly selves are only
indirectly presented to Sena. This interaction provides evidence that the kind of
gendered self Minami commits to one person may be at play even in the absence
of that person. One may call this phenomenon a spill-over self-identity. One’s
identity as a girl/woman lingers on even in front of a person unrelated to such
identity. Another such example is observed in episode 8 when Sugisaki visits
Minami’s apartment, and Sena serves coffee. Minami politely thanks Sena by
saying koohii gochisoosama ‘thanks for the coffee’, an unusually polite speech
style coming from Minami. In the interaction immediately preceding this
moment, Minami has been presenting her womanly self toward Sugisaki, and
therefore, her feminine self lingers on in front of Sena. The case of lingering
spill-over self-identity illustrates that one’s identity involves a complex process
that often leads to multiple, mixed, and overlapping selves. Awareness of the
speech style, whether or not it is overtly mentioned, always implies some sense
of emotivity. This is because speech style, beyond politeness and intimacy, invites
Linguistic Emotivity
awareness of gender identity which may serve as prelude to a possible love
relationship.
. Stylistic shifts and Sena’s interactional selves
. Between social expectation and personal emotion
Now, let me shift the focus to Sena, who in Long Vacation gradually senses that he
is in love with Minami. Sena initially and generally identifies himself as subordinate to Minami, although he gradually realizes that his feelings toward Minami
exceed that of a friendship. Unlike Minami’s situation, Sena’s self-identity is
primarily socially motivated, at least in the early stages.
Using desu/masu by a male speaker is indexically linked to identification of a
subordinate self, associated with lower social status (including younger age). The
da style in conversation is closely associated with masculinity, but desu/masu is
not so readily associated with gender. One can interpret Sena’s stylistic choice as
a case where social relationship overrides gender. In other words, rather than
presenting boyish or manly selves, Sena presents his self as a subordinate self.
In reality, however, Sena’s style is a mixture of desu/masu and da. In fact da
appears more frequently (65.37%, as shown in Table 2) than desu/masu. Sena’s
stylistic choice is influenced at least by two factors, by the type of interaction
(discussed in this section), and by the gradual shift from the socially-bound self to
the gendered self (to be discussed in Section 4.2).
In situations where emotion overwhelms Sena, Sena uses da even when
desu/masu is maintained elsewhere in the same relationship. Specifically when
Sena and Minami engage in a conflict/fight, and when they are absorbed in
playing a game, Sena’s speech shifts to da. This illustrates that emotions linked to
activities play a major role in deciding how one presents one’s various selves.
(7) illustrates a situation where Sena engages in a conflict with Minami.
Minami, drunk, attempts to give Sena and Ryooko a half-price coupon for a
motel.
(7.1) Sena:
Iikagenni shiro yo.
appropriate do ip
‘Stop such nonsense.’
(. . .)
(7.2) Minami: A, ageru.
ah give
‘Here, I’ll give it to you.’
Playing with pathos
(7.3) Sena:
Ha // hontoni wakan-nai
hito da na anta mo.
hah, really understand-neg person be ip you T
‘Really, you just don’t understand, do you?’
(7.4) Minami: Haa.
huh
‘Huh?’
(7.5) Sena:
Sonna mushinkei da kara otoko ni suterare
n
da yo.
such insensitive be since man by are.dumped nom be ip
‘Because you are so insensitive, men dump you.’
(7.6)
Gasatsu da kara.
rough be since
‘Because you are rough.’
(7.7)
Hito no kimochi toka
jookyoo ga wakan-nai
other lk feelings and.such situation O understand-neg
n
da yo.
nom be ip
‘You don’t understand the feelings and situations of other
people.’
(7.8) Minami: Dooyuu koto?
what
fact
‘How so?’
(7.9) Sena:
(7.10)
Un? // Ryooko-chan wa ne, anta to chigau no.
huh Ryooko
T ip you with differ ip
‘You see, Ryooko is different from you.’
Kokoro nonaka ga ne, sensai na no.
heart inside S ip sensitive be ip
‘Inside her heart is sensitive.’ (Long Vacation, episode 2)
Although (7) appears earlier in the drama series (episode 2), Sena chooses da. In
non-conflicting and somewhat composed interactions Sena ordinarily uses
desu/masu, but when emotion swells, Sena shifts to the da style. Emotion overwhelms Sena who otherwise presents a subordinate self, the self that is composed
and maintains a certain distance from minami.2
A similar emotion-based argument is possible in the situation where Minami
and Sena excitedly engage in a game of bouncing a super-ball from the third-floor
window of their apartment. In this situation of playing a game Sena consistently
chooses the da style.
Linguistic Emotivity
(8.1) Sena:
Ii
mon mishiteageru.
curious thing show
‘I’ll show you something curious.’
(8.2)
Ii?
ready
‘Are you ready?’
(8.3) Minami: Doo sun no?
how do nom
‘What are you going to do?’
(8.4) Sena:
Iya kore otosu no.
well this drop ip
‘Oh well, I’m going to drop this.’
(8.5) Minami: Soide?
and
‘And?’
(8.6) Sena:
Iya son dake.
well that only
‘That’s all.’
(8.7) Minami: Nani ga omoshiroi no?
what S curious ip
‘What’s curious about that?’
(8.8) Sena:
Iya kore nagetara chanto, koko made modottekuru.
well this if.throw exactly here up.to return
‘Well, if you throw this, this will return exactly to this spot.’
(8.9) Minami: Uso da ne.
lie be ip
‘That’s a lie.’
(8.10) Sena:
Honto da.
true be
‘It’s true.’
(8.11) Minami: Zettai
uso da.
absolutely lie be
‘That’s an absolute lie.’
(8.12) Sena:
Honto da.
true be
‘It’s true.’
Playing with pathos
(8.13) Minami: Sangai
da yo, koko.
third.floor be ip here
This is the third floor, you realize.’
(8.14) Sena:
Sangai
demo chanto, modottekuru.
third.floor even exactly return
‘Even the third floor, this will return exactly to this spot.’
(8.15)
Ja mitete yo.
then watch ip
‘Watch it then.’
(8.16)
Honto da kara.
true be since
‘Because it is true.’
(8.17)
Ii? // Iku yo.
ready go ip
‘Ready? Here it goes.’
(Long Vacation, episode 1)
This exchange in (8) illustrates that stylistic choice has much to do with the kind
of interaction in progress, and in particular has much to do with the degree and
the kind of emotion that the speaker and partner share. (8) shows a sharp
contrast with (1) in which Sena maintains desu/masu in an earlier encounter in
the same episode. In situations depicted in (7) and (8), Sena does not play the
role of a subordinate self, but rather, an equal self, placing himself on the same
social status with Minami. In these cases, Sena foregrounds not so much the
socially-bound 〈interactional selfƒ〉 as 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉. Or, at least that
is how Sena presents (and wishes to present) himself in these instances of the
〈interactional place〉.
In contrast with the situations depicted in (7) and (8), when Minami plays the
role of a senior person, Sena maintains the desu/masu style toward Minami as, in
his response, he shows politeness. This is the case in (3) examined earlier. Consider another interaction where Sena presents a subordinate self as he seeks advice
from Minami.
(9.1) Sena:
Ikujinashi tte yuu gomoji
ga ne.
coward qt say five.letters S ip
‘The five letters of the word i-ku-ji-na-shi ‘coward’.’
(9.2) Minami: Ikujinashi.
coward
‘Coward.’
Linguistic Emotivity
(9.3) Sena:
Bokuno mune o // mashingan mitaini uchinuita
n
my
chest O machine.gun like
blasted.through nom
desu yo.
be ip
‘Those letters blasted through my chest like a machine gun.’
(9.4) Minami: Uchinuita
tte iwaretemo nee.
blasted.through qt am.told ip
‘You tell me that they blasted through, but . . .’
(9.5) Sena:
Nee, oneesan hito no hanashi, kiitemasu? Nee.
say elder.sister other lk story
listening ip
‘Say, elder sister, are you listening to my story? Really?’
(9.6) Minami: Kiitemasu yo.
listening ip
‘I’m listening.’
(9.7)
Yooku kiitemasu yo.
carefully listening ip
‘I’m listening carefully.’
(9.8)
Honna koto ittara jinsei mashingan darake
da yo.
such fact if.say life machine.gun filled.with be ip
‘You say so, but you know, life is filled with machine gun
experiences.’ (Long Vacation, episode 4)
In the negotiation depicted above, Sena’s subordinate self is confirmed by
Minami’s response in the da style. It is noteworthy, however, that Minami uses the
desu/masu style, i.e., kiitemasu in (9.6) and (9.7). Perhaps this has to do with the
seriousness of the conversation, and Minami plays the role of senior adviser as if
she were placed in a formal situation.
At any rate, Sena’s stylistic choice is indeed in concordance with the kind of
self Sena presents and negotiates at the moment of interaction. Despite the social
expectation, when engaged in certain activities, personal emotion overwhelms
Sena and the style shifts accordingly. As in Minami’s case, Sena’s self-identity is
multiple, being pulled by forces of social expectation and personal emotion.
. Falling in love with style
Sena’s stylistic choice is also influenced by the chronology of his relationship with
Minami. As their relationship deepens, and as Sena becomes aware that he is
falling in love with Minami, the style also shifts. In general the proportion of the
da style increases as the story develops, from 32.50% in episode 1 to 95.00% in
Playing with pathos
episode 11. There are two exceptions to this tendency; episodes 2 and 3 contain
94.87% and 96.15% of da utterances, respectively. Both episodes 2 and 3 contain
confrontation or game-playing encounters, where emotion overrides the hierarchical relationship.
Toward the drama’s conclusion, conversational interactions between Sena and
Minami begin to show that they identify themselves as womanly and manly selves,
and they find themselves on a relatively equal social status. Linguistic evidence is
abundantly available to support these changing selves. Examine (10) which
appears toward the end of the final episode. Sena had asked Minami to come to a
noodle shop which they used to frequent, in order to hand her the ticket to his
final piano competition. The conversation starts.
(10.1) Minami: De?
so
‘So, what’s up?’
(10.2) Sena:
A // mini kite.
ah see come
‘Ah, please come to see it.’
(10.3)
//Otowadoo no saishuu senkoo no konkuuru.
Otowadoo lk final
selection lk competition
‘The final selection of the Otowadoo piano competition.’
(10.4)
//Kanarazu kite.
without.fail come
‘Please come without fail.’
(10.5) Minami: //Ano rekoodo gaisha
wa?
that record company T
‘What about that record company?’
(10.6) Sena:
Aa kotowatchatta yo.
ah declined
ip
‘Uh, I declined the offer.’
(10.7) Minami: Huu // hee, ja ukattara, bosuton?
hum I.see then if.pass Boston
‘I see, so if you win first place in the competition, you will go
to Boston, right?’
(10.8)
Ochitara, puu
ka.
if.fail
nothing q
‘If you fail, then you have nothing, right?’
Linguistic Emotivity
(10.9)
Hun, ten
to chi da ne.
hum heaven and hell be ip
‘That means either heaven or hell.’
(10.10) Sena:
Demo ne moo // oyasumi wa // owari da kara.
but ip now vacation T
over be since
‘But the vacation is over now, so.’
(10.11)
Nagai oyasumi // wa moo // owari da kara ne.
long vacation T already over be since ip
‘The long vacation is over now.’
(10.12)
Moo nijuugo
da shi sa ore.
already twenty-five be and ip I
‘Besides, I’m already 25 years old.’
(10.13)
Sorosoro ketchakutsukenaito.
soon
do.or.die
‘Soon or later, I must face the do-or-die situation.’
(10.14) Minami: //Shibaraku mi-nai uchini, otona ni natta ne.
a.while
see-neg while adult as became ip
‘You matured a lot while I have’t seen you for a while.’
(10.15) Sena:
//Tonikaku watashita kara ne // chiketto.
at.any.rate handed since ip ticket
‘Anyway, I handed you the ticket.’ (Long Vacation, episode
11)
In (10), Sena consistently chooses the da style. As symbolized by the reciprocal
style chosen by Sena and Minami, they now identify themselves as being on a
similar social status, identifying themselves largely as social equals. This interaction is a prelude to their final recognition that they are in love, and that they relate
to each other in the roles of their womanly and manly selves.
The stylistic shift Sena undergoes is supported by Minami in an interesting
way. Although Minami maintains the da style toward Sena (86.20%, as shown in
Table 1) unless there are causes to do otherwise, it is also evident that Minami’s
speech style shifts toward a somewhat softer tone within the da style. For example,
in episode 10 Minami makes a request by saying Ano kyoku moo ikkai kikasena yo
‘Let me hear that music once again’ using an abrupt command form, but in
episode 11 she chooses Nee kikasete ‘Say, let me hear it’ using a softer strategy.
Although other factors are involved in the selection of the request form, it is
evident that Minami’s style gradually becomes more accommodating to Sena. The
change observed in Minami’s attitude is also evidenced when, in episode 11,
Playing with pathos
Minami insists that Sena should speak first because it is Dansei faasuto na no
‘Gentlemen first’ (although Sena corrects her by saying Redii Faasuto ‘Ladies
first’). In this way, Minami gradually presents her womanly self, diminishing the
earlier boy/male image. Recall that her earlier speech, at times, helps identify her
as a carefree, bold, frank, and outgoing boyish character, and at other times, as a
male leader who acts with decisiveness. This gradual shift toward womanly self
supports Sena’s eventual presentation of manly self.
.
Presentation of Minami’s playful self
. Using style playfully
The preceding two sections have discussed linguistic emotivity associated with
gendered and interactional selves. This section further investigates Minami’s
speech addressed to Sena, and inquires into the motivation for a particular stylistic
variability. Although in the initial meeting with Sena, Minami uses a mixture of da
and desu/masu (desu/masu dominantly used when Minami makes a request), once
she shares the apartment with Sena, she primarily uses the da style. However,
stylistic choice is not stable. Minami mixes desu/masu for reasons already discussed, but those reasons do not account for all of Minami’s varied stylistic
choices. This section focuses on Minami’s mixed styles in terms of juxtaposition
of places. Through this manipulation of places, Minami creatively presents her
playful self.
Minami selects the desu/masu style for utterances that are part of the ritualistic formula. It is reasonable to expect desu/masu in ritualistic utterances even in
the context of the da style. (11) takes place when Minami gives Sena a good luck
charm so he will not fail in the piano competition. Ritualistic utterances (saying a
prayer) appear in the desu/masu style in (11.2) and (11.3).
(11.1) Dakara, okkochi-nai kigan.
so
fail-neg
prayer
‘So, I’m sending you a prayer so that you won’t fail.’
(11.2) Kyoo no ga zettai okkochima-sen yooni.
today one S never fail-neg
so.that
‘Wishing that in today’s competition you will not fail.’
(11.3) De, honsen
mo batchiri, hikemasu yooni.
and final.contest also perfectly play
so.that
‘And, wishing that you will play the piano perfectly in the final competition also.’ (Long Vacation, episode 10)
Linguistic Emotivity
Formulaic expressions are also expected in phone conversations. In (12), when
Minami pretends as if her utterance were a telephone message, she uses desu/
masu, the style expected in such a message. In (13), Minami calls Sena at home,
and pretends as if she were politely calling someone else’s residence. In both (12)
and (13), Minami plays out a sense of teasing pretense over the telephone.
(12) Minami: Tadaima Minami wa dekaketeorimasu.
now
Minami T is.out
‘Minami is not at home now.’ (Long Vacation, episode 10)
(13) Minami: Moshi moshi Sena-san no otaku
deshoo ka.
hello hello Sena
lk residence be
q
‘Hello, is this Sena’s residence?’ (Long Vacation, episode 6)
The use of desu/masu as cited above brings into discourse different dimensions of
the 〈interactional place〉. Minami creatively juxtaposes an unexpected place, i.e.,
polite and formal situation normally unexpected in interaction, with an expected
place of ordinary interaction. This juxtaposition attracts attention and helps achieve
a humorous effect.
Another kind of juxtaposition of different dimensions of place is observed
when different genres are brought together. Certain genres in Japanese are known
to take the desu/masu style, e.g., a situation where a question and answer interaction occurs on a quiz show or in a school classroom. Examine (14) where such an
interaction is enacted. (14.1) and (14.4) provide Minami’s utterances that appear
prior and consequent to her utterances in (14.2) and (14.3). Minami’s desu/masu
style utterances in (14.2) and (14.3) surrounded by the da speech depict a questionanswer interaction that may be associated with a quiz show, or a school classroom.
(14.1) Hora yattemi jibunde.
say try
by.oneself
‘Say, try it yourself.’
(14.2) Kore ga hontoono nakayubi desu.
this S real
middle.toe be
‘This is the real middle toe.’
(14.3) Jaa kono yubi wa naniyubi deshoo ka.
then this toe T which.toe be
q
‘Then, this toe, which toe is it?’
(14.4) Me tsubutte // hoora, nakayubi, desho, desho, ne, ne.
eyes close
see
middle.toe be
be
ip ip
‘Close your eyes, see, the middle toe, see, see, right, right?’
(Long Vacation, episode 3)
Playing with pathos
Similar to the case of a pretense question-answer interaction, desu/masu is
associated with a narrative, where the desu/masu style invites the narrative world
into the conversation in progress. The narrative presented in (15.2) through (15.5)
appears surrounded by Minami’s da speech, between (15.1) and her utterance
yatta jan ‘you did it’ that appears in her next turn. Surrounded by the da style,
Minami tells the story in the desu/masu style. These utterances integrate the
narrated place into the current interactional place of conversation, achieving a
juxtaposition of places.
(15.1) Minami: Ii
tatoe. // Arigatoo.
good metaphor thank.you
‘That’s a good metaphor. Thanks.’
(15.2)
Hikkoshimashita.
moved
‘I moved.’
(15.3)
Soshitara nezumi ga imashita.
then
mouse S there.was
‘Then there lived a mouse.’
(15.4)
Aru hi nezumi wa ohimesama ni koioshimashita.
one.day mouse T princess
IO fell.in.love
‘One day the mouse fell in love with a princess.’
(15.5)
Shikashi nezumi wa shosen nezumi na node ana kara
but
mouse T after.all mouse be since hole from
detekuru kotogadekima-sendeshita.
come.out could-neg
‘But since a mouse is a mouse, it could not come out of the
hole.’ (Long Vacation, episode 5)
Recall that insertion of conversation narratives is a sign of involvement (Tannen
1989). By creatively playing with language, Minami presents a playful, lovable, and
sometimes humorous personality.
. Role-playing through style
Stylistic shift also indexically signals a role change in interaction. Minami uses
desu/masu to execute a mock relationship with Sena. Given that Sena is/was a
piano teacher, Minami becomes his student, and playfully introduces a place
different from the current 〈interactional place〉. (16) occurs after Sena’s student,
Takako, visited Sena to recover her bag she left at the piano school. The bag
contained a CD by the music group Sharan-Q. Inserted between the two da style
Linguistic Emotivity
utterances (Shikashi Sena-kun to Sharan-Q tte no mo niawa-nasugiru ‘But, Sena
and Sharan-Q, they are too much of a mismatch’ and Ii sensei datta n ja-nai no
ichiban ‘I think you were the greatest teacher, number one’), Minami chooses the
desu/masu style in (16).
(16) Minami: Dareka-san te dare desu ka, Sena-sensei.
someone qt who be q Sena-sensei
‘Someone, who is that, Mr. Sena.’ (Long Vacation, episode 3)
In (16) Minami asks a question calling Sena Sena-sensei with the title/reference
sensei ‘teacher’. The style suddenly shifts to desu/masu, adding to the utterance the
authenticity of being a student. Minami invites this imagined context of teacherstudent interaction, and plays her imagined role as a student. This playfulness
projects on to the 〈emotive place〉 enhancing a sense of emotional bond.
Another situation is observed where Minami ‘‘becomes’’ Sena’s student. When
Minami plays the piano for Sena who had decided to give up his career as a
pianist, the following interaction takes place. Utterances (17.1) through (17.4)
emerge between Minami’s utterances Sena-kun ni suteraretara kono piano doo sun
da yo, kanashigaru yo ‘If you give it up, what will this piano do? It will feel sad’
and Shikkari renshuushiro yo ‘Practice hard’.
(17.1) Sena:
Dame da, sonna yubi nekashite hiite cha.
not.good be so
fingers lay.flat play T
‘Playing (the piano) with your fingers laying so flat (on the
piano), that’s not right.’
(17.2) Minami: //Suimasen.
sorry
‘I’m sorry.’
(17.3) Sena:
//Otehon
o yaru kara sa.
demonstration O do since ip
‘I’m going to demonstrate how it should be.’
(17.4) Minami: //Hai.
yes
‘Yes.’ (Long Vacation, episode 9)
Minami, realizing that Sena in (17.1) is now playing the role of a teacher, in (17.2)
responds by sumimasen, an apology in the desu/masu style. As indicative of her
student-like answer hai ‘yes’ in (17.4), Minami has ‘‘become’’ Sena’s student. As
shown in utterances surrounding (17) which appear in the da style, desu/masu
appears in contrast with the on-going stylistic choice. The stylistic shift to desu/masu
brings to the on-going 〈interactional place〉 another place, adding to multiple emo-
Playing with pathos
tions accordingly. Sharing different places requires the appreciation of 〈perspectivized appearance〉 and 〈perspective of becoming〉, which encourage the coexperience by way of 〈empathetic conformity〉. Indeed, just as they share multiple
dimensions of place, the relationships experienced by Minami and Sena are multiple, i.e., friendship, a warm relationship between elder sister and younger brother,
or a playful teacher-student relationship. By playing the role of a student, Minami
indirectly supports Sena’s renewed commitment to his intended career as a pianist.
The use of desu/masu among predominantly da utterances appears in
reportive situations as well. For example, in response to Sena’s request, Messeeji
saiseishite kudasai ‘Please reproduce the phone message for me’, Minami produces
three different messages, all in the reportive mode. Utterances (18) through (22)
are drawn out of a single conversation segment in which Minami reports about
phone calls she received on behalf of Sena.
(18) Sena-san imasu
kaa to kikareta node, mada kaetteima-sen to
Sena
is.at.home q qt was.asked since yet returned-neg qt
kotaemashita.
answered
‘Since I was asked if Sena is home, I answered that he has not returned
yet.’
(19) Benmeishimasu.
explain
‘I’ll explain.’
(20) Yooken nikenme desu.
item
second be
‘Second message.’
(21) Zannen desu ga // ten, ten, ten, to yuu koto deshita.
regretful be but dot dot dot qt say nom be
‘It is regretful . . ., they said.’
(22) Ijoo deshita.
all be
‘That’s all.’ (Long Vacation, episode 1)
In (18) through (22), Minami behaves, with a sense of playfulness, politely and
formally responding to Sena’s request. Sena is upset that Minami answered the
phone although they had agreed that neither of them answer the phone. Minami,
facing Sena’s anger, shows politeness trying not to offend him any further.
This instance is role-playing, realized in part by stylistic choice, encourages
the speaker and partner to share the same 〈perspective of becoming〉, and this
encourages a feeling of friendship and closeness. It should be added here that
Linguistic Emotivity
Minami’s utterances with desu/masu endings discussed above are directly addressed to Sena, marking key statements in the segment. This corresponds with
the phenomenon in written discourse where desu/masu marked sentences maintain the main thread of discourse (see Maynard 1991a, 1991b). Although Minami
mixes da and desu/masu, Minami’s key statements appear in the desu/masu style
increasingly more frequently.
. Using emotive desu creatively
Recall the emotive da discussed in Chapter 11. Emotive da may take desu when it
is addressed with high awareness of 〈you〉. Da emotionally appeals to the partner
revealing the speaker’s 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉. At the same time, the speaker
may approach the partner with politeness and formality, and the socially-bound
〈interactional selfƒ〉 is foregrounded. Although these two forces seem contradictory,
they operate together so that emotive desu indexically signals the desire to
intensely reach intimate 〈you〉 while maintaining a high awareness of 〈you〉.
