Minae Mizumura - The Fall of Language in the Age of English

THE AFTERMATH

The impact of The Fall of Language in Japan has been tremendous. As we have seen, the book’s initial commercial success owed much to controversy that erupted on the Internet. That flame war was fueled in part by the book’s provocative original title, which means literally “when the Japanese language falls: in the age of English.” Some took the title as a warning that the Japanese language is at imminent risk of perishing under the dominance of English. Yet Mizumura makes no such claim. She clearly indicates that the long history of the Japanese language, the large population of its users, and the nation’s relative economic stability and cultural autonomy make it highly improbable that Japanese will disappear in any foreseeable future. She is concerned about the quality of written Japanese and about whether Japanese modern literature — that is, those works worthy of being passed on for generations to come — will continue to attract readers.

The power of the Internet to ignite diatribes aside, the ferocity with which the book was initially attacked — antagonistic readers resorted to deleting favorable Amazon reviews, which a major newspaper found newsworthy — deserves some attention. The book broke taboos, especially in the final chapter. That Mizumura is a woman in a society where men still basically control intellectual debate must have contributed to the vitriol. None of her suggestions for improvements in the education system is drastic in and of itself, but the accumulation may have worked to exasperate people, evoking reactions like these:

Mizumura says we must defend the Japanese language. She must be a jingoist who ignores Japan’s imperial past and the way we imposed our language on other Asians.

She says children must read classics of modern Japanese literature. She must be a hopeless reactionary.

No, she must be an elitist.

She says to give special English education to a cadre of chosen people? Then she is definitely an elitist.

She talks down about contemporary Japanese literature, when even Americans say it’s great!

Really, who does she think she is, a privileged bilingual preaching to the rest of us Japanese!

Then, on November 26, 2008, while the controversy was still in full swing, a review came out in the literary arts column of the newspaper Asahi Shimbun in which, after conceding that the book “is large in scope and inspiring,” the columnist voiced comments closely echoing the attacks circulating on the Internet: the book was “virtually indistinguishable from nationalist cries,” “an affirmation of elitism,” and even, said this woman, “just all too macho.” ( Asahi Shimbun , it should be noted, is Japan’s closest equivalent to the New York Times or Le Monde .)

As the initial buzz subsided and the book reached wider readership, however, The Fall of Language indeed became a must-read among the well-educated segment of Japanese society. A flood of reviews, essays, roundtables, and interviews appeared in well over a hundred newspapers, magazines, and other national print media. It seems as if everyone from novelists, poets, translators, linguists, and literary scholars to journalists, schoolteachers, diplomats, businesspeople, physicists, and neuroscientists has written or spoken publicly about the book. This surge of attention attests to the urgency with which the Japanese reading public was waiting for a book like this, one that gives voice to their angst about the linguistic future of their country. Eventually related books began appearing; one has even called for the Japanese language to be protected by law.

That said, it is our opinion that the book will be even better served when read outside Japan. Japanese readers have been traumatized by years of senseless language and literature education in both English and Japanese; as a result, they tend to focus all their attention on the final chapter, where Mizumura