In (23), Sena finds out that Minami’s new lover, Sugisaki, was divorced once
and had fathered a son. Sena, feeling that Sugisaki may be just fooling around
with Minami, criticizes Sugisaki, and asks more questions. But Minami’s answer
is unclear. Minami’s utterance preceding (23.2) is Uunto ne, a, otokonoko tte ta ka
na ‘Uhh, ah, maybe he said it is a son’. When Minami takes the next turn, she
utters Dakedo sooyuu koto tte kako no koto ja-nai? ‘But that is something that
happened in the past, right?’, to which Sena responds in disbelief in (23.1).
(23.1) Sena:
Ne anata nani o kiitekiteru no?
say you what O hear
nom
‘Really, what did you hear from him?’
(23.2) Minami: Datte, rikonshite batsuichi
de kodomo ga
but was.divorced one-time-divorcee be child
S
iru
tte kiitara sore dake de kyapashitiioobaa
there.is qt heard that alone be beyond.my.capacity
de sore ijoo
kiku atama ga mawara-nakatta n
desu.
be that more.than ask brain S thought.of-neg nom be
‘But when I heard that he was divorced once and has a child,
that alone was beyond what I could comprehend, and I
couldn’t think of anything else to ask beyond that.’
(Long Vacation, episode 8)
In (23.2), Minami explains with an utterance ending with n desu. This desu is an
emotive in that she offers a comment regarding the preceding nominalized clause,
indexically signaling the speaker’s telling-it-as-is attitude. Curiously, Minami
Playing with pathos
chooses the desu/masu style. Instead of choosing the expected form, such as n da
mono or n da tte, Minami’s desu/masu choice gives a formal, declarative tone, with
a sense of finality. Through this, Minami signals high awareness of 〈you〉. Sena is
someone to whom Minami must seriously contend with, and therefore, must offer
an explanatory reason for her action. The use of desu here exemplifies a case
where both being emotional and holding high awareness of 〈you〉 operate simultaneously. Language provides for multiple needs including some seemingly contradictory cases.
A similar phenomenon occurs in the consequent conversation in which Sena
suggests that Minami should take time in responding to Sugisaki’s marriage
proposal. Minami answers.
(24.1) Minami: Puropoozu nanka sarete-nai yo.
propose
such is.asked-neg ip
‘I haven’t been proposed to yet.’
(24.2) Sena:
//E-tt?
what
‘What?’
(24.3) Minami: Sarete-nai desu.
is.asked-neg be
‘I haven’t been proposed to.’
(24.4)
Nai.
Zenzen.
be-neg at.all
‘I haven’t been proposed to. Not at all.’
(24.5) Sena:
//Aa soo na n
da.
ah so be nom be
‘Ah, that is so.’
(24.6) Minami: //Nani heraherashiten no?
what giggle
nom
‘What are you giggling for?’
(Long Vacation, episode 8)
The use of desu in (24.3) shows an interesting contrast with two other cases of
negation; Sarete-nai in (24.1) and Nai in (24.4). Although it is possible not to use
desu, by inserting desu, the utterance carries with it the telling-it-as-is attitude. In
addition, by choosing desu, utterance (24.3) realizes the 〈communication of
attitude toward others〉, specifically the high awareness of 〈you〉. Emotive desu
helps project on to the 〈emotive place〉 in a way different from that of da.
At the end of this scene, Sena and Minami end up fighting, and the segment
concludes with Minami’s angry utterance Anta ni wa zenzen kankei nai n desu
Linguistic Emotivity
‘That is none of your business’ marked with desu. This emotive desu, as in the
cases discussed regarding (23) and (24), adds the telling-it-as-is attitude, politely
enacting an emphatic insistence on Minami’s part.
In sum, Minami chooses styles for the purpose of presenting her playful self.
By playing different roles in different styles, and by expressing multiple emotions
accordingly, Minami creatively enacts her playful self.
. Vocatives and person references
Vocatives and person references offer another resource for understanding how
selves are presented and negotiated. Following the idea of gendered and
interactional selves discussed above, this section examines the use and non-use of
vocatives and reference forms as they relate to Minami and Sena, as well as those
individuals immediately related to them, i.e., Sugisaki and Ryooko.
In Long Vacation, Minami uses, as a vocative and as a reference form, Sena-kun,
last name plus -kun, a strategy expected from a socially higher status female toward
a younger male. In the course of the drama, Minami also calls him by a variety of
playful expressions including Airuton Sena-kun (dubbed after a well-known late
Italian formula one car-racer who shares the name with Sena), oneboosan ‘sleepyhead’, and misutaa shai ‘Mr. Shy’. As the drama develops and her feelings toward
Sena become serious, she begins to use the term Sena, without -kun. In fact in
episode 11, Minami abandons Sena-kun entirely and uses Sena exclusively. Avoiding -kun indexically signals how Minami views Sena, which in turn facilitates
Minami’s identity; she is no longer a friend senior to Sena, but a womanly self.
Sena’s choice of vocatives and reference forms regarding Minami also
undergoes changes. In the drama series, Sena rarely uses a vocative/reference form
toward Minami, but when he actually uses it, the terms chosen are anata ‘you’
(anta in conflict situations) and oneesan ‘elder sister’. Oneesan, although it literally
means elder sister, is often used toward a female person older than the speaker.3
This is an extended case of what Suzuki (1978) has called ‘‘other-oriented selfidentification.’’ In such a use an elder female falls into a category to which an
elder sister belongs from a junior person’s perspective. Sena’s use of oneesan, being
not family-based, clearly identifies Minami as an older female who could be his
elder sister. In addition, Sena playfully uses Haruo-san and Haruo, since Minami
introduces her name as the same as Minami of Haruo Minami, a well-known
singer of traditional Japanese songs. Sena uses oneesan even in the final episode 11.
But at the drama’s conclusion when he asks Minami to go to Boston and live with
him, Sena, for the first time, calls her Minami and Minami-san.4
Ultimately then, in the final scene of Long Vacation, Minami and Sena use
Sena and Minami as vocative/reference forms. These reciprocal mode of address
Playing with pathos
reflect their relatively equal statuses. Although Minami is the first name and Sena
is the last name, they both appear without title, and they do not index hierarchical
differences. And notably, forms that index the senior-junior relationship (e.g.,
oneesan, -kun) are avoided.
The change of selves observed in Minami and Sena (as reflected in their
choice of vocative/reference terms) shows a clear contrast with Minami’s relationship with Sugisaki, and Sena’s relationship with Ryooko. Minami chooses
Sugisaki-san all through the drama, and Sugisaki always calls and refers to Minami
Minami-chan. By the diminutive -chan Sugisaki attributes a girlish cuteness to
Minami. In fact, Minami overtly mentions in (25) how comforting it is to be
called Minami-chan, because it reminds her that she is a woman who is still a girl
at heart.
(25.1) Minami: Sugisaki-san itsumo // watashino koto Minami-chan tte
Sugisaki
always my
fact Minami
qt
yuu ja-nai desu ka.
say be-neg be q
‘You know, Sugisaki-san, you always call me Minami-chan.’
(25.2) Sugisaki: Aa.
yes
‘Yes.’
(25.3) Minami: Onnanoko n natta mitaide // hottoshimasu.
girl
as became seem
relieved
‘I feel relieved because I feel like I were a girl.’ (Long Vacation, episode 7)
Following (25.3), Minami continues that she is tired of playing the role of
someone’s senpai ‘senior’, and of an elder woman. (Minami refers to herself as
senpai toward Sena when she says Sukunakutomo Minami senpai wa ne ‘At least
Minami, your senior’ in episode 4.)
Likewise, between Sena and Ryooko, the vocative/reference form is stable.
Sena uses Ryooko-chan consistently, and Ryooko, senpai ‘senior’. For Ryooko, Sena
remains to be her senior, and she constantly identifies herself as a subordinate
junior student.
Reference forms referring to Minami and Sena together illustrate how they
define each other, and their relationship. In Long Vacation, earlier on, Minami
introduces Sena as otooto mitai ‘like a younger brother’ to Sugisaki. Sena refers to
Minami as shinseki no obachan ‘aunt’ explaining about her to Ryooko. As the
relationship becomes intimate, Sena identifies himself in a tense scene as given in
(26). This is the moment that Sena insists that he is not what Minami seems to
treat him as. He is desperately negotiating his changing sense of self with Minami,
Linguistic Emotivity
that is, from subordinate self to manly self. At the same time, Sena is trying to
convince Minami that she is not a boyish person senior to him, but a woman.
(26.1) Ore betsuni
saa, antano kodomo demo otooto
demo-nai
I particularly ip your child
be
younger.brother be-neg
wake da kara.
nom be since
‘I’m not your child or your younger brother.’
(26.2) //Ore datte otoko da shi // anta datte onna jan.
I
even man be and you even woman be
‘Even me, I am a man, and even you, you are a woman.’
tion, episode 10)
(Long Vaca-
In the final episode, when Minami and Sena engage in a verbal fight, Minami yells
out (27). As this overt utterance substantiates our understanding, Minami and
Sena had been friends all the time, until the time they spent the night together.
They are no longer just friends, and they are in the process of recognizing that
they are a woman and a man in love.
(27) Aa moo konna n
dattara tomodachi no manma no
ah already this nom if.be friends
lk as.is
lk
hoogayokatta jan.
was.better
ip
‘If this is how it is, being friends was better, wasn’t it?’ (Long Vacation,
episode 11)
.
Playing with pathos: A friend, a lover, or someone between
This chapter has focused on two strategies that are indexically linked to the
speaker’s gender and social identities as observed in Long Vacation. In addition,
I have noted how Minami engages in stylistic shifts for manifesting her playful
self. The stylistic shifts and varied choices of vocatives undergo changes in the
course of the drama depending on how the speaker wishes to foreground certain
aspects of self. These aspects may sometimes compete among themselves, but by
weighing the importance, the speaker foregrounds certain aspects and identifies
oneself accordingly. We have also observed that the speaker’s behavior supports
and is supported by the partner’s self-identification.
In this intimate negotiative process, participants of the drama realize varied
identities, as a friend, more-than-a-friend, a lover, or someone between. These
identities are negotiated, in part, through linguistic emotivity. It is not in the
〈cognitive place〉 that self-identity becomes an issue. Rather, it is in the 〈emotive
Playing with pathos
place〉 and the 〈interactional place〉 where self-identity is negotiated. Stylistic
choice/shift and vocatives/person references primarily function in terms of
〈expression of emotional attitude〉 and 〈communication of attitudes toward
others〉. And their meanings are instantiated accordingly in the 〈topica〉.
Participants of the drama, and we, as participants of ordinary (but sometimes
‘‘dramatic’’) communication, play with pathos. Through stylistic and vocative
choices, among others, we self- and other-identify our selves, and based on these
identities, we project varied types and intensities of emotion. By manipulating
multiple selves and multiple identities of 〈you〉, we play with 〈emotive meanings〉
and, in the process, present how we feel about ourselves as well as how we wish to
be emotionally identified by others. Amidst these sways of emotions, we locate and
identify ourselves in the place, where feelings of pathos permeate the landscape.
Part 6
Reflections
Chapter 17
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
Thus far I have presented the theory, analyzed emotive topics and comments, and
explored pathos in Japanese discourse. In this final part, I further broaden my
scope of what is involved in emotivity; in Chapter 17, I ponder upon linguistic
emotivity in the cultural context, and in Chapter 18, I discuss the significance of
emotivity as pursued in this study in linguistics, in terms of linguistic ideologies,
in particular.
I have consistently argued that the topic–comment dynamic provides a basis for
the Japanese Rhetoric of Pathos, and that it helps express linguistic emotivity.
Chapter 17 begins with a discussion of the topic–comment dynamic and its close
link to the centrality of place. Then, I continue with the point that the placecentered view of language prioritizes the 〈feeling selfƒ〉, along with, but sometimes
more than, the 〈thinking selfƒ〉 and the 〈interactional selfƒ〉. In this chapter I also
return to the concept of place; this time with a focus on the concept of place and
Japanese discourse studies. Included in the discussion are the terms I introduced in
earlier works, ‘‘self-contextualization’’ and ‘‘relationality.’’ At the end of the chapter,
I discuss the significance the concept of place bears in traditional Japanese culture.
.
The topic–comment dynamic and the centrality of place
The topic–comment dynamic observed in all aspects of Japanese language and
discourse requires certain kinds of interpretation. The speaker and partner need to
experience 〈empathetic conformity〉 and see topics from shared perspectives. In
order to experience these interpretive processes, participants need to identify the
〈topica〉 where three dimensions of place intersect. Within this 〈topica〉, the
〈potential meaning〉 is instantiated as the appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉. This
negotiative process heightens both speaker’s and partner’s awarenesses of the place
in which they are located. In this place they experience different foregrounded
aspects of selves in relation to each other, and they determine mutually agreed
upon meaning, to the extent that is possible.
To understand language in this manner prioritizes place and it encourages a
way of thinking different from the subject-centered view of cogito. The Place of
Negotiation theory necessitates a shift from a centrality of subject to a centrality of
place. In the mutually recognized territory identified as place, the speaker throws
Linguistic Emotivity
out a target of futaku as a topic, so to speak, and in association with that topic, the
speaker reveals personal feelings and emotion by way of comment. Topic must be
interpreted not only in relation to the comment but also, and more significantly,
in relation to the surrounding context. In this sense place and topic are dependent
on each other. The world of topic–comment is consonant with pathos, which is
also predicated upon the place-dependent experience. And this is in sharp contrast
with the world of logos where, as symbolized by the centrality of the propositionbased information, the meaning is interpreted as being detached from place, with
the implication that the meaning transcends its locality.
Naturally, language exists somewhere between logos and pathos, and, although
I have focused on linguistic emotivity, pathos alone cannot account for its total
meaning. This is obvious when one realizes that topic may function as an agent
within an [agent-does] proposition, and topic may also contain the propositional
structure within itself. In the most basic sense 〈empathetic conformity〉,
〈perspectivized appearance〉 and 〈perspective of becoming〉 are at work in the
interpretive process of logos-based information. Therefore, the concept of place is
not entirely foreign to logos. My point is simply that the concept of place is
intimately associated with something beyond logos. That is, the place is linked to
the centrality of the topic–comment dynamic in Japanese, and this relationship
illuminates aspects of Japanese that so far have largely escaped scrutiny.
In this book I presented empirical examples where the interpretation of the
Japanese topic–comment dynamic requires place. To cite a few examples, first,
recall the case of nan(i). I argued that emotive nan(i), although its informational
function is minimal, significantly realizes different kinds of 〈emotive meanings〉.
These emotive meanings are instantiated in part on the basis of cotextual and
contextual information that is indexically linked to the place. Note that here
emotive meanings emerge in the absence of the [agent-does] structure. The antisign nan(i), presents the target of futaku, for whose interpretation the shared sense
of place is obligatory.
Second, recall the case of da. Although da projects on to the 〈cognitive place〉
and communicates 〈informational meaning〉, I argued that emotive da realizes
〈emotive meanings〉 as well, and its meanings are indexically linked to the actual
utterance in its place. When da functions as an imperative, it does not so much
demand the partner’s action, but rather, it signals the speaker’s orientation
toward the place, the situation itself. Instead of giving orders to the partner in
the framework of [agent-does], da reveals the speaker’s feelings toward the place
as a whole.
To cite another example from visual aesthetics, recall the place-of-view
editing. Instead of zooming in on an agent of action and understanding the visual
image in terms of [agent-does], the place-of-view editing focuses on the entire
scene. Within this place, participants are situated, often without movement,
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
merged in the scene. In order to interpret the meaning of this landscape, one
needs to view the scene from shared perspectives. This scene is the target of
futaku, in a way resembling that of topic of the topic–comment dynamic. Scene,
like a topic, is presented in discourse to be experienced in shared perspectives by
way of the 〈perspectivized appearance〉 and by undergoing the 〈perspective of
becoming〉. Place is critical in this experience.
.
Linguistic emotivity and realization of the feeling self
Throughout this volume, I have maintained the position that linguistic emotivity
and the Rhetoric of Pathos realize the 〈feeling selfƒ〉. And, of course, my argument
has been that emotivity and pathos are supported by the centrality of the
topic–comment dynamic, which in turn is supported by the centrality of place.
This section further discusses the concept of the 〈feeling selfƒ〉, and situates it in the
broader context of Japanese language studies.
The 〈feeling selfƒ〉 is the self who engages in interaction as a person, as a
partner, and more than anything else, as a person who experiences varied types
and intensities of emotional attitudes and feelings (e.g., dispositions, general mood
and feelings, aroused emotive responses, evaluative attitudes, sense-based judgments, or cultural sentiments). The self emerging in the current study is the self
participating in the event (dekigoto). The self is not necessarily the grammatical
agent/subject explicitly identified in the proposition. Nor is it the 〈thinking selfƒ〉
primarily operating in the 〈cognitive place〉.
The self that emerges is the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 who undergoes bodily experiences in
communication and who manipulates the speech act in the 〈interactional place〉.
The 〈feeling selfƒ〉 is not an autonomous self detached from the place, but rather,
an intersubjective emergent self, intimately negotiating meanings with the partner.
And this intersubjective 〈feeling selfƒ〉 supports and is supported by the Japanese
preference for understanding self as 〈your you〉. The 〈feeling selfƒ〉, although it does
not directly surface in language, is present behind every expression. In Japanese,
this self ‘‘talks’’ in a personal voice variously coded in the language. Emotives
investigated in this book are some prime examples of those devices and strategies
that realize the Japanese 〈feeling selfƒ〉.
Although I have emphasized the importance of talking, narrating, and feeling
selves over the 〈thinking selfƒ〉, I must caution the reader that I do not mean that
Japanese language lacks the thinking self, i.e., the subject of cogito. Far from it. As
touched upon in Part 1, emotion is cognition-based, and therefore, the subject of
cogito and the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 are not totally opposed to each other. Still, I maintain
that in Japanese, the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 looms high in ordinary discourse, and ignoring
this fact results in a distorted picture of Japanese language and culture.
Linguistic Emotivity
Occasionally, it is said that the Japanese sense of self is weak in comparison to
self in the West. Unfortunately, this discussion is often based on the concept of
the Western self, which provides a convenient context where Japanese ‘‘weaknesses’’ are emphasized. When discussing the concept of self or subject, one must
be cautious, since even such presumably ‘‘basic’’ concepts are part and parcel of
ideology. Given the observation presented in this book, one must remain circumspect in applying theories and concepts across languages and cultures. For,
sometimes, languages and their functions differ fundamentally, to the extent that
the very aim of the communication differs. And consequently different languages
and cultures may pursue different kinds of knowledge.
The Japanese self that manipulates language is, for example, the kind of self
that Morita (1995) refers to when he states that the Japanese language takes on a
self-centered pattern (jikochuushingata). This self is the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 who describes
the event on the basis of one’s personal experience, from a personal point of view.
Let me elaborate on this point further by referring to the sentence Morita uses,
i.e., the initial sentence of Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata as given in (1).
(1) Kunizakai no nagai tonneru o nukeru to
yukiguni
deatta.
border
lk long tunnel O come.out when snow.country be
‘(lit.) Coming out of a long tunnel at the border (of provinces), it was
snow country.’ (Kawabata 1966: 7)
(2) The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.
(Seidensticker 1956: 11)
The self presented in (1) is the self who witnesses what happens in the context of
a locale, a place, and describes it from a personal perspective. That is to say, it is
the self that experiences and creates the initial sentence of Snow Country. Here, the
narrator merely describes what he sees in the place, and does not refer to the event
in the framework of [agent-does]. It is interesting to contrast this with its English
translation given in (2). The English translation takes the [agent-does] structure;
the ‘‘train’’ as an agent of action (i.e., came out) surfaces, although in the original
Japanese, there is no mention of it.
Closely associated with the sense of the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 is the concept of subjectivity in Japanese. The term shukansei ‘subjectivity’ has been only occasionally, but
seriously, debated. The concept of shukansei has been known for its complexity
and the consequent difficulty in defining it. For the purpose of the present
discussion, Onoe’s (1999) following words, which resonate with the theme of this
volume, should be noted.
One expresses only the content that comes into one’s heart, without mentioning
the reason how it comes into one’s heart. Instead, it is thrown out at the mercy of
the hearer. One reveals oneself, and the self cries out, and yet the feeling why one
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
cries out is left to the partner’s imagination. (. . .) In Japanese, the most direct
‘‘subjectivity’’ is expressed in such a manner.1 (Onoe 1999: 105, my translation)
Onoe’s observation that one expresses the content that comes into one’s heart by
throwing it out (hooridasu), resonates with the process of futaku. The Japanese shukansei ‘subjectivity’ is most directly expressed by the self that initiates the aesthetics
of futaku. This self must be a 〈feeling〉 and sensing self, rather than the subject of
cogito who logically forms thought into a proposition-based language. In the
Japanese subjective (shukantekina) expression, there exists this self who may not
engage in creating the propositional description, and yet who cries out with feelings.
Another view closely associated with the Japanese subjectivity is Ikegami’s
(1999) concept of the speaker’s indexicality (hanashite shihyoosei). Ikegami (1999)
states that in the Japanese language there is a preference for keen awareness of and
concern toward the speaker’s indexicality. This view is supportive of the placesensitive Japanese communication I am advocating in this book.
In another work, Ikegami (1998) discusses the Japanese concept of mono
‘thing’ and tokoro ‘place’, and in this context contrasts the subject who engages in
action versus the subject who feels. Ikegami explains that the human body in
relation to others is the subject who engages in action, and this shares a quality
with mono ‘thing’. On the other hand, the human body in relation to self is the
subject who feels, and that is closely associated with tokoro ‘place.’ Ikegami (1998)
speculates that in Japanese it seems that ‘‘the conceptual opposition between mono
and tokoro is not so clear’’ (nihongo de wa mono to tokoro no gainentekina tairitsu
ga sorehodo meikaku dewa-nai no dewa-nai ka to omowaseru) (1998: 884). Ikegami’s association between the subject who feels and the concept of tokoro
supports my position. Also, his contention that the opposition between mono and
tokoro is not so clear in Japanese does not contradict my view of Japanese placecenteredness. As Ikegami states, tokoro-related expressions occur regularly in
ordinary Japanese language, and this occurrence is sympathetic to the position I
take in advocating the Rhetoric of Pathos.
In the language of pathos, the existential presence of a speaker and partner
takes on centrality and prominence. One’s partner attempts to understand, not
merely the informational meaning itself, but more significantly, the speaker who
is conveying the information. Accordingly, language exists as a target of shared
perspectives. It may be said that language itself is thrown out as the target of
futaku, and the existence of the person who threw it comes reflexively into
phenomenological light, not unlike a boomerang returning to the person who
threw it in the first place.
Communication in language means, as obvious as it may seem, not merely to
convey information in its propositional form, but to express emotivity along with
it. Communication means expressing one’s heart, one’s deep emotions, as made
Linguistic Emotivity
accessible through linguistic emotivity. Language exists not merely for conveying
objectified propositional descriptions, but also, and more significant to this work,
it exists for expressing one’s profound feelings that cannot help but reverberate
through the entire utterance. Perhaps it is not an overstatement to say that, in
essence, language functions metaphorically as a device to encourage the participants to live their 〈feeling selves〉.
In this manner language always reveals personal aspects of the speaker. Ultimately, language is a form of self-expression. And in each expression, logos and
pathos intermingle, integrate, and reconcile. With sensus communis as a guide, each
language expresses emotivity in different ways and intensities. In Japanese, pathos is
relatively more important, and the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 emerges relatively more prominently. The language of pathos resurrects the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 crying out within
language. And these voices of the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 are the ‘‘voices from the heart.’’
As a final note to this section, I must emphasize; I am not saying that the
〈feeling selfƒ〉 is ‘‘particular’’ to Japan or to the Japanese language. Linguistic
emotivity is observable in all languages. It is only the case that historically, the
〈feeling selfƒ〉 has been unexplored, not because the 〈feeling selfƒ〉 does not exist,
but simply because theoretical motivations and means for its investigation have
been slow to develop.
.
Concept of place and Japanese discourse studies
The relationship between the concept of place (and context) and the Japanese language has been discussed extensively. In my own work (Maynard 1989, 1993c), I
proposed the concept of ‘‘self-contextualization.’’ As reviewed earlier, selfcontextualization refers to the ‘‘ongoing process of continually defining oneself in
relation to one’s interactional environment’’ (1989:4). Self-contextualization
involves two interacting stages, contextual interpretation and contextual transformation. Contextual interpretation involves the participant’s understanding of actual
signs and other abstract structural and interactional knowledge. Contextual transformation requires the participant to process his or her ideas and intentions in such
a way as to suit each situation of talk by ‘‘transforming’’ information to conform
with the context. And since the actual situation in conversation changes from one
moment to the next, conversation participants must self-contextualize continually,
with each change being mutually incorporated in each other’s self-contextualization.
To analyze actual self-contextualization in conversation, in Maynard (1989,
1993c) I focused on both global structures and local interactional management of
conversation, including topic (i.e., thematic) and narrative structures as well as the
turn-taking system, listener back channels, and head movements. I also reported
contrastive analysis of Japanese and American English conversation in terms of
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
types and degrees of self-contextualization. I concluded that many selfcontextualizing strategies are coded in the Japanese language, and consequently,
the speaker and partner respond sensitively to the context.
Perhaps I should cite some examples reported in Maynard (1989, 1993c). I
examined turn-internal listener back channels which are; (1) short messages the
listener sends during the partner’s speaking turn, (2) short messages the listener
sends immediately following the speaker’s turn (without a pause), and (3) short
messages that include (a) brief utterance, (b) laughs, chuckles, and so on, and (c)
clearly visible head movements. The total number of back-channel expressions observed in 60 minutes of Japanese conversation (three minutes from 20 dyadic conversations) was 871 (with the number of back channels at pause-bounded phrasal
unit boundaries being 703), with the most frequently occurring types being brief
utterances such as un ‘uh huh’, hontoo ‘really’, and soo ‘I see’. In contrast, in comparable American conversations, back channels were observed in 428 cases (with the
number of back channels at pause-bounded phrasal unit boundaries being 373).
Back channels in Japanese conversation appear most frequently (48.69 %, 355
out of 688 contexts) when they respond to a speaker’s solicitation marked by
interactional particles and auxiliary verb endings (that function like interactional
particles). In American conversation, 82.84 % (309 out of 373 cases) of back
channels occurring at pause-bounded phrasal unit boundaries occurred at the
point of grammatical completion. This illustrates that Japanese back channels
occur frequently in conjunction with the partner, while American back channels
occur primarily based on the speaker’s grammatical information. Japanese
conversational interaction, so far as it is reflected in back-channel strategy, is more
intimately associated with the partner in the 〈interactional place〉.
Another aspect of contrast between Japanese and American conversation
involves head movement. While the Japanese conversational data yielded 1,372
occurrences of head movements, the American conversation produced 452 cases.
It was observed that Japanese speakers often nod during their speaking turns (458
times, or 33.38 %), but Americans are much less likely to do so (37 times, or 8.19
%). Japanese speakers use head movements to punctuate the flow of conversation
much more frequently than Americans. Interestingly in Japanese conversation, as
briefly touched upon in Chapter 5, head movements often occur in pairs, triplets,
or even quadruplets, filling in and reinforcing the ‘‘rhythmic ensemble’’ (Scollon
1982). When head movements appear in groups, they do not occur randomly, but
are distributed to be synchronized with the tempo of the talk. And more remarkably, there are cases where the speaker and the listener make synchronized head
movements as if they were doing a dance. In American conversation, such
synchronized head bobbing did not occur at all.
These observations reported in my earlier work (Maynard 1989, 1993c) as
summarized above offer supporting evidence that Japanese interaction is achieved
Linguistic Emotivity
in intimate negotiation and collaboration situated in the place, at least more so in
contrast to comparable American conversation. In addition, it is generally
accepted that Japanese communication style encourages an accommodation
toward the partner’s feelings, and the verbal interaction is conducted in just such
a manner. This preoccupation toward the other’s feelings, which necessitates
place-dependent communication strategies, has been pointed out by a number of
researchers (e.g., Monane and Rogers 1977; Ogasawara 1972). Articulating this
position, Haga (1985) claims that ‘‘(W)hen we contrast the Japanese position with
that of the West, the most obvious feature of the Japanese way of communication
is the harmony with others’’ (1985: 65).2
I must remind the reader that the harmony mentioned here may exist partly as
a myth as argued by Jones (1990), or perhaps idealistically, as a desire on the
Japanese speakers’ part. Jones (1990, 1992) reports that conflicts often occur in
Japanese but mostly in ‘‘ratified’’ situations. When the conflict is not socially
ratified, Japanese participants must work hard to ratify it. Jones offers an example
where conflict erupts in a Japanese office environment. After a few minutes of
strained conversation the co-workers in conflict abruptly stopped talking and
turned away from each other. But even under this circumstance, participants strived
for a playful tone, introducing laughter and jokes. Co-workers placed the conflict
situation into a framework of ‘‘play’’ by using strategies such as style-switching,
repetition, parallelism, and laughter. If the conflict is still not ratified after all
reframing strategies, Jones (1990) concludes that ‘‘it seems (. . .) impossible for the
participants to dispute with each other comfortably,’’ suggesting that perhaps the
Japanese themselves have bought into the ‘‘myth of harmony’’ (1990:301).
Indeed, actual analyses of Japanese interaction reveal that interactional
accommodation is at work under certain circumstances. Szatorowski’s (1992)
detailed study of telephone invitation situations reveals that Japanese invitees go
to great lengths to accommodate the inviter (with omoiyari ‘considerateness’).
Szatrowski (1993) reports that when compared with the English invitation-refusal
exchange, Japanese participants rely more on their co-participants in the conversation, which results in co-produced stages. For example, Szatrowski (1992, 1993)
provides interaction examples in which an invitee, whose goal may be to refuse,
leaves open the possibility of accepting while developing the conversation toward
a refusal. A Japanese inviter will go through several ‘‘invitation stages’’; an inviter
shows sympathy for the invitee by always leaving some option for a refusal. In the
invitee’s ‘‘answer stages,’’ the invitee gradually develops a story, always gauging the
inviter’s response, trying to convince the inviter that he or she cannot accept the
invitation after all. In this process of refusing invitation, participants perform a
‘‘dance’’ of give-and-take many times. Through this prolonged give-and-take negotiation process, both participants successfully avoid losing ‘‘face’’ (Goffman 1955).
This other-dependent interaction in Japanese requires an emotion-sensitive
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
place, where self (i.e., 〈your you〉) and 〈you〉 interactionally co-experience the
world.
Another study illustrating the negotiative characteristics of Japanese interaction is reported in Strauss (1995) and Strauss and Kawanishi (1996). Contrasting
Japanese, Korean, and English dialogues collected after the 1994 Los Angeles
earthquake, Strauss and Kawanishi examine interaction in terms of ‘‘assessments,’’
i.e., ‘‘an interactive activity which involves the expressed evaluation of some entity,
event, situation, or state’’ (1996:150). They report that Japanese assessment tokens
are strikingly more frequent than Korean or English, and they contribute to the
establishment of common ground (similar to Cook’s [1990] notion of ‘‘affective
common ground’’). Strauss and Kawanishi conclude:
There are numerous instances where the assessment sequences become so
complex that even the notions of who might be the primary speaker and who the
interlocutor begin to cloud. This also accounts for the high frequency of both
repetitions, either identical or re-formulated, of the primary speaker’s talk, and
the complex collaborative completions that pervade the data. In the case of
Japanese, overlapping talk is common, occurring frequently and in remarkably
long stretches. (Strauss and Kawanishi 1996: 150)
Frequent and collaborative assessment strategies observed in Japanese dialogues
offers insight to the negotiative feature of interaction. While voicing the partner’s
words in repetition, the participants carry on overlapping conversation, and
experience 〈empathetic conformity〉 from shared perspectives. One’s conversational participation is indeed dependent on the partner’s participation, which
together define the 〈topica〉, the place of negotiation.
Also significant to the discussion of the concept of place and discourse studies
is Hinds’ (1986) work. Hinds, in his discussion of ‘‘situation focus’’ versus ‘‘person
focus,’’ argues that the Japanese language, unlike English which focuses on person,
focuses on situation. The idea of situation focus that Hinds advances with many
Japanese and English examples resonates with the Place of Negotiation theory.
The significance of place in Japanese communication is compatible with the
importance recognized regarding person-to-person relationships (taijin kankei). For
example, Watsuji (1937), Doi (1971), as well as Hamaguchi (1977) recognize the
significance of the interpersonal context in which self is placed. As discussed earlier
in Chapter 3, Watsuji (1937) argues that, based on his theory of interactional place,
we exist in human betweenness (aidagara). He takes the position that human
existence is an ‘‘act-based connection’’ (kooiteki renkan) (1937:24). For Watsuji, the
concept of human being (ningen) means, as kanji characters literally indicate (nin
literally means person, and gen, between), the betweenness that people experience
in daily lives. Doi (1971), in his thesis of amae, proposes the concept of amae
‘indulgence, dependence’ as an analytical concept for understanding the Japanese
Linguistic Emotivity
psyche. Through the concept of amae, based on the analysis of amae-related
vocabulary in the Japanese language, Doi reveals the Japanese self ’s desire to merge
into the other. Hamaguchi (1977) establishes the concept of kanjin ‘(lit.) inbetween person’ and understands Japanese psychology in terms of ‘‘outside-in.’’
Japanese tend to be influenced easily by outside forces, and in contrast with the
West’s individual-centered ‘‘inside-out,’’ self is defined from the outside. None of
these studies contradict the concept of place in the theory of Place of Negotiation
advanced in this book.
In recent studies as well, the importance of place is repeatedly emphasized.
For example, Yamanaka (1998) lists the following as characteristics of the Japanese
rhetoric. First, the Japanese language does not necessarily require the overt
specification of subject, and second, a personal pronoun system is not completely
established. Third, use of certain adjectives depends on the speaker (for example,
certain adjectives must take -garu ending for the third person), and lastly, there
are suffixes exempt from the tense system. Yamanaka argues that all these features
reflect one fundamental tenet about the Japanese language. In his words:
These features illustrate that Japanese language leaves a part of the information at
the mercy of the situated place (bamen), and instead of advancing objective
description, it functions as a conversational language that places importance on
exchange among in-group members.3 (Yamanaka 1998: 218, my translation)
Likewise, Numata (1998) points out that Japanese tradition, unlike the West, has
placed importance on the undivided self-other relationship. Rather than holding a
dialogue between two individuals, Japanese tradition has encouraged the construction of an undivided self whose experience does not clearly distinguish between
seeing and thinking. And the Japanese language can be said to refuse a true
dialogue with a partner in that the speaker often finds no need to explain matters
in an explicit manner. Rather, language tends to be monologic, and confessional.
Such monologic tendency is likely to necessitate the emotive appeal interpreted
through the 〈empathetic conformity〉 and the 〈perspective of becoming〉.
The characterizations mentioned above resonate with how I account for the
Japanese linguistic emotivity from the standpoint of the Place of Negotiation
theory. I have presented at various points throughout this book that the unspecified information leads to rich sense of emotivity and that emotivity is indexically
linked to the place. And of course this is one of the ways the Rhetoric of Pathos
operates. Obviously, as reflected by these and other previous studies on Japanese
language and discourse, the concept of place has sustained its significance.
In addition, I should remind the reader that the concept of place has played
an important role in Japanese sociolinguistics. Japanese language is indexically
linked to the social territory of uchi ‘inside’ and soto ‘outside’. Uchi ‘inside’ and
soto ‘outside’ are two socially based territories that motivate speakers to choose
different speech styles.4 Making a distinction between inside-group or outside-
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
group is not particular to Japan, for belonging (or not belonging) to a group is an
important factor in many, if not all, societies. Among the Japanese, however,
changes in behavior (especially in communication strategies), depending on social
contexts of uchi and soto, is linguistically explicit and socially mandatory. Required
awareness of these social places is indicative of the place-centered consciousness
among the Japanese. What triggers a specific style lies in the kind of personal and
situational factors the speaker recognizes in a given place. The style chosen, in
turn, influences the very factors that mobilize the entire context, thus continually
changing and defining the very place of interaction.
Now, in what kind of relationship does a Japanese speaker find himself or
herself in the place of interaction? Does the relationship differ from that of other
societies? In Maynard (1997b) I introduced the concept of ‘‘relationality’’ to shed
light on how Japanese people (in contrast to Americans) relate among themselves.
By ‘‘relationality’’ I mean the reciprocal influence exerted by two different
elements that are reflexively characterized by each other. It also refers to the
mutual relationship that language, as well as thought, come into contact with self
and society in different dimensions of place.
I argued that Japanese relationality originates in society gradually shifting
toward the self, whereas American relationality originates in the self gradually
shifting toward society. That is to say, the primary and deep-rooted self-concepts
among Japanese lie in society, while those among Americans lie in the concept of
self. In Japan, social accommodation, responsiveness, and cooperation are the
dominant, although not the only, training one receives in the socialization process.
The relationship a person identifies as his or her psychological foundation is based
on, anchored to, and defined in relation to society. Although the Japanese people
express individuality more intensely as they mature, the direction of forces
between society and self in Japan is from-society-to-self, that is society-relational.
For society-relational Japanese, the place of communication is central and the
negotiation within the 〈topica〉 takes on critical importance. For Americans, the
concept of self is fundamental. Socialization presupposes social relationship with
others in society, but relative importance is placed on exercising individuality than
on learning to accommodate others. This tendency is characterized as being fromself-to-society, i.e, self-relational.
Concepts of self-contextualization, social territories of uchi and soto, as well as
the society-relational Japanese, all represent aspects of communication closely
associated with the centrality of place. To explain the inner workings of Japanese
cultural discourse, the concept of place is indispensable, indeed.
. Significance of place/space in Japanese culture
The concept of place explored in this book is a language-based theoretical
Linguistic Emotivity
construct. The place, however, is viable in various aspects of Japanese academia
and culture alike. The concept of place is not particular to Japan, as evidenced in
our earlier discussion on the concept of topos and topica in rhetoric. And yet, as
has been pointed out by scholars in the past, it is also true that the theorization of
place has occupied importance in Japanese academia. Watsuji’s (1935) cultural
theory based on climate and mores is one. Berque’s (1992) cultural theory is
another in which Berque points out that Japanese climate and mores give space
and silence more significance than in Europe.
Place has also played an important role in Japanese traditional cultures as
evidenced by the phrase basho ‘place’ used with special significance. To cite a few
examples, in the sumo world, Nagoya basho ‘Nagoya tournament’ is used to name
the seasonal sumo tournaments. The sumo wrestlers ‘‘enter into place’’ (bashoiri)
when they travel to the site to participate in the matches. In the Kabuki theater
the most important scene is called shoonenba (using the morpheme ba ‘place’),
and this term is extended to refer to any critical situation.
Basho ‘place’ is used in contemporary ordinary conversations as well, for
example, Basho gara chotto hanashinikui kara basho o kaete hanasoo, ‘Because this
is not an appropriate basho, maybe we could talk at some other basho’, or Basho
fusagi ni naru kara suteyoo ‘I will throw this away because it occupies basho’.
Furthermore, the concept of place metaphorically invades into the concept of
time, and temporal expressions such as dotanba ‘critical moment’ and ima
dekakeru tokoro ‘I am about to leave now’ contain ba ‘place’ and tokoro ‘place’.
Socioculturally, the concept of place (and locality) emerges significant in the
idea of furusato ‘hometown, place of origin’, the countryside (often rural) Japan,
which people long for as a source of cultural (and emotional) attachment. In
literature, Japanese haiku and tanka are known to incorporate place images, and
in Japanese traditional songs, emotions are expressed in association with certain
locations and scenes.
Despite the pervasiveness of the concept of place in Japanese culture, perhaps
the most important cases are witnessed in the Noh play and the tea ceremony.
Nakamura (1996) characterizes Noh as an art created on the basis of space and
place, and explains as follows. Noh displays a stark contrast with classical Western
drama. Classical Western drama aims to reproduce human activities following a
defined plot, played by actors imitating real life with reality and form. In short, it
aims to recreate the world. Noh, on the other hand, does not recreate the ordinary
world. Rather, the Noh play aims to create symbolic beauty. Actors follow set
patterns of actions, symbolically moving within the space of the Noh stage. Or,
more accurately, Noh actors are pulled and directed by the balance of forces
emitted by the space. Instead of the actors moving on their own will, they are
moved (or pulled) by the place. Characterizing Noh, Nakamura (1996: 300) states
that it ‘‘creates meaning, in the exquisite space of the Noh stage, by opening up
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
space by human body in the midst of the tenseness of place.’’ 5
The Noh stage is stark, empty, and is only minimally defined by four pillars.
There are no lines or words to be uttered by the actor. There are no human facial
expressions; only masks worn by the Noh actors are seen. How is Noh appreciated,
if it has no stage setting, no words, and no expressions? As if corresponding to the
poetics of futaku that I have repeatedly touched upon, the Noh play is thrown into
discourse symbolically and metaphorically. The Noh stage is created to symbolize
distance and space indirectly. The viewers follow the gazing direction of the mask
and realize that perhaps a distant hill is in the view. The words and the music of
Noh are filled with quotations from classical literature, and its meaning is metaphorically transferred into the Noh play. The facial expressions are created by the
angle and the shadows cast on the mask, through which the viewers understand
feelings. In the midst of seemingly empty space, muted words, and motionless
faces, one experiences emotion because the Noh play itself functions as the target
of futaku. The viewers experience 〈empathetic conformity〉 and shared perspectives
based on the 〈perspectivized appearance〉 and 〈perspective of becoming〉. They
share the place from which they view another place (i.e., the Noh stage). Perhaps
it is not unreasonable to characterize Noh as a performance that incorporates the
futaku-effect; it is an art that resonates with the topic–comment dynamic.
Another Japanese culture that incorporates the concept of place is the
tradition of the tea ceremony. The tea house (or, tea room) offers a space to
welcome guests for sharing tea. But as evidenced by the fact that tatami mats are
called with place-based functional terms (for example, temaedatami ‘tatami for
serving’ and kyakudatami ‘tatami for guests’), it is also conceived as a symbolic
space. During the tea ceremony, the master follows ritualistic patterns of procedure to which guests also ritualistically respond. Obviously, the guest’s behavior,
such as after sipping tea, wiping the rim of the tea bowl with a thumb and index
finger and then touching kaishi paper, is not expected to have any sanitary effect.
Instead, participants are expected to understand the symbolic meaning of cleansing indexically linked to the place of the tea ceremony. A series of actions performed by the master and guests in this symbolic place define the relationship
between the self and other, both embraced in Mori’s (1979) 〈your you〉 relationship. The tea is real, and so is interaction. But the meaning of the tea ceremony
cannot be appreciated unless performed in a specifically defined place. Tea house
(or, tea room) is a place that is detached from ordinary life, and precisely because
of this defined uncommonness, ordinary participants experience special feelings of
sharing. It is supported by the culture-based 〈empathetic conformity〉 and shared
perspectives, a part and parcel of sensus communis. In this sense, as in the case of
the Noh play, but being more interaction-based, the tea ceremony enacts a culture
that must be experienced in a place.
I have just discussed the Japanese culture from the perspective of place. The
Linguistic Emotivity
reader at this point may wonder about the legitimacy of such a seemingly overextended discussion. I have elaborated on this point because I view that language
and culture form a seamless synergistic relationship. That is, language exists in the
form that responds to the culture’s aspirations and desires, and culture exists in
the manner that language promotes. The underlying energy that creates, sustains,
and changes the preference of the Japanese language exists as a part of Japanese
ideology. And the Japanese language exists as it maintains the precarious balance
between what an individual speaker demands and what sensus communis endorses.
The relationship among language, culture, and society has been debated in many
ways. I take the position, as I did in Maynard (1997b), that language and culture,
the ways of thinking in particular, are closely related. This is so even though the
relationship may not necessarily be straightforward nor direct, and may sometimes be contradictory.
More concretely, Silverstein’s (1979) concept of ‘‘indexical’’ is useful for
understanding this relationship between language and culture. Going beyond the
Peircean concept of index, Silverstein extends the concept of index to the level of
culture. According to Silverstein (1979), two different types of functions are
recognized. Function1 is the way the natives use the language and how it functions
in their own individual experience. But, another sense of function is also recognizable. That is, in the sense that particular forms of language in certain context of
use, or, rather, tokens of these forms ‘‘serve as specifically linguistic indicators (or
indices) differentially pointing to (indexing) configurations of contextual features’’
(1979: 206). This ‘‘indexical quality of speech forms, or indexical mode of their
signification’’ (1979: 206) is what Silverstein refers to as function2. In other words,
by function2, he means more than the sense that any occurrence of speech
minimally indexes the individual in the role of a speaker. Instead, he insists:
(. . .) any particular abstractable feature(s) of speech might be discovered to be
indexical of particular features of context, from ‘‘phoneme- or morpheme-sized’’
chunks of language all the way ‘‘up’’ to choice of particular ‘‘language’’ itself.
Furthermore, any particular ‘‘surface’’ stretch of language will probably figure in
multiple indexical functions2. Perhaps in one such function2 it will be isolable as
the total indexical form, while in another such function2 it will be isolable as a
component of an indexical form. (Silverstein 1979: 206)
Language is indexed to its contextual features, and this is not limited to certain
indexical signs. In fact, Silverstein suggests that language as a whole is indexically
linked to the culture it embraces. Given this premise, it is possible to understand
culture through language. In fact, Silverstein (1976) states, in his discussion on
pronouns, that ‘‘(s)ocial indexes such as deference vocabularies and constructions,
(. . .) are examples of maximally creative or performative devices, which, by their
very use, make the social parameters of speaker and hearer explicit’’ (1976: 34).
Linguistic emotivity and the culture of pathos
The pronominal system of a particular language is not only functional for native
speakers but also functional in the sense that it offers a means for revealing how
speaker and partner are identified in that speech community. In other words,
pronouns create human relations in the way that speech community endorses.
Indeed, as Duranti (1997) states, referring to Silverstein’s indexical creativity,
‘‘(T)he ways in which we define the world around us are part of the constitution
of that world’’ (1997: 19).
The preference toward place observed in the Japanese language and the
tendency that the use of language is also place-dependent indexically correspond
to the Japanese cultural context which prioritizes place. The place is brimming
with emotion; the place inevitably involves the 〈feeling selfƒ〉. Likewise, the social
and cultural concepts of place support a language such as Japanese that can be
analyzed through the concept of place. In turn, the place-centered Japanese
language casts shadows on various aspects of Japanese culture. In this intimate
relationship, the Japanese language, discourse, and culture together create the
metaphorical 〈emotive meaning〉 identified by the indexicality of place. And
perhaps this is why we are able to find in Japanese discourse the meeting ground
between the concept of place and the richness of linguistic emotivity.
Chapter 18
Language, linguistic theory, and ideology
.
Japanese language studies and linguistic ideologies
In this work I have pursued the Knowledge of Pathos on the basis of a particular
language, i.e., Japanese. My research has centered around the Japanese language
and culture. The Place of Negotiation theory and the consequent accounts of
linguistic emotivity have been envisaged primarily in Japanese, my native language, on the basis of the empirical analysis of Japanese discourse. Although I am
using English in the writing of this volume, the Place of Negotiation theory was
initially conceived in Japanese as presented in my earlier work (Maynard 1998a;
Maynard 2000a). It is reasonable to assume that the Knowledge of Pathos I have
pursued in this work is influenced by the Japanese language which has served as
the metalanguage, and at the same time, as the object language. If an intellectual
paradigm is inevitably influenced by the metalanguage and the object language,
what significance does this study bear? Would the linguistic theories be likely to
differ if conceived in different languages? Would different kinds of theory building
result if scholars analyzed different languages?
These are questions both old and new in linguistics and related fields. In
broad terms, it touches upon the unresolved issue of linguistic universalism versus
relativism. More recently, as Woolard (1992) points out, the relationship between
the linguistic theory and the language associated with it has been generally
debated under the concept of ‘‘linguistic ideologies.’’ Linguistic ideologies, as
conceived by Silverstein (1979), refer to ‘‘any sets of beliefs about language
articulated by the users as a rationalization or justification of perceived language
structure and use’’ (1979: 193). What linguistic ideologies imply is more than the
mere cultural conceptions, however. Silverstein (1979, 1985) understands ideology
as something that has actually distorted the rationalization of existing practice.
This is because he understands that ideological tenets are derived in part from
experience and then generalized beyond that core, eventually imposing on a
broader category of cultural phenomena. This process is what Silverstein calls
‘‘metapragmatics.’’
As an example, Silverstein (1979) expands the Whorfian view, the principle of
‘‘referential projection’’ or ‘‘objectification,’’ in particular. According to Whorf
(1956), the ‘‘Standard Average European’’ languages project abstract concepts such
as quantity, substance, and form. In these languages, there is an ideology, such that
Linguistic Emotivity
language functions within a propositional system, and language represents what is
‘‘out there.’’ Based on this one-to-one correspondence, the ideology of the Standard
Average European languages subscribes to the idea that the abstract word and
reality match sufficiently, if not perfectly. This ‘‘objectification’’ ideology is further
extended even to create another formless substance, that is, time.
Now, if we have cause to doubt that one’s understanding of a concept such as
time (which is often mistakenly assumed to be common among all human
thought) is, in part, conditioned by the ideology of a particular language, then our
totality of knowledge must be reconsidered, especially in light of its assumed
universality. And, given that linguistic theories exist as a part of linguistic ideologies, linguistic theories are not immune to the ideological disposition either.
According to Silverstein (1979), the linguistic theory advanced by Austin
(1975), the so-called Speech Act theory, is a case in point. The Speech Act theory
follows the ‘‘projection-by-objectification’’ ideology, and advances it to the
analogical projection of the reference-and-predication (i.e., propositionality). Such
pragmatic ideology encourages researchers to focus on identifiable surface lexical
items, which leads to the tendency to understand the function of language in
terms of presupposing performative constructions. Indeed, Austin’s (1975)
concepts such as locution, illocution, and perlocution as speech ‘‘acts’’ are
products of objectification. These represent, in Silverstein’s (1979: 210) words,
‘‘the projection of cryptotypic selective categorizations of lexical forms in the
typical metapragmatic discourse of a language such as English.’’
Similarly, in his 1985 article, Silverstein questions the validity of a simplistic
approach of connecting language practice to social practice. Set in the context of
a language and culture of gender, Silverstein (1985) warns against the feminist
criticism of the English language usage which simplistically connects the use of
lexical items (e.g., he/she) with a complex and fundamentally social practice. The
commonly practiced tendency is to focus on identifiable surface lexical items, and
to ignore the complexities of the issue. This reflects the ideology of reference-andpredication associated with English. Silverstein concludes that a comprehensive
analysis of the intersection of linguistic structure, actual usage, and ideology can
possibly lead to the avoidance of ideological distortion, such as the case of feminist
criticism of the English language usage where referential rationalization is projected on to fundamentally social phenomena.
More recently, Rumsey (1990) elaborates on a similar point. Citing two areas of
English language structure, i.e., reported speech and textual cohesion, Rumsey
(1990) points out that these areas are similar in that both entail a distinction between ‘‘wording’’ and ‘‘meaning.’’ More critically, Rumsey makes a case that while
these two aspects of grammar are consistent with the Western ideological distinction
between language and reality, neither of these language structures nor this linguistic
ideology are found among the Ungarinyin people of northwestern Australia.
Language, linguistic theory, and ideology
Of course, not all English-related language studies have produced a literature
consistent with the ideology that makes a clear distinction between language and
reality. For example, in the grammar of reported speech, as Rumsey (1990) notes,
Tannen’s idea of ‘‘constructed dialogue’’ challenges the view that direct and
indirect discourse are totally distinct, and that indirect discourse is used to
reproduce or represent an exact wording of the direct discourse. However, even to
view the reported speech as something that recreates the direct discourse must be
suspected. Indeed, according to Rumsey (1990), in the grammar of Ungarinyin,
there is no formal opposition between direct discourse and any other, less direct
variety. Based on this and other observations, Rumsey concludes:
Linguistic ideologies in which there is a strongly valorized distinction between
speech and action, words and ‘‘things,’’ are most likely to develop in conjunction
with languages in which there are formal distinctions between (1) direct and
indirect discourse; and (2) ‘‘reference’’ and ‘‘ellipsis/substitution’’ in the sense of
Halliday and Hasan (1976). (Rumsey 1990: 355)
Given the evidence of linguistic ideologies, the linguistics of pathos pursued in this
book can also be considered a part of Japanese ideologies. I have discussed that the
centrality of place is observed in language and culture of traditional and contemporary Japan. Likewise, to view language as emotive voices from the heart resonates with the traditional rhetoric of futaku, which foregrounds the indirect
expressivity of pathos. One must conclude that Japanese language studies and the
ideology of pathos are closely associated with Japanese ideologies.
.
Ideology of pathos and theoretical possibilities
Given that Japanese ideologies are part and parcel of this work, what possible
significance does this fact bear? Or, in broader terms, what is the significance of
conducting research in languages other than English, or conducting research
incorporating knowledge advanced by languages other than Western languages?
And, more fundamentally, in any language?
In my investigation into linguistic emotivity, I have incorporated many of the
past scholarly achievements of traditional Japanese grammarians, and I have
examined extensive data taken from contemporary Japanese cultural discourse.
The Place of Negotiation theory itself is primarily conceived in and for Japanese.
Given the recognition of linguistic ideologies, the study reported in this volume
both benefits and suffers from them. It is beneficial in the sense that Japanese
language studies may produce insight and theoretical paradigms unavailable in
other studies. In fact, this has been the case in Japanese linguistics represented by
Akatsuka (1983, 1985, 1997a, 1997b), Iwasaki (1988, 1993), Kuno (1987), Kuno
Linguistic Emotivity
and Kaburaki (1975), and Kuroda (1973, 1976) as mentioned in Chapter 2. On
the other hand, it may not be so beneficial in that Japanese studies may not
overcome their own particularities, and fail to contribute to the broader body of
knowledge. Nonetheless, in this book, I have made an effort to take advantage of
Japanese linguistic ideologies in the analysis of linguistic emotivity.
I have argued for the Japanese preference toward pathos. I have shown that
Japanese language is coded with emotives, and it is structurally skewed toward the
topic–comment dynamic, which in turn requires the place-based futaku-like
interpretation. I have presented empirical evidence to support the significance of
the 〈emotive meaning〉, the aspect that has been sorely missed in many of the
traditional and contemporary linguistic approaches.
Recall that vocatives, beyond attracting one’s partner’s attention, function to
present the target of emotion, on the basis of which the futaku effect is enacted.
Likewise, nominal and nominalized phrases present emotive topics and bring to
discourse the effect of exclamativity. Quotative topics signal the speaker’s commitment to integrating multiple voices echoing in the 〈emotive place〉 and the
〈interactional place〉. Nan(i), functioning as an anti-sign, foregrounds emotivity to
the extent that information becomes obscured. Recall also that Japanese language
is coded with emotive comments, including da, interrogatives, and stylistic shifts. I
have argued that the so-called copulative da and ja-nai, in certain cases, indexically
signal the speaker’s strong assertive attitude. The conversational structure such as
a question-answer adjacency pair turned out to be insufficient for appreciating the
emotivity of interrogatives. Emotive interrogatives (by rejecting the questionanswer interaction) instantiate 〈emotive meanings〉 including self-doubt, surprise,
exclamation, and so on. Stylistic shifts offer another strategy for an emotive
comment in that they indexically signal the way the speaker presents self in terms
of social identity, hierarchy, and personal emotion.
In this volume, linguistic emotivity in Japanese is explored as a pursuit of
Knowledge of Pathos. Meaning and form are not in the one-to-one sign-object
relationship; rather, approximated meanings are multiple, negotiative, and competing. The instantiation of meanings are interactionally and negotiatively achieved
on the basis of Vico’s (1965 [1709]) ‘‘certitude’’ supported by sensus communis.
The meaning is partly partner-dependent, and the passive side of interaction is
taken into consideration. As Fujitani (1960 [1778]) voiced long ago, the 〈potential
meaning〉 and the 〈negotiative meaning〉 are like yuu ‘ghost/phantom’ and
arawashi ‘appearance/manifestation’, the latter realized in actual practice of
language. And as Fujitani insisted by the term uchiai ‘echoing’, the 〈emotive
meaning〉 is not something attached to a single linguistic unit, but something that
echoes throughout the utterance. The emotivity expressed in language is a phenomenon of gradations and intensities, and it reveals itself in contrastive contexts.
In this study, units of analysis are also multiple, including emotive phrases,
Language, linguistic theory, and ideology
function words, grammatical structures, forms of interaction, as well as paragraphs and the entire text.
Throughout this volume, these and other observations are presented as a part
of an ideology opposing the ideology of logos. The idea that language not only
informs but, more significantly, expresses, is attained through an investigation of
the Japanese discourse. The theory that meaning is negotiated among participants
in a place, starting from 〈potential meaning〉, through the integration of 〈informational meaning〉, 〈emotive meaning〉, and 〈interactional meaning〉, and ultimately
instantiating the appropriate 〈negotiative meaning〉, is constructed in and for
Japanese language and discourse.
As an Edo period scholar heard ‘‘voices from the heart’’ in his search for the
essence of the Japanese language, as a scholar in Meiji/Taishoo/Shoowa periods
discovered kantai no ku ‘vocative–emotive phrase’ as an important element of the
Japanese grammar, and as a Showa philosopher found in the concept of place the
essence of self, there has been, through history, as an undercurrent in Japanese
language and thought, a determined appreciation of pathos.
But, as I have repeated many times at various points throughout this book, I
am not claiming that the expressivity of pathos is limited to the Japanese language
and culture. Nor, are the Knowledge of Pathos and the ideology of pathos limited
to the particularities of Japan. As I have discussed at various points, theoretical
orientations among scholars whose metalanguage is English-based (or Western
language-based) differ. For one, the battle between Descartes and Vico bears
witness to the fact that a researcher is not shackled by a particular linguistic
background (Romance languages), but rather, he or she is capable of breaking
through the limitations of language. And, of course, as reviewed in Chapter 2 and
elsewhere, the complex multiplicity of thoughts and opposing views have been the
norm, rather than exception. Indeed, through time, modern Japanese scholars
have almost always incorporated the scholarship emanating from the West.
Recall also that appreciation for and variability of pathos are not limited
across languages either. Although I do not deny the Japanese preference toward
pathos as the basic tenet of Japanese ideologies, variabilities also exist across
genres. As discussed in this book, some texts are more emotive than others, even
when they are created within the structure of the same language. Given crosslinguistic as well as language-internal variabilities, associating the metalanguage
and the theory-building too closely is a mistake one must avoid.
If one takes linguistic ideologies at face value, the particularity involved in the
present study severely limits its applicability. However, the situation is not
altogether hopeless. As long as the researcher is aware of limitations and selfreflexively evaluates the theory and analytical results in light of different kinds of
knowledge, Japanese language studies offer the potential to exert influence beyond
their boundary. I trust that the study of linguistic emotivity has at least raised a
Linguistic Emotivity
question that has not been seriously addressed in the past. Theoretical blind spots
are often difficult to identify if examined solely from theory-internal perspectives.
Indeed, different perspectives developed with different heritages and assumptions
can sometimes shed light on readily accepted established theoretical assumptions.
.
Beyond the boundaries of place
Although it is possible to take advantage of the particularity of language in the
theory-building process, given the forces of metapragmatics, the limitations of the
current work must not be ignored. I am aware that the pursuit of Knowledge of
Pathos and the prioritization of linguistic emotivity do not come without criticism. One of the strong criticisms comes in association with the very issue
surrounding the particularity of the concept of place.
Berque (1992) warns against the Japanese scholars’ pursuit of particular
concepts such as ‘‘place’’ and ‘‘situated place,’’ and voices the following.
Japanese thinkers, as Norinaga Motoori did long time ago, and as many contemporary Nihon(jin)-ron scholars do, seem to be making a mistake when they minimize
the rationality and the universality of rational thought. Instead, they prefer concepts
such as place, situated place, climate and mores, or even God and Tennoo. All these
terms refer to the community of emotion; they are expressions of sensus communis,
which may be useful for explaining the climate and mores, but quite useless for the
reflective thinking of an individual. (Berque 1992: 361, my translation)
In my view, Berque’s position reflects a certain strain of French ideology and
metapragmatics. When Berque criticizes by pointing out the phenomenon of
‘‘minimizing the universality of rational thought,’’ that critique itself seems to
reflect the Cartesian ideology. My intention is not to minimize the universality of
rational thought, but rather, to understand language not in terms of logos alone,
but also in terms of the richness of pathos. It is not my intention to make the
Place of Negotiation theory something particular to Japanese. Instead of toying
with the concept of place as a particular hideout of Japanese consciousness, I have
attempted to make it into a theoretical construct. I have defined the concept of
place, and explained how it operates through the projection on to three different
dimensions of place. I have shown how these dimensions of place and the 〈topica〉
define the context for the negotiation of meaning. In addition, I have offered
extensive analyses of real-life language shared by ordinary people. I have noted
various cotextual and contextual features of the 〈topica〉 that guide our interpretations in concrete terms. And of course, as I have repeatedly pointed out, the
centrality of place is not limited to Japan, as evidenced by the discussion of topica
by scholars other than Japanese.
Language, linguistic theory, and ideology
Berque (1992) also criticizes sensus communis. I have explained the significance of sensus communis as explored by Vico and Nakamura, and I have incorporated it in the Place of Negotiation theory. In my view, sensus communis does not
prohibit individual rational thought. Rather, it enables one’s understanding of the
relationship between individual emotion and social sentiment, the very process
which involves rational thinking. To view sensus communis and rational thought
as two polar opposites seems to reflect the very Cartesian ideology. I have emphasized repeatedly that emotion and cognition, or pathos and logos, are not in total
opposition, but complementary in nature, and it is a matter of degree and of
relative preference over the other in which pathos and logos are identified.
Interestingly, the pathos-centered view of language resonates with the contemporary post-modern criticism of the West. Serious doubts toward the self of cogito
have been voiced by European scholars. The very Western ideologies that have
advocated the 〈thinking selfƒ〉 have turned around, deconstructed themselves, and
have challenged them from within. The Knowledge of Pathos is, ironically, part
and parcel of Western linguistic ideologies as well. For example, Foucault (1972)
in his insistence on the importance of rethinking the history and the epistemology
of knowledge, raises the issue concerning the assumed authority of knowledge.
Consider that what is commonly rendered truth is truth proclaimed by those
whose interest it is to insist on that very truth. Such truth is always supported by
the will and the desire of those who invest in it. Thus Foucault insists that the
critical question is not to ask how certain knowledge exists, but how it exists as a
discursive practice, and how such practice functions among other practices. And
the investigation of discourse should be made with the understanding of discursive relations in the following sense.
Discursive relations are not, as we can see, internal to discourse: they do not
connect concepts or words with one another; they do not establish a deductive or
rhetorical structure between propositions or sentences. Yet they are not relations
exterior to discourse, relations that might limit it, or impose certain forms upon
it, or force it, in certain circumstances, to state certain things. They are, in a sense,
at the limit of discourse: they offer it objects of which it can speak, or rather (for
the image of offering presupposes that objects are formed independently of
discourse), they determine the group of relations that discourse must establish in
order to speak of this or that object, in order to deal with them, name them,
analyse them, classify them, explain them, etc. These relations characterize not the
language (langue) used by discourse, nor the circumstances in which it is deployed, but discourse itself as a practice. (Foucault 1972: 46)
Foucault’s insistence of ‘‘discourse as practice’’ does not contradict the theoretical
position presented in this book. The Place of Negotiation theory focuses on the
practice of real-life discourse. It finds the 〈negotiative meaning〉 not in language
itself, not in the context itself, but in the practice of discourse negotiation.
Linguistic Emotivity
Foucault’s concept of practice resonates with Nishida’s concept of pure experience, and Tokieda’s view of language as activity happening in the situated place.
Foucault’s assault on the hegemony of knowledge has brought to the open the fact
that, as linguistic emotivity comes to life in a place, the knowledge comes into
being in the place-dependent ‘‘discourse as practice.’’
Still, a curious question remains. Why has emotivity disappeared from mainstream linguistics in the latter half of the 20th century? The answer can be found
somewhere in the combination of various political, economic, and philosophical
forces. As I reviewed in Part 1, the Knowledge of Pathos in linguistics and related
fields has undergone its ups and (mostly) downs. Within this historicity, I have
concentrated on linguistic emotivity and presented my theory and analysis.
Ideology of logos has offered the background against which the present work is
located, and in this sense, the particular history I am placed in has enabled me to
clarify the differences between the two positions.
As Vico proclaimed long ago, we participate in history through language
which carries within it its culture and history. It is within the linguistic historicity
of logos that I find myself. Yet, following Vico, if we are made aware that language
constructs the way we evaluate the very manner in which we understand ourselves, one must reflexively question the very paradigm one is placed in. And if the
meaning of anything comes alive where language and thought meet, where logos
and pathos encounter, perhaps in that place one can find a reasoned theory for
linguistic emotivity.
When building a theory of linguistics in and for Japanese, one must avoid
certain pitfalls. This is because neither the physical sense of place nor the theoretical concept of place can easily escape their boundedness. In this regard,
Nakamura’s (1993a) warning is poignant. Nakamura points out certain mistakes
Japanese scholars tend to make when building theories. In Japan, scholarly
theoretical debate seems to be missing, and more critically, a hard-edged vigorousness is not pursued for clarifying theoretical concepts. This, in part, has contributed to a lack of theoretical innovation in the humanities and social sciences.
Nakamura laments that, in Japan, theories in social sciences ‘‘have either tended
to be a straight translation (of Western theories) or to end up being a totally
subjective personalized discourse’’ (ippoode chokuyakutekina mono ni nariyasuku,
tahoode mubaikaitekina shutaishugi ni nariyasui) (1993a: 68).
Despite, and because of, the boundedness of the concept of place, I have
prepared this book in English. I trust that presenting a theory and providing
extensive analyses using English, situates my work reasonably well in the context
of different ideologies. Obviously, whether or not the Place of Negotiation theory
and the study of linguistic emotivity are useful beyond Japanese particularities is
yet to be tested. Still, as Nakamura’s (1993a) warning reminds us, Japanese
scholarship must aspire to go beyond the boundaries of place, transcending its
Language, linguistic theory, and ideology
cultural embeddedness. Ultimately, to become truly meaningful, theories on any
subject, which inevitably are developed in particular languages, must reach beyond
those languages. Using a Japanese linguistic ideology as an advantage, I trust it is
possible to make efforts to go beyond that very ideology. In the end, the Place of
Negotiation theory itself must undergo negotiation with other languages and
ideologies. Somewhere between the boundedness and the boundlessness, I hope
what I have explored in this volume adds to our knowledge of language, if only as
an initial step toward the renewed interest in understanding language as emotion,
and to discover our 〈feeling selves〉.
Appendix
Information on select data
Majo no Jooken ‘(lit.) Conditions of a Witch’
Majo no jooken, an 11-episode television drama series, was broadcast by TBS in 1999. The
data consist of transcripts made by myself, based on a set of six video tapes (total of
approximately nine hours) distributed by Pony Canyon in Tokyo. A novelized version of
Majo no Jooken (screenplay by Kazuhiko Yukawa, novelization by Fumi Shimazaki,
published by Sony Magazines) is available. Actual dialogues in the video series slightly differ
from the novelized version, and therefore, the published novelized version was used only
for reference purposes. The two main characters of the drama were played by Nanako
Matsushima as Michi Hirose, and Hideaki Takizawa as Hikaru Kurosawa.
Plot
Majo no Jooken is a story of a forbidden love affair between Michi Hirose, a 26-year-old
female high school teacher and Hikaru Kurosawa, a 17-year-old transfer student. Hikaru
and Michi meet for the first time when Hikaru’s motorcycle almost hits Michi, who was
just returning from a night at her boyfriend’s (Masaru Kitai) apartment. That morning
Michi was given an engagement ring. But for some time, Michi has been wondering about
the future and her teaching career, as well as her feelings toward Masaru.
The encounter with Hikaru changes everything. Fate has it that Hikaru turns out to be
transferred to her class, starting the new school year that very day. Through various incidents
and encounters, they are attracted to each other, and fall in love. Kyooko Kurosawa, Hikaru’s
mother, whose husband died nine years earlier, is possessive and tries to control Hikaru’s
life, from which Hikaru desperately tries to escape. Kyooko’s plan is that Hikaru eventually
heads the hospital which his father established years before, but this overwhelms Hikaru. The
motorcycle that Hikaru purchased on his own, a big secret kept from his mother, serves as
a transportation method for Hikaru and Michi’s secret love affair.
One night, Michi and Hikaru spend the night together in the high school library and,
as inevitably it must, their relationship becomes known within the high school. Michi and
Hikaru are forbidden to see each other, but when Michi is pressured to resign from her
position, she rebels against the established authority by declaring her love for Hikaru in
front of the entire school assembly. As a result, although Michi and Hikaru continue to
attend school, they individually become targets of psychological (and occasionally physical)
abuse by colleagues and students.
Michi and Hikaru escape from Tokyo, visiting Hikaru’s uncle for a short period.
Eventually they settle down in a small town near the sea. After a short while, however,
Linguistic Emotivity
Michi is arrested for kidnaping, hence resonating with the series title of a witch (majo)
hunt, a woman condemned for violating both social mores and the law. Hikaru, in an
attempt to reduce the possibility of Michi being held in prison for an extended time, gives
in to his mother’s demand and leaves for Los Angeles. Michi, released from prison, but
discovering that she is pregnant with Hikaru’s child, runs away from home. Hikaru returns
to Tokyo in search of her, and they finally meet again.
Although they begin living together in Tokyo, partly due to Kyooko’s compounded
misfortunes (hospital’s hostile take-over, Kyooko’s suicide attempt, etc.) for which Hikaru
shows sympathy, Michi leaves Hikaru. One day Hikaru and Michi run into each other in a
museum, in front of their favorite painting. Although still in love, they break up again. But,
immediately after this incident, giving in to Michi’s mother’s plea to save Michi who has
suffered from a miscarriage and has gone into a coma, Hikaru returns to Michi, now with
Kyooko’s approval. Hikaru, with dedication, takes care of Michi, as he re-enrolls in night
school, earnestly convinced that he will one day become a doctor. A month passes, and at
the end of the series, Hikaru, asleep at her bedside, is awoken by Michi’s touch to his hair.
Long Vacation
Long Vacation, an 11-episode television drama series, was broadcast by Fuji Television in
1996. The data consist of transcripts made by myself based on a set of six video tapes (total
of approximately nine hours) distributed by Pony Canyon in Tokyo. A novelized version
(screenplay by Eriko Kitagawa, novelization by Hanami Yamanaka, published by Kadokawa
Shoten) is available. Actual dialogues in the video series slightly differ from the novelized
version, and therefore, the published novelized version was used only for reference purposes. The two main characters of the drama were played by Takuya Kimura as Hidetoshi
Sena, and Tomoko Yamaguchi as Minami Hayama.
Plot
Long Vacation is a friendship-turning-into-love story between Minami Hayama, a 31-yearold female ex-model, and Sena Hidetoshi, a 24-year-old piano teacher. Minami suffers from
a lack of modeling jobs partly due to her age. Her friendship with Momo-chan, a younger
colleague, constantly reminds her that she is getting old. Sena is uncertain about his present
job as a children’s piano teacher, and secretly wishes to make a breakthrough to be a
professional pianist. The drama begins with a scene where Minami, formally costumed in
a Japanese wedding dress, runs up the stairs to Sena’s apartment and knocks on the door.
It turns out that Asakura, Minami’s groom, who has failed to show up at their wedding,
used to share the same apartment unit with Sena. Minami, both financially broke and
broken-hearted, forces her way into Sena’s apartment. Minami takes over the bedroom
Asakura used to occupy, and shares the living room (where Sena’s grand piano is placed),
bathroom, and kitchen with Sena.
Sena is secretly in love with Ryooko, a sophomore at the university from which Sena
recently graduated and who evidently is an extremely talented pianist. For Sena, suddenly
sharing an apartment with Minami, a considerably older woman, proves to be difficult and
uncomfortable initially. But as time goes by, Minami and Sena become good friends sharing
Appendix: Information on select data
their day-to-day successes and (mostly) frustrations. Minami behaves more like a boy in
front of Sena, although gradually she begins to find herself falling for him.
Soon Minami meets Sugisaki, a thirty-something photographer, a divorcee with a son.
Sugisaki hires Minami as an assistant, and they begin to like each other. Sugisaki eventually
makes a marriage proposal to Minami. Meanwhile, Sena starts dating Ryooko, and Minami
often encourages it. For a while it seems that each has a partner/lover. One evening Minami
invites Sena and Ryooko to a bar where Shinji, Minami’s 24-year-old younger brother, and
Ruu, his lover, work. Ryooko and Shinji instantly like each other, and they fall in love,
although they eventually break up. Minami, although thinking about marrying Sugisaki,
realizes that she actually loves Sena and declines the marriage proposal.
Several moving incidents occur between Minami and Sena which nurture their trusting
and loving relationship. After a fight, Sena plays the piano for Minami in a gesture of
making up with her. Sena’s music heals Minami’s broken heart. One evening, Minami
uncorks a couple of wine bottles (originally meant for gifts to be given to guests at her
wedding) and invites Sena to join. On another occasion, when Sena receives a card
reporting that Asakura has married someone else, he tries to hide it. But when Minami
notices the card and attempts to grab it, Sena puts it in his mouth and manages to swallow
a portion of it. Sena didn’t want Minami get hurt by seeing the card with a picture of a
happily married couple. Minami and Sena find themselves in unstable and unsatisfying
stages of their lives, but they console each other by convincing each other that good things
will happen in the future. They are simply taking a ‘‘long vacation’’ from real challenges
they believe they will eventually face in life.
One of the most dramatic incidents occurs concerning Sena’s future as a pianist. Sena’s
participation in a piano competition concludes miserably. Devastated, Sena decides to give
up his piano and starts working as a salesclerk at a department store. Minami, insisting that
Sena has a talent to be a great pianist, convinces him not to give up. Minami practices the
music that Sena played for her earlier, and plays it for Sena. Sena, moved by Minami’s
genuine support, decides to play the piano once again.
Sena, with renewed determination, wins an important competition and is awarded the
prestigious position of pianist for the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra. After the award
ceremony, Sena asks Minami to go to Boston with him, and at that moment, they acknowledge for the first time that they are in love. The drama ends in a scene, one year later, in
Boston, where Sena wearing a white tuxedo and Minami, now dressed in a wedding gown,
are running hand-in-hand down the street toward a chapel.
Notes
Chapter 1
. In original Japanese: (. . .) tasha ya sekai ya kankyoo ga wareware ni hatarakikake
shimesu mono o yomitori imizukeru hookoo de, 〈kosumorojii〉 to 〈shinborizumu〉 to
〈pafoomansu〉 to yuu mittsu no kooseigenri ni yotte naritatteiru. Iikaereba, sore wa, ningen
o tada tanni noodootekina sonzai to shite, tsumari chuushootekini, toraeru no de wa naku,
mushiro, imi no nookoona ba no naka de tasha kara no hatarakikake o uketa judoo=
jukutekina sonzai dearu koto o shuppatsuten to shi, jita no kankei o soogokooi to shite
toraeru mono o sashiteiru no dearu. (Nakamura 1996: 306)
. In original Japanese: Pafoomansu dearu tame ni wa, naniyorimo, kooisuru toonin to,
sore o miru aite ya, soko ni tachiau aite to no aida ni soogosayoo, intarakushon ga
seiritsushite inakerebanaranai. (Nakamura 1992: 135)
. In original Japanese: (. . .) mazu ‘‘sokode shintaichuu no shokankaku — kankakusareta
mono — ga deai, musubitsuki, haichi o tori, matomari, onozuto aru chitsujo ga
katachizukerareru mono’’ to kangaerareru. (Nakamura 1975: 91)
Chapter 2
. In original Japanese: Mata iwaku, uchiai wa kono shoo no joo goto ni yuu ga gotoku,
sono ayui goto ni sadamareru nori aru uchi ni, ‘‘nabikizume’’ ‘‘kakusu uchiai’’ no futatsu
arite bechi ni yomubeki yooari. ‘‘Nabikizume’’ to wa, ooyoso yosoi, ayui no nabiki wa,
kanarazu ‘‘zo-ie’’, moshiku wa utagai no kazashi, ayui nado ni uchiau beki o, samonakute
yomitsumetaru o yuu. Kore wa kokoro o fukumete nagame-sutsuru nari. Nabiki no shita
ni ‘‘koto yo’’ ‘‘koto kana’’, aruiwa ‘‘mono o’’ nado kuwaete kokoroubeshi. (. . .) ‘‘Kakusu
uchiai’’ to wa, ‘‘zo-ie’’ wa shita ni uchiaubeki yoo sadamareru o, sadakani yomitsumezu
shite yomimote yuku o yuu. Kore wa hoka ni kasanuru kotoba, mata wa yosesoetaru
kotoba nite kakusu nari. (Nakada and Takeoka 1960: 97–8)
. In original Japanese: Bunpoogaku no kansuru shisoo wa tadani ronrisayoo nomi ni
tomara-zu, kanjoo nimo are, yokkyuu nimo are, soozoo nimo are, subete gengo ni
arawasareta mono wa mina bunpoogaku no taishoo to nariu beshi. (Yamada 1936: 890)
. In original Japanese: Kantai no ku wa tsuneni hitotsu no taigen o kosshi to shite, sore o
kokaku to shi, sore o shisoo no chuushinten to shite kooseiseraruru mono nari. Kore wa sono
chokkanteki ichigensei no happyoo ni shite, kanjooteki no happyoo keishiki o toru koto ni
oite, juttai no ku no riseiteki nigensei no happyoo taru mono to seishitsu to koozoo to no
nimen ni oite konpontekini chigau mono to shite tairitsusuru mono nari. (Yamada 1936:936)
Notes
. In original Japanese: Shi wa te-ni-o-ha to tano shi to no kubetsu o tada hiyu o motte
ieru nomi naru ga yueni, sono hongi wa tsuini hosokusuru koto kanawazaru nari. Sono
uchi hikakutekini teigi ni chikaki mono o toreba ‘‘shi ni tsukeru kokoro no koe’’ to yuu
koto nari. Kokoro no koe to wa ikanaru mono ka. Shisoo o arawasu seion no gi ka.
Shikaraba izure no go ka kokoro no koe narazaru. Shi ni tsukeru kokoro no koe to wa
tsuini kaishaku subekarazaru nari. (Yamada 1908: 24)
To our interest, Tokieda (1941) criticizes Yamada’s criticism of Suzuki by stating the
following. ‘‘Referencing means conceptualized objectivization and ‘voices from the heart’
means direct expression of concepts. (. . .) I was astonished by the fact that Suzuki’s
thoughts are capable of providing answers to questions not answered in many linguistic
theories available in the world today (. . .). Yamada’s criticism of Suzuki (. . .) is based
on the structural view of language, and as long as one holds such a view, it is impossible
to understand accurately the true meaning of Suzuki’s concept’’ (1941: 233, my translation).
Chapter 3
. In original Japanese: Nichijoo gengo no hassei no kongen niwa, kankakutekina joohoo
shori, imeeji keisei, shiten no tooei, kyookan, shiten no yuragi o hajime to suru
kanseitekina keiken, shintaitekina keiken ga sonzaishi (. . .). (Yamanashi 1998: 31)
. Although Neisser (1988) recognizes ‘‘interpersonal self ’’ in cognitive psychology, in
cognitive semantics, the language is largely analyzed apart from interaction.
. In original Japanese: Shizen wa kore o soozoosuru shutai o hanaretemo sono sonzai o
kangaeru koto ga kanoo dearu ga, gengo wa itsu ikanaru baai ni oitemo, sore o sanshutsusuru shutai o kangaezu shite wa, kore o kangaeru koto ga dekinai. (Tokieda 1941: 12)
. In original Japanese: Son no honrai no igi wa shutaitekina jikohoji dearu. (. . .) ‘‘Zai’’
no honrai no igi wa shutai ga aru basho ni iru koto dearu. (. . .) Tokorode shutai no iru
basho wa yado, taku, goo, yo nado no shakaitekina basho dearu. Iikaereba kazoku, mura,
machi, seken to yuu gotoki ningenkankei dearu. Shitagatte zai wa shutaiteki ni koodoosuru
mono ga nanrakano ningenkankei no naka o kyoraishitsutsu, sono kankei ni oite aru koto
ni hokanaranai. (Watsuji 1937: 22–3)
Sonzai to wa masani aidagara toshite no shutai no jikohaaku, sunawachi ningen ga kore
jishin o motsu koto dearu. Wareware wa sarani kantanni sonzai to wa ‘‘ningen no kooiteki
renkan’’ dearu to ieru dearoo. (Watsuji 1937: 24)
. In original Japanese: Honshitsutekina ten dake ni kagitte yuu to, ‘‘nihonjin’’ ni oite wa,
‘‘nanji’’ ni tairitsusuru no wa ‘‘ware’’ dewa-nai to yuu koto, tairitsusuru mono mo mata
aite ni totte no ‘‘nanji’’ na no da, to yuu koto dearu. (. . .) Oyako no baai o tottemiru to,
oya o ‘‘nanji’’ to shite toru to, ko ga ‘‘ware’’ dearu no wa jimei no koto no yooni omowareru. Shikashi sore wa soo dewa-nai. Ko wa jibun no naka ni sonzai no konkyo o motsu
‘‘ware’’ dewa-naku, toomen ‘‘nanji’’ dearu oya no ‘‘nanji’’ to shite jibun o keikenshiteiru no
dearu. (Mori 1979: 64)
Notes
Although in my earlier works I translated nanji as ‘thou’ and nanji no nanji as ‘thy
thou’, in the current work I use 〈you〉 and 〈your you〉 instead, with a hope that perhaps
these words make Mori’s ideas more accessible.
. Note that the contrast I point out here has also been suggested by Caffi and Janney
(1994b) as reviewed in Chapter 2. For example, when the expected interaction does not
take place, it may be viewed as a violation of their contextual anticipatory schemata.
. In studying emotives, one of the concerns raised by scholars (especially from a
pragmatics perspective as in Caffi and Janney [1994b]) surrounds the range of linguistic
signs that are considered emotive. My answer to this debate is that, despite that most
previous studies identify emotives as a separate category, I take the position that every
linguistic sign is potentially emotive one way or another. Consequently, it becomes critical
to analyze linguistic signs that have been considered non-emotive so far, which is what I do
in many chapters in this volume.
Chapter 4
. In original Japanese: Kono gotoki jiko jishin o terasu kagami tomo yuu beki mono wa,
tanni chishiki seiritsu no basho taru nomi narazu, kanjoo mo ishi mo korenioite
seiritsururu no dearu. Wareware ga taiken no naiyoo to yuu toki, ooku no baai sudeni kore
o chishikikashiteiru no dearu. Koreyueni hironritekina shitsuryoo tomo kangaerareru no
dearu. Shin no taiken wa mattaki mu no tachiba de nakerebanaranu, chishiki o hanareta
jiyuu no tachiba de nakerebanaranu, kono basho ni oite wa jooi no naiyoo mo utsusareru
no dearu. Chijooi tomoni ishikigenshoo to kangaerareru no wa kore ni yoru no dearu.
(Nishida 1949a: 213)
. In original Japanese: Handan no tachiba kara ishiki o teigisuru naraba, doko made mo
jutsugo to natte shugo to nara-nai mono to yuu koto ga dekiru. Ishiki no hanchuu wa
jutsugosei ni aru no dearu. Jutsugo o taishoo to suru koto ni yotte, ishiki o kyakkantekini
miru koto ga dekiru. (Nishida 1949a: 213)
. In original Japanese: Futsuu ni wa ware to yuu gotoki mono mo mono to onajiku,
shujunaru seishitsu o motsu shugoteki tooitsu to kangaeru ga, ware to wa shugoteki tooitsu
dewa-naku shite, jutsugoteki tooitsu de nakerebanaranu, hitotsu no ten dewa-naku shite
hitotsu no en de nakerebanaranu, mono dewa-naku basho de nakerebanaranu. (Nishida
1949a: 279)
. In original Japanese: Sunawachi kokoni, kare wa koremade no tetsugaku no kyootsuu
no zentei deatta shugo-ronrishugi no tachiba kara jutsugo-ronrishugi no tachiba e
koperunikusuteki tenkan tomo yuu beki mono o okonau to tomoni, sore o tooshite, subete
no jitsuzai o jutsugoteki kitai (mu) niyotte konkyozuke, mu no basho o yuu no ketsujo to
shite dewa-naku mutei ni shite yutakana sekai to shite toraeta no deatta. (Nakamura
1993d: 67)
. Although, for convenience’s sake, I review previous works representing the West and
Japan separately, one must always keep in mind that Japanese scholars have often been
influenced by Western scholarship. For example, Sakuma is known to be influenced by
Notes
Gestalt psychology. Even those theories considered traditionally Japanese are often
constructed against Western scholarship (in some cases using the Western scholarship as a
strawman). In this sense, Japanese theories are influenced by Western (and other) languages
and scholarly traditions. In fact, one must keep in mind that Edo scholars’ ‘‘praise’’ for
Japanese expressivity was motivated, in part, by their identification of Chinese culture as the
Other.
. Although Sakuma uses the Japanese phrase wadai which is normally associated with
topic, because of the specific definition and explanation given in his writing, I translate
wadai no ba as ‘discourse place’ and kadai no ba as ‘topic place’.
. In original Japanese: Ima, aru ichiji o noberu ni atatte wa, mazu iwaba fun’iki o
tsukuridasu to yuu koto ga hitsuyoo desu. Sooshite koto ga nani ni kansuru ka o, sunawachi keishikitekini ieba jojutsu no han’i o bakuzen nagara kakuteisuru to yuu koto ga
kanjin desu. (. . .) Sono han’i o setteishite teishutsusuru tokoro no sayoo o ‘‘daimoku no
settei’’ aruiwa teidai to nazukeru koto ga tekitoo deshoo. Kooshite setteisareta han’i wa,
hyooshoo katsudoo no shintekikatei ni oite, koko no jojutsu ya handan o yuudoosuru
‘‘ba’’ o katachizukurimasu. Sore wa ‘‘kadai no ba’’ to yuu beki mono de, genba ni okeru
hatsugen naiyoo no rikai ga genba no ninchi o zentei to suru yooni, higenba ni okeru
kotogara no jojutsu mo, sorezore no higenba o kadai no katachi ni oite teishutsusuru koto
ni yotte setteisareta, kono ‘‘kadai no ba’’ ni oite rikaisareru no desu. (Sakuma
1940: 210–12)
. In original Japanese: Hanashi no ba mo, hanashite to yuu shudai ga chuushin de, ba wa
hanashite no sayoo o ukeru hidoo no ba dearu to, kantanni wa kangaeraregachi dearu.
Shikashi, hanashi ni okeru ba wa sono abekobe deatte, hanashite wa ba kara hatarakikakerareru mono dearu. Ba ga noodoo de, hanashite wa hidoo na no dearu. Ba ga
hanashite ni eikyoo o ataeru, sunawachi ba ga hanashite o kiteisuru no dearu. Hanashite wa
ba ‘‘nioite’’ hanashiteiru dake denaku, ba ‘‘niyotte’’ kiteisareteiru no dearu. (Mio 1948: 21)
. In original Japanese: Aru shunkan ni oite, gengo koodoo ni nanraka no eikyoo o ataeru
jooken no sootai o, sono shunkan no hanashi no ba to yuu. (Mio 1948: 26–7).
. In original Japanese: Bamen no imi wa (. . .) ippoo sore wa basho no gainen to
aitsuuzuru mono ga aru ga, basho no gainen ga tanni kuukanteki ichitekina mono dearu no
ni taishite, bamen wa basho o mitasu tokoro no naiyoo o mo fukumeru mono dearu. Kono
yooni shite, bamen wa mata basho o mitasu jibutsujookei to aitsuuzuru mono dearu ga,
bamen wa, doojini, korera jibutsujookei ni shikoosuru shutai no taido, kibun, kanjoo o mo
fukumu mono dearu. (Tokieda 1941: 43)
. In original Japanese: Nihongo de wa, bun wa ji ni yotte kataru shutai to tsunagari,
hiitewa sono shutai no okareta jookyoo, bamen to tsunagaru. Dakara, bamen kara no
koosoku ga ookii. (Nakamura 1987: 84)
. Cotextual and contextual information discussed here are similar to anticipatory
schemata discussed by Caffi and Janney (1994b), i.e., particularly with respect to their contextual anticipatory schemata and cotextual anticipatory schemata. My approach considers
cotextual and contextual information being equally critical as other meanings (potential,
informational, emotive, and interactional), and the Place of Negotiation theory enables us
to focus on the negotiative process of meaning that integrates all these ingredients.
Notes
Chapter 5
. See Goodwin and Duranti (1992) for historical background and a critical review
regarding the theoretical concept of context. See Brown and Yule (1983) for a review of
related studies. See also Maynard (1997a).
. In original Japanese: Shitagatte gengo ni miserare, gengo no kankisuru imeeji ni
majutsutekini kanshinshi, doochoosuru shintai wa, butsurikagakuteki katei no tannaru
soowa to shite no shintai ni kangensuru koto wa deki-nai dearoo. Sore wa noodootekini
sekai ni toikake, mata sekai no yobikake ni ootoosuru, hataraki to shite no gutaiteki shintai
dearu. (Ichikawa 1975: 192, original emphasis)
. In original Japanese: Sekai no sugata wa, aru mono to yuu yori wa, warewareno kei to
hoka no kei to no kooshoo kara seiseisuru dekigoto deari, dekigoto ni oite, watashi no kei
to hoka no kei to ga kiteisareru. Betsuna ii kata o sureba, watashi wa sekai o kiteisuru koto
ni yotte, watashi jishin o kiteisuru no dearu. (Ichikawa 1975: 25, original emphasis)
. In original Japanese: Tasha no rikai to wa, sono tasha ga bungaku sakuhin chuu no
toojoo jinbutsu dearu baai mo fukume, sono tasha ni shiten o hakenshi, sono shiten no
uchigawa ni sono tasha no kimochi, kanjoo o seiseishitemiyoo to suru katei deari, iikaereba
hakenshita shiten no uchigawa no arikata o shiroo to suru kokoromi dearu to kangaerareru.
(Miyazaki and Ueno 1985: 103)
Chapter 6
. I have used the term theme most frequently when discussing the topic/thematic marker
wa and related phenomena. In this book I consistently use the term ‘‘topic’’ (except when
I discuss the issue in association with the Prague School tradition), because ‘‘topic’’ is more
accepted among English (American) readers.
. In original Japanese: Kore toogo to yuu koto, too to wa, tatowaba yuku o yuka-zu to ii,
miru o mi-zu to wa yuu kore nari. Joo no ue ni mo too ari. Omou tokoro o iwa-zushite,
omowa-nu tokoro ni shi o tsukuru kore nari. Kore o oshikomete toogo to kokorou beshi.
Subete ware omou joo ni wa modori somuku koto ookata ninjoo no tsune nari. Yueni
wazato too o shi to suru koto, sunawachi hito o waga joo ni dooiseshimeru tame no
myoohoo nari. Sono ri senrikyoo o mote omou beshi. Kono yueni kojin sore omou joo o
ba, jikini iwa-zu shite omowa-nu kachoofuugetsu no ue ni shi o tsukeraretaru mono nari.
(Fujitani 1986 [1817]: 766–7) Although the original writing does not contain punctuation,
I have divided into sentences for convenience. Perhaps I should add that Mitsue Fujitani
from whom I am quoting here is Nariakira Fujitani’s son.
. In original Japanese: Wareware wa konkoodo ya aguriimento no genshoo no naka ni
fukuzaisuru hassootekina honshitsu o, kaihatsushinakereba naranai to omou. Kono
genshoo wa, kyakkantekina kikaitekikeitaitekina mono toka igitekina mono nomi dewa-nai.
Sore wa, ‘‘hassoo’’ ni okeru dainamikkuna shinriteki sookantaioo genshoo no ichibu dearu.
(Tokuda 1982: 410–11)
Notes
. Ki-shoo-ten-ketsu is a rhetorical movement (consisting of four parts) in Japanese
discourse, including but not limited to narratives and essays. Ki offers topic, shoo develops
the topic, ten adds a surprise turn, and finally ketsu offers conclusion. See Maynard (1998b,
entry 3) for further explanation. Also, refer to Chapter 15 where I analyze newspaper
columns in association with ki-shoo-ten-ketsu.
Chapter 7
. In original Japanese: Korera wa ‘‘aite’’ o yobikake no taishoo toshite kobetsutekini
shijisuru mono dearu. ‘‘Kikyuu’’ no kakushin o ‘‘aite’’ e no shikoo to torae, sore o toriageru
koto de kobetsusei o akirakani shita mono dearu. Koko dewa, koyuu meishi, taishoo no
ninshoo daimeishi, oyobi futsuu meishi no taishooshika o mochiiru. Taigen ichigobun
dearu. Mata doojini ‘‘kikyuu’’ jitai o kooseisuru nimen ‘‘chuukaku no mono=kooi no
shusha to, sono sama=kooi’’ no uchi no, chuukaku no mono ni shooten o ateru koto de
‘‘kikyuu’’ no kobetsusei o kiwadataseru koto nimo natteiru. Tsumari, kono shu no
‘‘kikyuu’’ wa, ‘‘aite’’ ni yotte mihatsu no jitai ‘‘kooi’’ ga jitsugensareru no o nozomu koto,
iwaba ‘‘kooiteki kikyuu’’ dearu. (Ishigami 1994: 77–8)
. It should be mentioned here that the emotivity of me(e) is expressed by other strategies
in other languages as well. In English, expletives are frequently used for similar effect. For
example, for Hisuterii onna me, (Shiroo 1991: 205) Goddamn hysterical broad (Schodt and
Smith 1995: 207) is used, and for Saru buchoo me (Shiroo 1991: 17) Damn that Aramaki
(Schodt and Smith 1995: 21) appears.
. Narrative voice in comics is graphologically marked. Narrative voice normally appears
outside a speech balloon and appears in long vertical lines, often in fonts different from the
utterance in a speech balloon.
. Regarding the data presentation of Majo no Jooken, to make explicit the use of sensei, I
use sensei where applicable when glossing and translating into English.
. Refer to Chapter 6 for discussion on the concept of topic and its significance in
Japanese.
. See Chapter 9 for discussion of tte and nante.
. I am not claiming every case of topic markers, tte, nante, and nanka, is strongly
emotive. Some cases are interpreted with only mild 〈emotive meaning〉. Depending on
cotextual and contextual information integrated into the 〈topica〉, the 〈negotiative meaning〉
bears different types and intensities of emotivity. However, overall, use of nanka and nante
is more readily interpreted with emotivity than wa.
. In my earlier studies (Maynard 1980, 1981, 1987b), I made a close association between
the topic (i.e., thematic) strategy and the perspective. I used the term ‘‘staging’’ to describe
the discourse functional differences between thematized NP (i.e., NP wa) and non-thematized NP (i.e., NP ga). The distinction I make in this study between floating and grounded
topics discuss different aspects of topic phenomenon, although overall, I maintain that
discourse functions of the topic strategy are closely associated with staging.
Notes
. The concept of amae was first introduced by Doi (1971). Amae refers to psychological
and emotional dependence, and is etymologically related to the word amai ‘sweet’. Amae
resembles the feeling of warmth and security a child experiences in mother’s loving care.
Amae, above all, involves the desire to be (passively) cared for by another, encouraging a
strong sense of trust found among intimate group members.
. The reader may question whether the floating and grounded topics are limited to
pronominal topics alone. These phenomena are widespread. For example, a case of proper
noun; Otohiko wa itta (Yoshimoto 1992a: 26) ‘Otohiko said’, but when Otohiko is referenced in direct quotation, Otohiko appears without particles as in Ima, Otohiko rusu
(Yoshimoto 1992a: 100) ‘Now, Otohiko isn’t home’.
. Strictly speaking, mama tteba in (34) does not appear sentence-initially, but appears
after independent interjectional phrases only. Therefore, it can be said that mama tteba
occupies a sentence-initial position.
. I should add that in Japanese, one’s name is often used in place of a second-person
pronoun. In fact, one’s name is a preferred strategy, since the use of anata ‘you’ is ordinarily used only toward social subordinates, although there are some exceptions.
Chapter 8
. Repetition is evaluative in that it contributes to the point being made. Emphasis is an
evaluative aspect of repetition. Repetition is also generally known to engender the sense of
bonding and involvement among participants. I will discuss this in Chapter 16, referring to
Maynard (1983) and Tannen (1989).
. In original Japanese: Hito ya mono no jootai ya seishitsu o arawasu hyoogen ni tsuite,
odoroki ya kandoo nado no kantan no kimochi o arawasu. (Sunakawa et. al 1998: 113)
. Additional examples of exclamative koto-nominals include: Anata rashiku mo nai koto
o. Anata ni wa, kono kuni no kokumin o koofukuni suru chikara to, sekinin ga aru to yuu no
ni ‘Sure doesn’t sound like it is coming from you! You have the power and responsibility to
make people of this kingdom happy’ (Orihara 1998: 91), Sorya maa tsugoo no ii koto ‘How
convenient that is!’ (Momoi 1994: 14), and Yoku gozonji da koto ‘How well you know!’
(Kikuchi 1991: 143).
Chapter 9
. It should be noted that tte takes the form of te immediately preceding the syllabic n.
For example, Ima no hito/Mio-san te/Masato-san no/koibito na no . . .? ‘Is she, I mean Mio,
is she your lover, Masato?’ (Momoi 1994: 88). I use tte to represent both tte and te.
.
See Chapter 4 for Tannen’s discussion of involvement and related issues.
. I have also discussed Japanese quotation elsewhere (Maynard 1996a, 1997a, 1997c,
1998c). Refer to these studies regarding 〈emotive meanings〉 associated with quotation itself.
Notes
. See Chapter 11 for more information on the echo question, where I discuss da
appearing in echo questions.
. It should be added that the possible choice of ga in (11.4) is influenced by the predicate
itself, i.e., sukida ‘love’. Sukida is a predicate for ‘‘reactive’’ description (see Maynard 1990),
where the source of experience is often presented with ga and the experience itself follows.
. See Maynard (1997g) for a related discussion on the use of quotation for the purpose
of integrating multiple voices. Based on the analysis of graphologically marked quotation
appearing in newspaper columns I argue that the writer uses quotation which incorporates
assumed community voice with the aim of presenting one’s opinions and views more
convincingly than otherwise.
. Note that (19.4) substantiates Kuni-chan’s position through a quotation. The utterancefinal tte in (19.4) is cotextually and contextually understood as a quotative marker.
. The fact that the hesitant tte is associated with tte/to omou can be substantiated by the
following example in which an utterance ends with tte, only to be followed by a consequent
utterance starting with omoidasu ‘begin to think’.
(i.1) Aiko: 〈Moshikashitara/ Hasekura-kun wa/ Himeko mitaini/ akarukute
perhaps
Hasekura
T Himeko like
happy.and
genkina/ ko nohoo ga/ sukina n
ja-nai ka tte. . .〉
energetic girl more S like nom be-neg q qtt
‘Perhaps Hasekura prefers a happy and energetic girl like Himeko.’
(i.2)
〈omoidasu
to/ tomaranakutte . . .〉
begin.to.think when cannot.stop
‘I couldn’t stop thinking so . . .’ (Mizusawa 1992: 133)
Aiko expresses her feelings hesitantly in (i.1) ending with tte followed by three dots
indicating a lingering speech. The utterance (i.1) is followed, in (i.2), by the verb of
thinking. This is indicative of the fact that tte retains the quotative function even when it
appears at the utterance-final position.
Chapter 10
. Data (9) are taken from a television drama series that depicts Lord Oooka during the
Edo period (1603–1867 ad). As I explained in the section titled ‘‘On Data for Analysis’’
earlier in this book, the language used in period dramas is a mixture of old Japanese (not
authentic language of the Edo period) and contemporary Japanese. However, to the extent
that such mixed style is routinely consumed by the masses, it constitutes a part of the
contemporary Japanese cultural discourse. Data (9) are appropriate for analytical purposes
of the current work.
. It should be added that the replacing nan(i) is productive in the Japanese language,
creating a variety of expressions presenting unspecified items. Beyond the case of nan demo
mentioned in (8), such complex phrases abound; nan ka ‘somehow, somewhat’, nani bun
Notes
‘somewhat’, nani yara ‘somewhat’, nan da ka ‘somehow’, nani shiro ‘at any rate’, nan to naku
‘for some reason’, nani wa tomo are ‘whatever things are’, nan te yuu ka ‘what should I say’,
nan to itte mo ‘whatever said, by any means’, and so on. These nan(i)-related phrases create
the kind of discourse that avoids specificity for psychological, social, and interactional
reasons. For example, in ‘‘Ee, nan to naku soo yuu kanji ga suru n desu. Nan te yuu ka,
kanroku ga nijimideteiru to demo yuu no deshoo ka’’ ‘Yes, for some reason, I feel that way.
How should I put it, should I say that his dignity is shining through’ (Uchida 1997: 55), nan
to naku and nan te yuu ka enhance the speaker’s expressive intention to avoid specificity.
Chapter 11
. In original Japanese: ‘‘Da’’ wa taigen da toka ‘‘na, no’’ keiyooshi no gokan da toka, sono
hoka jojutsu no chikara no nai go ga jutsugo ni mochiirareru toki ni, sore o tasukete dooshi
no yoona hataraki o saseru mono desu. (Mio 1942: 197) Note that by no-adjectives Mio
refers to the [nominal + no + nominal] structure (e.g., gakkoo no sensei ‘school teacher’)
. In original Japanese: ‘‘Boku wa nihonjin da’’ no ‘‘nihonjin da’’ no bubun no igi wa
‘‘boku’’ to yuu ningen no kokuseki ga nan de aru ka o kyakkantekini nobeteiruni sugi-nai.
(Kindaichi 1978 [1953]: 230) It is interesting that Sakakura (1993) also points out that da
offers objective description. Sakakura argues that the Japanese language has shifted from a
rich modal system to a more simplified one, following the historical direction of
grammaticalization from subjective-to-objective expression.
. Saji divides sentences into two groups, topical and existential sentences. In original
Japanese: Jutsugobun wa jibutsu, genshoo no sonzai o arawasu songenbun to, shudai to
sore ni taisuru kaisetsu no bubun kara naru daijutsubun to ni wakareru. (Saji 1991: 63)
. In original Japanese: (. . .) ‘‘da’’ to sorezore no dooshi ni wa, aru taioo kankei ga aru to
kangaerareru. Tsumari dooshi o tsukau no wa, gengoteki, higengoteki kontekisuto ga
nakute imi ga rikaisare-nai baai ya, kontekisuto no umu ni kakawara-zu, dooshi no imi o
meijishitai baai deari, ‘‘da’’ wa, kontekisuto karashite sono imi ga akirakadeareba, dooshi
no ichi ni okareru no dearu. ‘‘Da’’ wa iwaba dooshi no daiyoo toshite, bun no jutsubu o
nasu no dearu. (Okutsu 1978: 20)
. Replacement theory has some problems. For example, the expression Ore wa unagi da
‘I will have an eel dish’ may be spoken when addressing the waiter at the restaurant. This
interpretation is reasonable when the speaker contrasts his wish to have an eel dish with
orders made by other members of the group. But if the speaker is alone and declares to the
waiter Ore wa unagi da, it is likely to be interpreted as ‘I am an eel’, which could be
embarrassing, to say the least.
Chapter 12
. The dewa-nai ka in (5) is a less colloquial version of ja-nai ka used for expressing
surprise discussed in Chapter 11.
Notes
. In original Japanese: Shutai wa aru handan o seitooan toshite sudeni mochi nagara,
sarani sore o kakuninsuru mokuteki de, kokoromi ni sore o hiteisuru gyakuno handan ga
seiritsushi-nai ka o toikakeru koto ga aru. (Yamaguchi 1990: 54)
. Refer to Maynard (1989) for an exploration of interactional thematic organization in
Japanese casual conversation.
. For example, similarly to CQs, n(o) da sentences appear rather frequently. See Maynard
(1992) in which I report that 25.82% of all utterances in a collection of published dialogues
are in the n(o) da form.
. SICs with no overt topic markers are specific cases of ‘‘floating topics’’ discussed in
Chapter 7.
Chapter 13
. As I did in Chapter 7, to make explicit the use of sensei, I use sensei where applicable
when glossing and translating into English.
. In my earlier studies (Maynard 1991a, 1991b, 1993a), based on the analysis of literary
text, I argued that the da and desu/masu mixture corresponds to the author’s discourse
organization, specifically distinguishing between background versus foregrounded information, respectively. The mixture of style in (2) can be understood in a similar way, i.e.,
desu/masu-marked utterances presenting main foregrounded points, while da-marked
utterances provide supportive background information.
. Janes (2000) reports that this model accurately predicts the distribution of optional yo
and ne in Japanese dramatic discourse.
Chapter 15
. Tensei Jingo ‘(lit.) Heaven’s Voice, Human Words’ is a daily newspaper essay column
written by an Asahi Shinbunsha writer. The column offers an (often philosophical) essay
related to topical or current social issues, seasonal thoughts or any other items of the
writer’s concern.
. Other Japanese studies arguing for a similar rhetorical organization in Japanese include
Kabashima (1979), Kaneoka (1989), Nagao (1992), Nishida (1992), and Ookuma (1984).
Also see Maynard (1996b, 1997a, 1998b) for additional discussion on this.
. Interestingly, the fact that the ki-shoo-ten-ketsu organization is explained through an
example in Japanese writings, rather than by an explicit explanation, is indicative of how
Japanese rhetoric develops. The meta-discourse (of explaining about rhetoric) itself exhibits
the kind of rhetorical preference (use of examples and analogy) characterized by the kishoo-ten-ketsu rhetorical movement.
. In fact the concept of ketsu is so broad it is often thought of as an element in a
narrative structure, for example, as Labov’s (1972) ‘‘result or resolution’’ as well as van
Notes
Dijk’s (1980) ‘‘resolution’’ and ‘‘evaluation.’’ Ketsu also offers a concluding statement that
signals the end of discourse, a sort of Labov’s (1972) ‘‘coda,’’ or Longacre and Levinsohn’s
(1978) ‘‘closure’’ and ‘‘finis.’’
. See Maynard (1992, 1997e), McGloin (1984), Noda (1990), Saji (1993), and Tanomura
(1990) for detailed discussion on the n(o) da structure.
. Talbot (1992) discusses three different voices of discourse population, i.e., interactants,
characters, and subject positions. The subject position, the concept relevant to the current
discussion, refers to the position represented by the conventional kind of voice associated
with the person’s position. For example, the editorial voice in a girls’ magazine could
assume multiple roles including that of an advertiser, facilitator, or the voice of a friend.
. Lest the reader assume that the Mini-Jihyoo headline takes the usual headline-subhead
structure, I should point out that the relationship between these two parts of the headline
differs from the hierarchical relation that the headline and the sub-head usually maintain.
Chapter 16
. See Maynard (2001a) for the discussion of various emotive expressions appearing in
Beautiful Life.
. It is also possible that Sena’s stylistic choice in (7) is motivated by Ryooko who is
present at the restaurant. Sena ordinarily speaks to Ryooko in the da style (presenting
manly self), and Sena chose da in (7), perhaps partly to maintain the manly image in front
of her.
. It should be noted that the term oneesan ‘elder sister’ is also customarily used when
addressing or referring to females who are (or appear to be) young and unmarried,
regardless of the speaker’s age.
. Refer to data (11) in Chapter 7.
Chapter 17
. In original Japanese: Kokoro ni ukanda naiyoo dake o, doo yuu shushi de ukabeta ka
o iwa-zuni hooridashite kikite ni yudaneru. Sakebu jiko o sarakedashite, sakenda kimochi
wa aite ni soozooshitemorau. (. . .) Nihongo ni oite wa mottomo chokusetsutekina
‘‘shukansei’’ wa sonoyoona shikata de hyoogensareteshimau no deatta. (Onoe 1999: 105)
. In original Japanese: Watashitachi nihonjin no tachiba kara oobeijin to hikakushita
baai, nihonjin no komyunikeeshon no ichiban ookina tokushoku wa, yahari, taijintekina
choowa to yuu koto da to omoimasu. (Haga 1985: 65)
. In original Japanese: Korera no gengo jishoo ga ichiyooni shimeshiteiru koto wa,
nihongo ga joohoo no ittei bubun o bamen ni makasete, kyakkantekina jojutsu o okonau
yori mushiro uchiwa de no yaritori ni juushin o oku taiwa gengo dearu to yuu jijitsu dearu.
(Yamanaka 1998: 218)
Notes
. The term uchi is associated with varied meanings, including in, inside, internal, private,
and hidden, in contrast with the term soto associated with out, outside, external, public, and
exposed. It is known that these changing but defining locations of social space offer the
primary organizing focus for Japanese communication. See Lebra (1976) and Bachnik and
Quinn (1994) for further discussion.
. In original Japanese: Sore wa noobutai to yuu zetsumyoona kuukan nioite, ba no
kinchoo no uchi ni shintai ni yotte kuukan o kirihiraki, imi o hasseisaseru. (Nakamura
1996: 300)
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Comics (Romance)
Fujii, Akemi.
1994. Kamisama Onegai!. Vol. 1. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Hayasaka, Ian.
1995. Pinky a Go Go. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Kamio, Yooko.
1994. Hana yori Dango. Vol. 8. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Makino, Michiko.
1992. Sora Yorimo Setsunaku. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Mizusawa, Megumi.
1992. Hime-chan no Ribon. Vol. 5. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
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1992. Sotsugyoo made no Sen-nichi. Tokyo: Jitsugyoo no Nihonsha.
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Comics (General)
Amagi, Seimaru, Kanai, Yoozaburoo and Satoo, Fumiya.
1998. Kindaichi Shoonen no Jikenbo, Vol. 1, Maken no Mori no Satsujin. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Anzai, Nobuyuki.
1998. Rekka no Honoo. Vol. 14. Tokyo: Shoogakkan.
Itsuki, Natsumi.
1998. Yagumo Tatsu. Vol. 9. Tokyo: Hakusuisha.
Sakura, Momoko.
1995. Chibi Maruko-chan. Vol. 13. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
1996. Chibi Maruko-chan. Vol. 14. Tokyo: Shuueisha
Shiroo, Masamune.
1991. Kookaku Kidootai. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Novels (Romance)
Aoyama, Erika.
1991. Natsuyasumi no Omajinai. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Asagiri, Yuu.
1992. Himawari Nikki. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Kobayashi, Miyuki.
1998. Issho Nara Saikoo. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Data references
Koizumi, Marie.
1998. Atashi no Wagamama o Kiite. . . Tokyo: Koodansha
Kurahashi, Yooko.
1992. Onna Tomodachi. Tokyo: Koodansha.
1995. Tenshi no Buresuretto. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Morimoto, Yukiko.
1995. Kitto Hatsukoi no Tanjoobi. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Orihara, Mito.
1998. Shiro no Yukimaihime. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Novels (Fantasy)
Kikuchi, Hideyuki.
1991. Gubbai Machiko. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Okano, Yuuji.
1991. Tooshi Kakusei. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Tanaka, Fumio.
1992. Takijoo Gendan. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Wakagi, Mio.
1991. Izumi Gensenki. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Yamazaki, Haruya.
1992. Sooji. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Novels (Mystery)
Ayatsuji, Yukito.
1992. Meirokan no Satsujin. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Kotani, Kyoosuke.
1997. Nagasaki Kirishitan Kaidoo Satsujin Jiken. Tokyo: Futaba Bunko.
Nishimura, Kyootaroo.
1991. Izu no Umi ni Kieta Onna. Tokyo: Koobunsha.
1998. Pari, Tookyoo Satsujin Ruuto. Tokyo: Shuueisha.
Soono, Tadao.
1992. Dangai no Onna Kanshikikan. Tokyo: Koobunsha.
Uchida, Yasuo.
1997. Shima Hantoo Satsujin Jiken. Tokyo: Koobunsha.
Novels (General)
Kawabata, Yasunari.
1966. Yukiguni. Tokyo: Oobunsha.
Shimizu, Ikkoo.
1998. Kooka. Tokyo: Tokuma Shoboo.
Tsuge, Hisayoshi.
1996. Hyoosetsu no ori. Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten.
Yoshimoto, Banana.
1991. Kitchin. Tokyo: Fukutake Shoten.
1992a. N.P. Tokyo: Kadokawa.
1992b. Painappurin. Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten.
1993. Tokage. Tokyo: Shinchosha
Data references
Translations
Backus, Megan.
1993. Kitchen (by Banana Yoshimoto). New York: Grove Press.
Schodt, Frederik and Smith, Toren.
1995. Ghost in the Shell. Milwaukie, OR: Dark Horse Comics.
Seidensticker, Edward G.
1956. Snow Country (by Yasunari Kawabata). New York: Berkeley Publishing
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Sherif, Ann.
1994. N.P. (by Banana Yoshimoto). New York: Grove Press.
1995. Lizard (by Banana Yoshimoto). New York: Grove Press.
Essays
Akino, Yutaka.
1992. Gorubachofu igo. Hon, July, 30–2. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Nishihara, Minoru.
1995. Piano no tanjoo. Hon, Aug. 44–5. Tokyo: Koodansha.
Newspaper articles
Asahi Shinbun. Mini-jihyoo, January, February, March, 1996.
Articles referred to in the text are the following.
Daikoo, Hiromoto. ‘‘Nisenyonen gorin: Rikkooho juuichitoshi wa shinkiroku’’. Jan. 29.
Hida, Atsushi. ‘‘Hayaru henshin maiko: Dentoo tono kyoozon ga kadai ni’’. Feb. 2.
Inaka, Yoshiaki. ‘‘Seshuugiin doko made: Oyako shutsuba mo fuehajimeru’’. Jan. 17.
Ishida, Yukio. ‘‘Nihon no genshiryoku: Araryooji de toomeisei takame yo’’. Jan. 19.
Kasuya, Takushi. ‘‘Juusakokurei ninenme: ‘‘Noo’’ no kimochi, minnade’’. Jan. 12.
Senda, Akihiko. ‘‘Guroobuza no fukugen: Engeki ni yasei fukikomu ka’’. Mar. 8.
Shimada, Kazuyuki. ‘‘Kakujikken hantai: Shoosuusha no shiten o taisetsuni’’. Jan. 5
Takahashi, Seitaroo. ‘‘Oozumoo ni shindeshi: Gendaikko sodateru hairyo o’’. Mar. 4.
Tomaru, Shuuichi. ‘‘Reisen ga owatte: Riidaa yori ko no jikaku’’. Jan. 8.
Yamada, Yuuichi. ‘‘Puroyakyuu no nenpoochootei: Senshu wa doodooto shuchoose yo’’.
Feb. 7.
Yamagishi, Shunsuke. ‘‘Daigakuin no kakujuu: Gakubukyooiku, teusuni suruna’’. Feb. 5.
Yukiyama Shin’ichi. ‘‘Doku no heitenjikanhoo: Toogoo de yureru kuni no kosei’’. Jan. 10.
Television programs
Chibi Maruko-chan. Broadcast by Fujisankei Communications Iinternational, Inc., NY, May
30, 1999.
Oda Nobunaga. Broadcast by ENTEL, NY, January 3, 1999.
Oooka Echizen. Broadcast by TBS, October 5, 1992.
Television drama series
Long Vacation. Broadcast by Fuji Television in 1996. Video. Tokyo: Pony Canyon.
Majo no Jooken. Broadcast by TBS in 1999. Video. Tokyo: Pony Canyon.
Data references
Novelized drama series
Kitagawa Eriko (and novelization by Yamanaka, Hanami).
1996. Rongu Bakeeshon. Tokyo: Kadokawa.
Yukawa, Kazuhito (and novelization by Shimazaki, Fumi).
1999. Majo no Jooken. Tokyo: Sony Magazines.
Author index
A
Abelen, E.‚337
Abelson, R.‚85
Adachi, T.‚233
Akatsuka, N.‚40, 411
Akino, Y.‚267
Amagasaki, A.‚107, 108
Amagi, S.‚202
Anzai, N.‚205.‚206
Aoyama, E.‚183
Aristotle‚5, 6, 48, 87
Asagiri, Y.‚83, 151, 152, 218, 227, 229, 255,
268
Athanasiadou, A.‚192, 248
Austin, J.ƒL.‚410
Ayatsuji, Y.‚161, 253, 255
B
Bach, K.‚249
Bachnik, J.ƒM.‚434
Backus, M.‚150, 278, 288, 289, 290, 291, 301
Bain, A.‚352, 353
Bakhtin, M.ƒM.‚177, 247, 267
Bally, C.‚25, 26, 35
Barnlund, D.ƒC.‚112
Berque, A.‚404, 414, 415
Besnier, N.‚44, 167
Brown, G.‚103, 427
Buber, M.‚11
Bühler, K.‚23, 63, 64
Burke, K.‚15
C
Caffi, C.‚26, 27, 28, 46, 425, 426
Caponigri, R.‚12
Carroll, N.‚59, 85, 97, 98, 313, 333, 334
Chafe, W.‚45, 46, 103, 209
Christensen, F.‚353
Clark, H.ƒH.‚103
Cook, H.ƒM.‚293, 401
Cooper, J.ƒM.‚5
D
Daikoo, H.‚349
Daneš, F.‚24, 25, 103, 342
Daniels, F.ƒJ.‚218
Dazai, O.‚156
Declerk, R.‚223
Delin, J.‚223
de Saussure, F.‚25, 26, 54, 59, 197
Descartes, R.‚11, 87
Dilworth, D.ƒA.‚75
Doi, T.‚29, 401, 429
Downing, A.‚103
Drescher, M.‚30
Duranti, A.‚407, 427
Dušková, L.‚24
E
Endoo, H.‚360
Endoo, O.‚167
F
Fauconnier, G.‚85
Fillmore, C.‚85
Firbas, J.‚103, 342
Foolen, A.‚30
Foucault, M.‚415
Freed, A.ƒF.‚249
Fujii, A.‚178, 241
Fujitani, M.‚109, 427
Fujitani, N.‚32, 33, 34, 56, 150, 152,
412
G
Givón, T.‚273, 274
Goffman, E.‚212, 213, 400
Goodwin, C.‚427
Goody, E.ƒN.‚192, 248
Grimshaw, J.‚194, 210
Gumperz, J.‚46, 85
Günthner, S.‚30
H
Haga, Y.‚278, 400, 433
Halliday, M.ƒA.ƒK.‚44, 103
Hamaguchi, E.‚401, 402
Harnish, R.ƒM.‚249
Hasada, R.‚30
Hasan, R.‚103
Haviland, S.ƒE.‚103
Hayasaka, I.‚172
Hayashi, S.‚221
Hida, A.‚349
Hinds, J.‚337, 338, 401
Honna, N.‚337, 338, 339
Author index
Hübler, A.‚26, 30, 31, 47
Hymes, D.‚85
I
Ichikawa, H.‚59, 85, 90, 91, 95, 106, 427
Ide, S.‚360
Ikegami, Y.‚106, 113, 335, 397
Inaka, Y.‚344, 345
Innis, R.ƒE.‚23, 63, 64
Inoue, K.‚167
Ishida, Y.‚345
Ishigami, T.‚124, 125, 136, 428
Ishimori, N.‚342
Itani, R.‚233
Itsuki, N.‚121, 202, 208
Iwasaki, S.‚39, 40, 102, 411
J
Jakobson, R.‚23, 44
Janes, A.‚432
Janney, R.ƒW.‚26, 27, 28, 46, 425, 426
Johnson, M.‚28, 66
Jones, K.‚400
K
Kabashima, T.‚432
Kaburaki, E.‚39, 402
Kamada, O.‚168
Kamio, A.‚70, 293
Kamio, Y.‚175, 185
Kanai, Y.‚202
Kanamaru, F.‚129
Kaneoka, T.‚432
Kaplan, R.ƒB.‚337
Kasuya, T.‚351
Kawabata, Y.‚396
Kawanishi, Y.‚401
Keenan, E.ƒO.‚103
Kiefer, F.‚248
Kikuchi, H.‚161, 256, 271, 429
Kindaichi, H.‚219, 220, 431
Kirkpatrick, A.‚337, 343
Kitagawa, C.‚221, 293
Kitagawa E.‚420
Kitahara, Y.‚228
Kobayashi, H.‚337, 339
Kobayashi, M.‚136, 137, 140, 141, 142, 144,
147, 161, 240
Koerner, K.‚64
Koizumi, M.‚144, 158, 161
Kotani, K.‚161, 209
Kövesces, Z.‚28, 29
Koyano, T.‚120
Kubota, R.‚337, 340
Kuno, S.‚39, 102, 103, 411
Kurahashi, Y.‚154, 161, 238, 243, 254, 257, 258
Kuroda, S.-Y.‚39, 412
L
Labov, W.‚44, 432, 433
Lakoff, G.‚28, 85, 86
Lakoff, R.ƒT.‚188, 248, 255, 256
Langacker, R.ƒW.‚85
Lebra, T.ƒS.‚68, 69, 434
Levinsohn, S.‚433
Levinson, S.ƒC.‚197
Li, C.ƒN.‚101
Liefländer-Koistinen, L.‚337, 341
Lighter, J.ƒE.‚211
Lighton, S.ƒB.‚6
Longacre, R.‚433
Lyons, J.‚249, 252
M
McGloin, N.ƒH.‚258, 293, 369, 433
McVeigh, B.‚30
Macaulay, R.ƒK.ƒS.‚167
Makino, M.‚259
Makino, S.‚279
Malinowski, B.‚85
Mann, W.ƒC.‚70
Mathesius, V.‚23, 102, 342
Matsuki, K.‚28
Mayes, P.‚189
Maynard, S.ƒK.‚57, 58, 71, 88, 89, 102, 108, 111,
113, 118, 134, 165, 168, 178, 189, 191, 195,
217, 227, 228, 245, 258, 269, 277, 279, 280,
293, 295, 322, 337, 352, 398, 399, 403, 409,
427, 428, 429, 430, 432, 433
Merleau-Ponty, M.‚65, 66, 91
Messaris. P.‚313
Mikami, A.‚167
Miller, M.‚68
Minami, F.‚195, 250
Minkowski, E.‚95
Mio, I.‚76, 77, 78, 84, 102, 104, 105, 219, 279,
426, 431
Miura, T.‚102
Miyaji, Y.‚195, 250, 251, 261
Miyazaki, K.‚59, 85, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97,
106, 108, 213, 427
Mizusawa, M.‚184, 268, 430
Momoi, I.‚198, 204, 429
Monane, T.ƒA.‚400
Mori, A.‚67, 68, 405, 424
Morimoto, Y.‚161, 225, 229, 230, 236, 237
Morishige, S.‚110
Morita, Y.‚396
N
Nagano, M.‚76, 81, 82, 337
Nagao, T.‚432
Nakada, I.‚32, 34, 37, 56, 150, 423
Nakada, S.‚195, 250, 268
Nakamura, A.‚156, 157
Author index
Nakamura, Y.‚14, 15, 16, 17, 42, 43, 73, 74, 75,
76, 80, 94, 404, 415, 416, 423, 425, 426, 434
Neisser, U.‚66, 424
Nishida, K.‚73, 74, 75, 80, 82, 83, 416, 425
Nishida, N.‚432
Nishihara, M.‚266
Nishihara, S.‚337, 338
Nishimura, K.‚161, 202
Nitta, Y.‚195, 280
Noda, M.‚433
Numata, H.‚402
O
Oberlander, J.‚223
Ochs, E.‚44, 45
Ogasawara, R.‚400
Oishi, T.‚293
Okano, Y.‚161, 263, 268, 274
Okutsu, K.‚224, 431
Olbrechts-Tyteca, L.‚87, 88
Omaggio, A.ƒC.‚353
Ono, T.‚332
Onodera, N.ƒO.‚31
Onoe, K.‚107, 396, 433
Ookubo, T.‚220
Ookuma, G.‚432
Oono, S.‚110
Orihara, M.‚134, 136, 137, 138, 142, 143, 161,
186, 202, 204, 210, 238
P
Paparella, E.ƒL.‚11, 13
Parmentier, R.ƒJ.‚60
Peirce, C.ƒS.‚4, 60
Perelman, Ch.‚87, 88
Plato‚97
Polanyi, M.‚95, 108
Pomerantz, A.‚197
Prince, E.‚103
Q
Quinn, C.ƒJ.‚434
R
Redeker, G.‚337
Reynolds, K.ƒA.‚360
Rogers, L.ƒW.‚400
Ross, C.‚167
Rousseau, J.-J.‚22, 36, 47, 48
Rumelhart, D.ƒE.‚85
Rumsey, A.‚410, 411
S
Sacks, H.‚192
Sadock, J.ƒM.‚195
Saji, K.‚152, 221, 222, 223, 431, 433
Sakakura, A.‚250, 431
Sakuma, K.‚76, 77, 78, 104, 105, 426
Sakura, M.‚128, 133, 146, 199, 201, 207, 229,
240, 241, 244
Satake, H.‚189
Satoo, F.‚202
Seidensticker, E.ƒG.‚396
Senda, A.‚348
Schaeffer, J.ƒD.‚17, 18, 19
Schank, R.ƒC.‚85
Schegloff, E.‚192
Schieffelin, B.ƒB.‚44, 45, 103
Schiffrin, D.‚70, 343
Schodt, F.‚123, 126, 127, 192, 193, 208, 232,
234, 235, 237, 241, 242, 428
Scollon, R.‚89, 399
Sherif, A.‚123, 139, 143, 278, 292, 302, 303
Shimada, K.‚347
Shimazaki, F.‚419
Shimizu, I.‚161, 205, 206, 225
Shiroo, M.‚123, 126, 192, 193, 208, 232, 234,
235, 237, 241, 242, 428
Silverstein, M.‚4, 406, 409, 410
Smith, T.‚123, 126, 127, 192, 193, 208, 232,
234, 235, 237, 241, 242, 428
Solomon, R.ƒC.‚40, 41, 42
Soono, T.‚153, 161, 162, 260, 262, 265, 268
Sperber, D.‚70, 194, 195, 248
Stankiewicz, E.‚44
Strauss, S.‚401
Sunakawa, Y.‚152, 168, 239, 240, 242, 243, 429
Suzuki, A.‚32, 35, 36, 80
Suzuki, M.‚360
Suzuki, S.‚180
Suzuki, T.‚386
Szatrowski, P.‚400
T
Takahashi, S.‚436
Takahashi, T.‚76
Takasaki, M.‚360
Takeoka, M.‚32, 34, 37, 56, 150, 423
Talbot, M.‚345, 433
Tanaka, F.‚153, 161, 273
Tannen, D.‚45, 46, 167, 190, 429
Tanomura, T.‚240, 433
Terakura, H.‚140
Thompson, S.ƒA.‚70, 101, 337
Tirkkonen-Condit, S.‚337, 341
Tokieda, M.‚66, 76, 78, 79, 80, 81, 219,
220, 232, 249, 250, 252, 266, 343, 424,
426
Tokuda, M.‚110, 427
Tomaru, S.‚345
Traugott, E.ƒC.‚30, 31
Travis, C.‚30
Trnka, B.‚23, 24
Tsuchihashi, M.‚293
Author index
Tsuge, H.‚197, 209
Tsumugi, T.‚188
U
Uchida, Y.‚161, 162, 196, 204, 205, 207, 210,
431
Ueno, N.‚59, 85, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 106,
108, 213, 427
Uyeno, T.‚292
V
Vachek, J.‚24
van Dijk, T.ƒA.‚432–3
Verschueren, J.‚27
Vico, G.‚11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 415,
416
Volek, B.‚25, 61, 62, 63
Vygotsky, L.ƒS.‚134, 135, 177
W
Wakagi, M.‚161, 253, 271
Watanabe, M.‚293
Watsuji, T.‚67, 401, 404, 424
Weil, H.‚102, 106
Werlich, E.‚340, 341, 342
Werth, P.‚30
Wertsch, J.ƒV.‚135, 177
Whorf, B.ƒL.‚409
Wierzbicka, A.‚29, 30, 195
Wilson, D.‚70, 194, 195, 248
Wisse, J.‚5, 6
Woolard, K.‚409
Y
Yamada, Yoshio.‚35, 36, 37, 38, 107, 124, 136,
151, 423, 424
Yamada, Yuuichi.‚347
Yamagishi, S.‚347
Yamaguchi, G.‚31, 195, 196, 210, 211, 250,
252, 257, 432
Yamanaka, H.‚420
Yamanaka, K.‚402, 433
Yamanashi, M.‚424
Yamazaki, H.‚155, 156, 160, 161
Yamazaki, Y.‚102
Yano, Y.‚195, 250
Yoshida, E.‚332
Yoshida, K.‚109, 110
Yoshimoto, B.‚123, 139, 143, 150, 278, 288,
289, 290, 291, 292, 301, 302, 303, 429
Yukawa, K.‚419
Yukiyama, S.‚348
Yule, G.‚103, 427
Z
Zwicky, A.ƒM.‚195
Subject index
A
affect‚21, 41, 43–7, 48
definition of‚44
affect key‚45
affective involvement‚24
[agent-does]‚54, 83, 101, 108, 105, 111, 113,
154, 226, 244, 394
in contrast with topic-comment‚105, 108
amae‚29, 141, 145, 163, 288, 310, 332, 401–2,
429
in Doi’s view‚401–2, 429, 429
Wierzbicka’s characterization of‚29–30
answer‚248, 252
see also reply
anti-sign‚194, 196–8, 213, 256, 327, 394, 412
definition of‚197–8
nan(i) as‚198–201
arawashi (appearance/manifestation)‚33, 37,
56, 412
see also yuu
assertive attitude‚228–33
conclusive‚234–9
see also telling-it-as-is attitude
assertiveness‚165, 166, 182–9
see also tte
B
ba (place)‚76–8
Mio’s view of‚77–8
Sakuma’s view of‚76–7
see also place
back channel‚330, 399
bamen (situated place)‚76, 78–81, 82, 416
Nagano’s view of‚81–2
Tokieda’s view of‚78–81
see also place
basho (place/topos)‚73–6, 80, 81, 404
and Tokieda’s situated place‚78–81
in Nishida’s philosophy‚73–6, 80
BECOME-language‚106
see also DO-language
binary combination‚67
binary rapport‚67
boyish self‚70, 357–8, 363, 368, 369, 370, 372
see also self
C
Cartesian view of language‚4
certitude‚18–19, 20, 56, 82, 91, 412
see also certum
certum‚18–19
closeness‚165, 166, 172, 179–82, 189, 190
see also tte
〈cognitive place〉‚53–4, 308
definition of‚53–4
〈informational meaning〉 in‚54
see also place
cognitive semantics‚21, 28–30, 48, 66, 85, 86
anger metaphor in‚28–9
emotion in‚29
comment
conclusive‚347–52
definition of‚102–4, 342–3
emotive‚9, 114, 217, 269, 274, 277, 412
see also emotive comment, topic-comment
dynamic
C(ommentary) Q(uestion)‚9, 245, 247,
258–69
across different genres‚268
definition of‚258–62
frequency of‚268
function of‚263–6
versus O(rdinary) Q(uestion)‚258–63
see also O(rdinary) Q(uestion)
C(ommentary) S(entence)‚341, 344–54
definition of‚344
in Mini Jihyoo newspaper articles‚344–54
sequencing of‚347–54
sequencing of, in danraku‚352–4
see also O(rdinary) S(entence)
〈communication of attitudes toward others〉‚53, 57, 63, 129, 166, 225, 247, 256,
274, 298, 315, 318, 324–6, 385, 389
through commentary question‚324–6
through tte‚166
conceptualization of event‚260–2
conclusive comment‚349, 351, 352, 355
constructed dialogue‚167, 190, 411
〈construction of proposition〉‚53, 57, 226, 315,
317, 318
context of situation‚85
contextual behaviorism‚41–2
contextualization cue‚85
conversation analysis‚71, 226
〈coordination of joint utterances〉‚53, 57, 63,
326, 329–33
Subject index
criterially prefocused‚98, 313
see also 〈emotive focus〉
D
da‚9, 217–39, 245, 394, 412
as ji‚220–1
as shi‚220–1
emotive‚217, 228–39, 394
and echo question‚233–6, 238
and quotation‚236–9
definition of‚226–7
meaning of‚228–39
informational‚217, 226–8
definition of‚226
situationality of‚224–6
stativity of‚221–3
da style‚9, 277, 278–80, 304, 360–86
and low awareness of 〈you〉‚279
versus desu/masu style‚278–80
see also stylistic shift
danraku (paragraph)‚352–4
organization of‚352–3
sequencing of sentence in‚353–4
data‚72, 117–21, 419–21
and theory‚72, 117
information on select‚419–21
selected for analysis‚118–21
dekigoto (event)‚105, 106, 112, 113, 395
desirability‚38, 40
desu
emotive‚384–6
desu/masu style‚9, 84, 277, 278–80, 304,
360–86
and high awareness of 〈you〉‚279
in fiction‚288–92
versus da style‚278–80
see also stylistic shift
dialogicality‚267
hidden‚247, 266–8, 272, 275
dictum‚25
discourse analysis‚71, 226
discourse Modality‚58
definition of‚58
in contrast with linguistic emotivity
58–9
distance‚165, 166, 179–82, 189, 190
see also tte
DO-language‚106
see also BECOME-language
E
echo question‚170–1, 233–6, 238
echoing‚33, 58, 110, 150, 412
emotive‚3–4, 49, 58, 71, 120, 166, 217, 248,
263, 321, 330, 331, 332, 333
definition of‚3
types of‚3–4
emotive comment‚9, 114, 217, 269, 274, 277,
412
da as‚217–45
interrogative as‚247–75
ja-nai as‚217–45
stylistic shift as‚277–304
emotive da
see da
〈emotive focus〉‚8, 59, 98, 307, 313, 333, 334
emotive interrogative
see interrogative
emotive ja-nai
see ja-nai
〈emotive meaning〉‚25, 53 54, 92, 412
definition of‚54
in conversation‚88–9
interpretation of‚54, 85, 88–4
see also meaning
emotive nan(i)‚9, 191, 193
see also nan(i)
emotive nominal
see nominal
〈emotive place〉‚54, 318–26
emotive topic‚9, 123, 143, 147, 149, 152, 163,
165, 174, 190, 191, 212, 412
nan(i) as‚191–213
nominal as‚149–63
quotative topic as‚165–90
sentential nominal as‚155–63
vocative as‚123–47
emotivity‚3, 21, 35, 38, 44, 48, 49, 62, 63, 71,
83, 84, 90, 113, 114, 123, 131, 133, 134,
137, 138, 140, 141, 166, 177, 189, 193,
230, 239, 247, 260, 264, 270, 280, 289,
290, 307, 310, 313, 325, 329, 334, 343,
345, 355, 357, 371, 393, 402, 412
definition of‚3
textual‚92–4
〈empathetic conformity〉‚8, 59, 85, 90–1, 96,
97, 106, 113, 123, 147, 163, 170–1, 182,
287, 323, 331, 383, 393, 394, 401, 402,
405
Ichikawa’s explanation of‚90–1
empathy‚38–9
Kuno’s view of‚39
encapsulation-of-happening‚105, 106, 178,
183, 315
see also dekigoto
equal self‚70, 358, 363, 375
see also self
ethos‚4
see also logos, pathos
exclamativity‚210–11
and interrogativity‚210–11
〈expression of emotional attitude〉‚53, 57, 63,
129, 155, 166, 191, 203, 218, 227, 232,
247, 288, 298, 315, 318–24, 389
Subject index
expressive function‚43, 44, 64, 71, 194
expressivity‚3, 35, 45, 83, 105, 111, 113, 123, 127,
128, 145, 255, 266, 289, 335, 361, 413
F
〈feeling selfƒ〉‚10, 56, 67, 68, 70, 101, 111, 113,
114, 117, 136, 145, 166, 226, 239, 266,
275, 289, 393, 395–8, 407, 417
see also self
filler‚172–3, 197, 207, 208, 209, 210, 221, 225,
322
floating topic‚123, 140, 141, 142, 146, 147,
194
see also grounded topic
focus
emotive‚8, 59, 98
person‚401
situation‚401
function
Bühler’s view of‚63–4
in Prague Linguistic Circle‚23–4
in the Place of Negotiation theory‚63–4
Functional Sentence Perspective‚27, 70, 342
futaku‚8, 96, 101, 106–9, 114, 123, 133, 147,
152, 155, 157, 158, 160, 163, 165, 166,
170, 174, 180, 183, 190, 194, 212–13,
271, 275, 315, 319, 334–5, 355, 394,
395, 397, 405, 412
Amagasaki’s view of‚107–8
and topic-comment dynamic‚108
definition of‚107–8
effect‚108–9, 145, 147, 158, 165, 166, 194,
213, 223, 260, 275, 319, 332, 333
Fujitani’s view of‚109
see also optical-world-first strategy, 〈perspective of becoming〉, 〈perspectivized
appearance〉, tacit knowledge
G
gender‚368, 388, 393
and identity‚360, 368, 370, 372, 393
gendered self‚354–8, 360–81, 372, 386
in Long Vacation‚358–79
see also self
Gengo Katei-setsu‚76, 78–81
see also Language-as-Process theory
genshoobun (sentence of immediate description)‚104–5
girlish self‚70, 357–8, 359, 366, 370, 371
see also self
grammaticalization‚30–2, 63
grounded topic‚140, 142, 143, 147
H
handanbun (sentence of judgment)‚102,
104–5
head movement‚89
headline-comment‚346–7, 350, 351, 353
headlilne-topic‚346–7, 350, 356
hesitation‚165, 166, 182–9
see also tte
hidden dialogicality
in commentary question‚266–8, 275
I
ideology‚396, 416, 413
linguistic‚10, 20, 409–11
of logos‚413
of pathos‚411–14
〈I-it〉‚11, 28, 29
indexical‚4, 9, 61, 63, 125, 134, 193, 212, 217,
218, 224, 225, 226, 235, 238, 241, 245,
247, 275, 301, 319, 333, 359, 361, 366,
384, 388, 394, 402, 405, 412
related to culture‚4, 406–7
sign in the Place of Negotiation theory‚61,
63
Silverstein’s view of‚4, 406–7
indexicality‚397
informational da
see da
informational interrogative
see interrogative
informational ja-nai
see ja-nai
〈informational meaning〉‚53–4, 412
definition of‚53–4
see also meaning
informational nan(i)
see also nan(i)
inner self, you-reaching‚69, 84, 129, 252, 287,
292, 295, 296–8, 300, 301, 304, 325, 384
inner speech‚134, 177
inner topic‚171–4
inner vocative‚133–7, 146
〈interactional meaning〉‚54
definition of‚54
interpretation of‚54
see also meaning
interactional particle‚292–5, 301–4, 326
ya‚127
yo‚84, 128, 136, 225, 227, 277, 295–301
ze‚368–9
〈interactional place〉‚53, 54, 326–33
definition‚54
see also place
〈interactional selfƒ〉‚53, 56, 68–9, 117, 190,
260, 266, 275, 290, 357, 358, 379, 386
definition of‚69
socially-bound‚69, 358, 372, 384
see also self
interpretation
of emotive meaning in conversation‚88–92
of textual emotivity‚92–4
Subject index
interrogative‚247–75, 412
emotive‚247, 275, 412
informational‚247
metacommunicative‚251, 252, 255–6,
274
past studies on‚248–51
self-acceptance‚251, 252, 274, 319
self-inquiry‚251, 252–5, 274
interrogativity‚194–6, 210–11
and exclamativity‚210–11
intersubjective‚86, 95, 395
nature of meaning‚70–1, 86
intersubjectivity‚70–1
intimacy‚280, 286, 287, 288, 304, 348, 371
involvement‚21, 41, 45–7, 48, 167, 381
〈I-you〉‚28
J
ja-nai‚9, 239–44
emotive‚242
meaning of‚242–4
past studies on‚239–42
ji‚76, 79, 80, 81, 219–21, 250, 256
Tokieda’s definition of‚79
see also shi
K
kakarimusubi (particle/adverb-predicate
correspondence)‚31, 34, 109–11, 139,
272
and futaku‚109–11
and topic-comment dynamic‚110–11
history of‚109–10
poetic effect of‚110–11
kandoo kantai (vocative-emotive phrase expressing deep and surging emotion)‚38, 124, 136, 151
kantai no ku (vocative/emotive phrase)‚36–8,
107, 124, 413
ketsu
see ki-shoo-ten-ketsu
ki
see ki-shoo-ten-ketsu
kiboo kantai (vocative/emotive phrase expressing desire)‚38
ki-shoo-ten-ketsu‚113, 337–9, 342–3, 348, 353,
355
knowledge
tacit‚95–6
types of‚11–12
Knowledge of Pathos‚10, 13–16, 19, 21, 25,
49, 83, 212, 409, 412, 413, 414, 416
kokoro no koe (voices from the heart)‚34–6
criticism of‚38
Suzuki’s‚35–6
see also voices from the heart
koto‚149, 152, 153, 154–5, 168
L
language-as-Process theory‚78–81
see also Gengo Katei-setsu
linguistic emotivity‚3–4, 9, 20, 21, 25, 29, 32,
38, 40, 43, 45, 48, 49, 58, 65, 68, 70, 71,
83, 109, 117, 120, 128, 147, 154, 157,
163, 172, 182, 201, 211, 212, 217, 220,
249, 280, 304, 307, 312, 315, 318, 320,
327, 329, 337, 345, 357, 379, 388, 393,
394, 395–8, 402, 407, 409, 411, 412,
413, 414, 416
and the 〈feeling selfƒ〉‚359–98
linguistic ideology‚10, 20, 76, 393, 409–11,
413, 417
Rumsey’s study on‚410–11
Silverstein’s view of‚409–10
logos‚4, 29, 38, 40, 42, 44, 49, 56, 72, 82,
83, 84, 117, 167, 333, 398, 415,
416
ideology of‚10–11, 413
rhetoric of‚111–13, 341
see also pathos
M
〈management of participatory action〉‚53, 57,
63, 191, 207, 210, 324–9
manly self‚70, 352–8, 359, 366, 368, 372, 377,
378, 379, 388
see also self
meaning‚54–5
emotive‚53, 54, 413
informational‚53, 54, 413
interactional‚53, 54, 413
interpreting‚53, 54–5, 85, 88–94
negotiative‚53, 54, 56–7, 413
potential‚53, 54, 413
see also 〈emotive meaning〉, 〈informational
meaning〉, 〈interactional meaning〉,
〈negotiative meaning〉
metacommunicative interrogative‚251, 255–6,
274
see also interrogative
metapragmatics‚409–10, 414
mode pur‚26, 28, 30
mode vécu‚26, 30, 48
modus‚25
multi-voicedness‚177
N
nanƒ(iƒ)‚191–213, 318, 321, 322, 327, 394,
412
and futaku‚194
and psychological processes‚201–2
anticipation‚194, 201–2
recognition‚194, 202
as an anti-sign‚196–201
emotive‚191, 193, 320, 332, 394
Subject index
nanƒ(iƒ) (cont.)
〈emotive meaning〉 of‚203–7
confrontational attitude‚194, 205–6, 209,
321
critical attitude‚194, 206–7, 209, 321
exclamation‚194, 204–5, 209
surprise‚194, 203–4, 209
informational‚191–3
〈interactional meaning〉 of‚207–10
negative response‚194, 209–10
replacing utterance‚194, 208–9
vocative‚194, 207–8
〈potential meaning〉 of‚191–2
narrated place‚84, 128, 141, 228, 278, 289,
290, 291, 306, 307, 320
narrating place‚128, 141, 142, 143, 228, 278,
289, 290, 292, 304, 306, 307, 320
negotiation‚55–7
definition of‚55
of meaning‚56–7, 88–92
place of‚53
〈negotiative meaning〉‚34, 54, 56–7, 333, 412
definition of‚56
interpretation of‚54–5
see also meaning
Noh‚33, 404–5
nominal‚149–63, 315
emotive‚9, 149–63
frequency of‚162–3
exclamative‚149, 150–5, 161, 163, 318
frequency of‚161–2
sentential‚149, 155–61, 163
effect of‚155–7, 160
frequency of‚162–3
nominalization‚154, 261
and topic-comment dynamic‚154
with koto‚149, 152, 153, 154–5, 332
with no‚153, 154–5, 261, 264, 268
O
optical-world-first strategy‚93, 95, 98, 108
and tacit knowledge‚95
futaku based on‚108
see also 〈perspectivized appearance〉, 〈perspective of becoming〉
Oƒ(rdinary) Q(uestion)‚258–60
see also C(ommentary) Q(uestion)
Oƒ(rdinary) S(entence)‚344, 353–4
see also C(ommentary) S(entence)
other-oriented self identification‚386
P
particle‚127, 128, 225, 302, 320
final‚293
see also interactional particle
pathos‚4–7, 10, 36, 38, 42, 44, 48, 49, 56, 72,
84, 117, 190, 307, 333, 335, 361, 393,
398, 411, 413, 415, 416
Aristotle’s‚4–6
definition of‚7
ideology of‚4–8, 21, 211
in drama‚357–89
in Japanese culture‚403–7
in text‚354–5
knowledge of‚10, 13–16, 19, 21, 25, 49, 83,
409, 412, 413, 416
rhetoric of‚8, 9, 101, 111–14, 119, 150, 155,
163, 190, 212, 213, 245, 275, 290, 335,
337, 342, 344, 354–5, 393, 395, 397,
402
see also logos
person focus‚401
person reference‚386–8
〈perspective of becoming〉‚8, 59, 85, 93–4, 96,
97, 98, 106, 113, 123, 138, 147, 156,
212, 307, 313, 317, 383, 394, 395, 402
and futaku‚107–9, 405
Miyazaki and Ueno’s explanation‚93–4
perspective principle‚39
〈perspectivized appearance〉‚8, 59, 85, 93, 96,
98, 106, 113, 123, 138, 147, 152, 156,
163, 170, 212, 289, 319, 335, 383, 394,
395
and futaku‚108
Miyazaki and Ueno’s explanation‚93
place‚73–84
cognitive‚53–4, 308
concept of place‚72–6, 398–403, 407
dimensions of‚53–5
emotive‚53, 54
in Japanese culture‚403–5
in Japanese discourse studies‚398–403
in Japanese language studies‚76–8, 81–2
Mio’s view‚77–8
Sakuma’s view‚76–7
in Nishida’s philosophy‚73–6
in the Place of Negotiation theory‚82–4
interactional‚53, 54, 326–33
juxtaposition of‚380–1
narrated‚141, 289, 304
narrating‚141, 143
situated‚78–81
Place of Negotiation theory‚9, 21, 28, 48, 53–
72, 81, 85, 86, 96, 98, 101, 117, 120,
128, 132, 133, 134, 155, 156, 167, 197,
217, 226, 245, 247, 258, 307, 333, 335,
337, 345, 355, 393, 401, 402, 409, 411,
414, 416
and sensus communis‚58
concept of person/speaker in‚65–6
concept of place in‚82–4
concept of self in‚68
function in‚57, 63–4
interpretive principles in‚90–9
Subject index
Place of Negotiation theory (cont.)
methodology in‚70–2
overview‚53–6
place-of-view editing‚333–5, 394
example of‚334–5
in the Place of Negotiation theory‚333–5
playful self‚70, 357–8, 350, 386, 388
see also self
point-of-view editing‚98, 313, 333–5
example of‚310–13
〈potential meaning〉‚54, 413
see also meaning
pragmatics‚21, 27–8, 70, 76, 226
view of emotion in‚27–8
Prague Linguistic Circle‚21, 23–5, 47, 102–3
emotion in‚24–5
functionalism in‚23–4
Q
quasi-inductive‚338, 341, 355
question‚247–75
commentary‚9, 258–69
ordinary‚258–60
past studies on‚248–51
quotation
and other’s voice‚174–6
and topic presentation‚168–71
functions of‚165
past studies on‚167–8
quotative topic‚9, 139, 165–90, 412
function of‚166, 174
meaning of‚166
tte marking‚179–89
see also topic
R
〈recognition of objects〉‚53, 57, 308–15
relationality‚393, 403
definition of‚403
in Japanese society‚403
reply‚248, 252
see also answer
Rhetoric
of Logos‚111–13, 341
characteristics of‚112
of Pathos‚8, 9, 101, 111–14, 119, 150, 155,
163, 190, 212, 213, 245, 275, 290, 335,
337, 342, 344, 354–5, 393, 395, 397, 402
characteristics of‚112
in Mini-Jihyoo‚337–55
rhetorical question‚234–5, 248, 252, 256–8,
274, 320
S
self‚65, 66–70
boyish‚70, 357–8, 363, 368, 369, 370, 372
equal‚70, 358, 363, 375
feeling10, 56, 67, 68, 70, 101, 111, 113, 114,
117, 136, 145, 166, 226, 239, 266, 275,
289, 393, 395–8, 407, 417
girlish‚70, 357–8, 359, 366, 370, 371
inner‚68, 69, 297–8
interactional‚53, 56, 68–9, 117, 190, 260,
266, 275, 290, 357, 358, 379, 386
Lebra’s view of‚68–9
manly‚70, 352–8, 359, 366, 368, 372, 377,
378, 379, 388
Miller’s view of‚68
Mori’s view of‚67–8
playful‚70, 357–8, 350, 386, 388
subordinate‚70, 358, 372, 359, 372, 373,
375, 376, 388
thinking‚10, 56, 67, 113, 117, 393, 395, 415
Watsuji’s view of‚67
womanly‚70, 357–8, 359, 368, 370, 371,
377, 378, 379, 386
self-acceptance interrogative‚251, 252, 274,
319
see also interrogative
self-contextualization‚88–9, 393, 403
self-inquiry interrogative‚251, 252–5, 274
see also interrogative
self-relational‚403
sensus communis‚16–20, 58, 85, 96, 98, 111,
135, 277, 334–5, 398, 405, 412, 415
and the Place of Negotiation theory‚58
Nakamura’s‚17
Vico’s‚17–18
sentence
commentary‚344–54
ordinary‚344
sentential nominal‚149, 155–61, 163
see also nominal
shi‚34, 35, 36, 79, 80, 81, 219–21, 250, 266
Tokieda’s definition of‚79
see also ji
shoo
see ki-shoo-ten-ketsu
sign‚59–63
in the Place of Negotiation theory‚63
Peircean view of‚60–1
Volek’s typology of‚61–3
see also anti-sign
situated place‚78–81, 82, 83, 416
see also bamen, place
situation focus‚401
situationality
of da‚224–6, 239
society-relational‚403
softening effect‚189, 190
soto‚402–3
see also uchi
speaking subject‚79, 80, 81
speech act qualification‚188, 255, 270, 273–4
Subject index
speech style‚360, 363, 371
see also stylistic shift
S(tray) I(nterrogative) C(lause)‚9, 247, 256,
269–74
definition of‚269–70
meaning of‚270–4
stativity
of da‚221–3, 239
style‚277–304
creative use of‚379–81, 384–6
da‚9, 278–80, 304
desu/masu‚9, 84, 278–83, 304
role-playing through‚381–4
selection between da and desu/masu‚280–
92
stylistic shift‚277–304, 357, 359–89, 412
da and desu/masu‚278–80, 304
in fiction‚288–92
in Long Vacation‚361–89
in Majo no Jooken‚280–8
use and non-use of yo‚295–304
in fiction‚303–4
in Majo no Jooken‚295–301
stylistics‚25–7, 48
subjectivity‚220, 226, 396–7
Ikegami’s view of‚397
Onoe’s view of‚396–7
Tokieda’s understanding of‚78–9, 80
subordinate self‚70, 358, 372
see also self
syntony‚95
T
tacit knowledge‚95–6, 106
and futaku‚96
Polanyi’s explanation on‚95
see also optical-world-first strategy
tea ceremony‚405
concept of place in‚405
telling-it-as-is attitude, 84, 217, 228–39, 325,
384, 385
telling-it-against-is attitude‚218, 239–44
ten
see ki-shoo-ten-ketsu
te-ni-o-ha‚34–6, 80, 83
〈thinking selfƒ〉‚10, 56, 67, 113, 117, 393, 395,
415
topic‚101–8, 137, 147, 154
and quotation‚177–9
and vocative‚143–7
definition of‚102, 103, 104
floating‚123, 140, 141, 142, 146, 147
grounded‚140, 142, 143, 147
marker‚137–9
expressivity of‚137–9
types of‚137–8
quotative‚9, 165–90
suspension‚270–2, 273
transitional inner‚171–4
〈topica〉‚53–6, 59, 63, 83, 84, 85, 86–8, 123,
125, 127, 129, 141, 145, 147, 151, 152,
163, 177, 183, 186, 188, 191, 193, 207,
233, 239, 242, 262, 272, 273, 274, 275,
304, 322, 328, 329, 332, 335, 344, 389,
393, 394, 401, 403, 414
in the Place of Negotiation theory‚55–6
in Western rhetoric‚87–8
topic-comment dynamic‚9, 54, 101–6, 108,
111, 114, 137, 154, 163, 194, 213, 217,
223, 245, 260, 266, 272, 274, 277, 315,
324, 337, 341, 342, 344, 347, 352, 353,
354, 355, 393–5, 405, 412
and futaku‚104
and place‚393–5
and Rhetoric of Pathos‚112–13
and text organization‚341–4
characteristics of‚105–6
in Japanese grammar‚104–5
topos (place)‚73, 74
transitional inner topic‚171–4
tte‚137–41, 165–90
as quotative topic marker‚177–9
as topic marker‚138, 177, 179
emotivity of‚179–82
meaning of‚138–9, 179–89
utterance-final‚182–9
versus wa‚137–9, 165, 176, 177–9
U
uchi‚402–3
see also soto
uchiai (echoing)‚33, 34, 150, 412
V
verum‚18–19
see also certum
vocative‚9, 123–37, 143–7, 357, 359, 386–8
and intimacy‚129–33
and topic‚143–7
emotivity of‚125–9
inner‚132–7, 146
voices from the heart‚34–6, 38, 81, 398, 413
criticism of‚38
Suzuki’s‚35–6
see also kokoro no koe
W
wa‚101–2, 104, 106, 109, 141, 153, 166, 170,
174, 177–9, 180, 181, 182, 293, 319
as a staging device‚102
versus tte‚137–9, 165, 176, 177–9
womanly self‚70, 357–8, 359, 368, 370, 371,
377, 378, 379, 386
see also self
Subject index
Y
yo‚84, 128, 136, 225, 227, 277, 292–301, 304
and discourse structure‚300–1
and intimacy‚295–301
and 〈you-reaching inner selfƒ〉‚296–8
meaning of‚295–301
use and non-use of‚295–301
〈you〉‚68–70, 129, 166, 256, 296, 298, 300,
304, 389, 401
awareness of‚277, 280, 283, 288, 289, 295,
384–5
in Mori’s view‚68
intimate‚69, 287, 298, 300, 384
socially-bound‚69
〈your you〉‚68, 166, 395, 401, 405
in Mori’s view‚68, 405
yuu (ghost/phantom)‚33, 37, 56, 412
see also arawashi
In the PRAGMATICS AND BEYOND NEW SERIES the following titles have been published thus far or are scheduled for publication:
1. WALTER, Bettyruth: The Jury Summation as Speech Genre: An Ethnographic Study of
What it Means to Those who Use it. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1988.
2. BARTON, Ellen: Nonsentential Constituents: A Theory of Grammatical Structure and
Pragmatic Interpretation. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
3. OLEKSY, Wieslaw (ed.): Contrastive Pragmatics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989.
4. RAFFLER-ENGEL, Walburga von (ed.): Doctor-Patient Interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989.
5. THELIN, Nils B. (ed.): Verbal Aspect in Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
6. VERSCHUEREN, Jef (ed.): Selected Papers from the 1987 International Pragmatics Conference. Vol. I: Pragmatics at Issue. Vol. II: Levels of Linguistic Adaptation. Vol. III: The
Pragmatics of Intercultural and International Communication (ed. with Jan Blommaert).
Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
7. LINDENFELD, Jacqueline: Speech and Sociability at French Urban Market Places. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
8. YOUNG, Lynne: Language as Behaviour, Language as Code: A Study of Academic English.
Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
9. LUKE, Kang-Kwong: Utterance Particles in Cantonese Conversation. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
10. MURRAY, Denise E.: Conversation for Action. The computer terminal as medium of
communication. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
11. LUONG, Hy V.: Discursive Practices and Linguistic Meanings. The Vietnamese system of
person reference. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
12. ABRAHAM, Werner (ed.): Discourse Particles. Descriptive and theoretical investigations
on the logical, syntactic and pragmatic properties of discourse particles in German. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
13. NUYTS, Jan, A. Machtelt BOLKESTEIN and Co VET (eds): Layers and Levels of Representation in Language Theory: a functional view. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.
14. SCHWARTZ, Ursula: Young Children’s Dyadic Pretend Play. Amsterdam/Philadelphia,
1991.
15. KOMTER, Martha: Conflict and Cooperation in Job Interviews. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
16. MANN, William C. and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Discourse Description: Diverse
Linguistic Analyses of a Fund-Raising Text. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.
17. PIÉRAUT-LE BONNIEC, Gilberte and Marlene DOLITSKY (eds): Language Bases ...
Discourse Bases. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
18. JOHNSTONE, Barbara: Repetition in Arabic Discourse. Paradigms, syntagms and the
ecology of language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
19. BAKER, Carolyn D. and Allan LUKE (eds): Towards a Critical Sociology of Reading
Pedagogy. Papers of the XII World Congress on Reading. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991.
20. NUYTS, Jan: Aspects of a Cognitive-Pragmatic Theory of Language. On cognition, functionalism, and grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.
21. SEARLE, John R. et al.: (On) Searle on Conversation. Compiled and introduced by
Herman Parret and Jef Verschueren. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.
22. AUER, Peter and Aldo Di LUZIO (eds): The Contextualization of Language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.
23. FORTESCUE, Michael, Peter HARDER and Lars KRISTOFFERSEN (eds): Layered
Structure and Reference in a Functional Perspective. Papers from the Functional Grammar
Conference, Copenhagen, 1990. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.
24. MAYNARD, Senko K.: Discourse Modality: Subjectivity, Emotion and Voice in the Japanese Language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993.
25. COUPER-KUHLEN, Elizabeth: English Speech Rhythm. Form and function in everyday
verbal interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993.
26. STYGALL, Gail: Trial Language. A study in differential discourse processing. Amsterdam/
Philadelphia, 1994.
27. SUTER, Hans Jürg: The Wedding Report: A Prototypical Approach to the Study of Traditional Text Types. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993.
28. VAN DE WALLE, Lieve: Pragmatics and Classical Sanskrit. Amsterdam/Philadelphia,
1993.
29. BARSKY, Robert F.: Constructing a Productive Other: Discourse theory and the convention
refugee hearing. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994.
30. WORTHAM, Stanton E.F.: Acting Out Participant Examples in the Classroom. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994.
31. WILDGEN, Wolfgang: Process, Image and Meaning. A realistic model of the meanings of
sentences and narrative texts. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994.
32. SHIBATANI, Masayoshi and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Essays in Semantics and
Pragmatics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995.
33. GOOSSENS, Louis, Paul PAUWELS, Brygida RUDZKA-OSTYN, Anne-Marie SIMONVANDENBERGEN and Johan VANPARYS: By Word of Mouth. Metaphor, metonymy and
linguistic action in a cognitive perspective. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995.
34. BARBE, Katharina: Irony in Context. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995.
35. JUCKER, Andreas H. (ed.): Historical Pragmatics. Pragmatic developments in the history
of English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995.
36. CHILTON, Paul, Mikhail V. ILYIN and Jacob MEY: Political Discourse in Transition in
Eastern and Western Europe (1989-1991). Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
37. CARSTON, Robyn and Seiji UCHIDA (eds): Relevance Theory. Applications and implications. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
38. FRETHEIM, Thorstein and Jeanette K. GUNDEL (eds): Reference and Referent Accessibility. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.
39. HERRING, Susan (ed.): Computer-Mediated Communication. Linguistic, social, and
cross-cultural perspectives. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.
40. DIAMOND, Julie: Status and Power in Verbal Interaction. A study of discourse in a closeknit social network. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.
41. VENTOLA, Eija and Anna MAURANEN, (eds): Academic Writing. Intercultural and
textual issues. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.
42. WODAK, Ruth and Helga KOTTHOFF (eds): Communicating Gender in Context. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997.
43. JANSSEN, Theo A.J.M. and Wim van der WURFF (eds): Reported Speech. Forms and
functions of the verb. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.
44. BARGIELA-CHIAPPINI, Francesca and Sandra J. HARRIS: Managing Language. The
discourse of corporate meetings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997.
45. PALTRIDGE, Brian: Genre, Frames and Writing in Research Settings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997.
46. GEORGAKOPOULOU, Alexandra: Narrative Performances. A study of Modern Greek
storytelling. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997.
47. CHESTERMAN, Andrew: Contrastive Functional Analysis. Amsterdam/Philadelphia,
1998.
48. KAMIO, Akio: Territory of Information. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997.
49. KURZON, Dennis: Discourse of Silence. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
50. GRENOBLE, Lenore: Deixis and Information Packaging in Russian Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
51. BOULIMA, Jamila: Negotiated Interaction in Target Language Classroom Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999.
52. GILLIS, Steven and Annick DE HOUWER (eds): The Acquisition of Dutch. Amsterdam/
Philadelphia, 1998.
53. MOSEGAARD HANSEN, Maj-Britt: The Function of Discourse Particles. A study with
special reference to spoken standard French. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
54. HYLAND, Ken: Hedging in Scientific Research Articles. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
55. ALLWOOD, Jens and Peter Gärdenfors (eds): Cognitive Semantics. Meaning and cognition. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999.
56. TANAKA, Hiroko: Language, Culture and Social Interaction. Turn-taking in Japanese
and Anglo-American English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999.
57 JUCKER, Andreas H. and Yael ZIV (eds): Discourse Markers. Descriptions and theory.
Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
58. ROUCHOTA, Villy and Andreas H. JUCKER (eds): Current Issues in Relevance Theory.
Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998.
59. KAMIO, Akio and Ken-ichi TAKAMI (eds): Function and Structure. In honor of Susumu
Kuno. 1999.
60. JACOBS, Geert: Preformulating the News. An analysis of the metapragmatics of press
releases. 1999.
61. MILLS, Margaret H. (ed.): Slavic Gender Linguistics. 1999.
62. TZANNE, Angeliki: Talking at Cross-Purposes. The dynamics of miscommunication.
2000.
63. BUBLITZ, Wolfram, Uta LENK and Eija VENTOLA (eds.): Coherence in Spoken and
Written Discourse. How to create it and how to describe it.Selected papers from the International Workshop on Coherence, Augsburg, 24-27 April 1997. 1999.
64. SVENNEVIG, Jan: Getting Acquainted in Conversation. A study of initial interactions.
1999.
65. COOREN, François: The Organizing Dimension of Communication. 2000.
66. JUCKER, Andreas H., Gerd FRITZ and Franz LEBSANFT (eds.): Historical Dialogue
Analysis. 1999.
67. TAAVITSAINEN, Irma, Gunnel MELCHERS and Päivi PAHTA (eds.): Dimensions of
Writing in Nonstandard English. 1999.
68. ARNOVICK, Leslie: Diachronic Pragmatics. Seven case studies in English illocutionary
development. 1999.
69. NOH, Eun-Ju: The Semantics and Pragmatics of Metarepresentation in English. A relevance-theoretic account. 2000.
70. SORJONEN, Marja-Leena: Responding in Conversation. A study of response particles in
Finnish. 2001.
71. GÓMEZ-GONZÁLEZ, María Ángeles: The Theme-Topic Interface. Evidence from English. 2001.
72. MARMARIDOU, Sophia S.A.: Pragmatic Meaning and Cognition. 2000.
73. HESTER, Stephen and David FRANCIS (eds.): Local Educational Order. Ethnomethodological studies of knowledge in action. 2000.
74. TROSBORG, Anna (ed.): Analysing Professional Genres. 2000.
75. PILKINGTON, Adrian: Poetic Effects. A relevance theory perspective. 2000.
76. MATSUI, Tomoko: Bridging and Relevance. 2000.
77. VANDERVEKEN, Daniel and Susumu KUBO (eds.): Essays in Speech Act Theory. 2002.
78. SELL, Roger D. : Literature as Communication. The foundations of mediating criticism.
2000.
79. ANDERSEN, Gisle and Thorstein FRETHEIM (eds.): Pragmatic Markers and Propositional Attitude. 2000.
80. UNGERER, Friedrich (ed.): English Media Texts – Past and Present. Language and textual
structure. 2000.
81. DI LUZIO, Aldo, Susanne GÜNTHNER and Franca ORLETTI (eds.): Culture in Communication. Analyses of intercultural situations. 2001.
82. KHALIL, Esam N.: Grounding in English and Arabic News Discourse. 2000.
83. MÁRQUEZ REITER, Rosina: Linguistic Politeness in Britain and Uruguay. A contrastive
study of requests and apologies. 2000.
84. ANDERSEN, Gisle: Pragmatic Markers and Sociolinguistic Variation. A relevance-theoretic
approach to the language of adolescents. 2001.
85. COLLINS, Daniel E.: Reanimated Voices. Speech reporting in a historical-pragmatic perspective. 2001.
86. IFANTIDOU, Elly: Evidentials and Relevance. 2001.
87. MUSHIN, Ilana: Evidentiality and Epistemological Stance. Narrative retelling. 2001.
88. BAYRAKTAROG LU, ArFn and Maria SIFIANOU (eds.): Linguistic Politeness Across
Boundaries. The case of Greek and Turkish. 2001.
89. ITAKURA, Hiroko: Conversational Dominance and Gender. A study of Japanese speakers
in first and second language contexts. 2001.
90. KENESEI, István and Robert M. HARNISH (eds.): Perspectives on Semantics, Pragmatics,
and Discourse. A Festschrift for Ferenc Kiefer. 2001.
91. GROSS, Joan: Speaking in Other Voices. An ethnography of Walloon puppet theaters. 2001.
92. GARDNER, Rod: When Listeners Talk. Response tokens and listener stance. 2001.
93. BARON, Bettina and Helga KOTTHOFF (eds.): Gender in Interaction. Perspectives on
femininity and masculinity in ethnography and discourse. 2002
94. McILVENNY, Paul (ed.): Talking Gender and Sexuality. 2002.
95. FITZMAURICE, Susan M.: The Familiar Letter in Early Modern English. A pragmatic
approach. n.y.p.
96. HAVERKATE, Henk: The Syntax, Semantics and Pragmatics of Spanish Mood. n.y.p.
97. MAYNARD, Senko K.: Linguistic Emotivity. Centrality of place, the topic-comment dynamic, and an ideology of pathos in Japanese discourse. 2002.
98. DUSZAK, Anna (ed.): Us and Others. Social identities across languages, discourses and
cultures. n.y.p.
99. JASZCZOLT, K.M. and Ken TURNER (eds.): Meaning Through Language Contrast.
Volume 1. n.y.p.
100. JASZCZOLT, K.M. and Ken TURNER (eds.): Meaning Through Language Contrast.
Volume 2. n.y.p.
101. LUKE, Kang Kwong and Theodossia-Soula PAVLIDOU (eds.): Telephone Calls. Unity
and diversity in conversational structure across languages and cultures. n.y.p.
102. LEAFGREN, John: Degrees of Explicitness. Information structure and the packaging of
Bulgarian subjects and objects. 2002.
103. FETZER, Anita and Christiane MEIERKORD (eds.): Rethinking Sequentiality. Linguistics
meets conversational interaction. n.y.p.
104. BEECHING, Kate: Gender, Politeness and Pragmatic Particles in French. n.y.p.
105. BLACKWELL, Sarah E.: Implicatures in Discourse. n.y.p.
106. BUSSE, Ulrich: Linguistic Variation in the Shakespeare Corpus. n.y.p
107. TAAVITSAINEN, Irma and Andreas H. JUCKER (eds.): Diachronic Perspectives on
Address Term Systems. n.y.p.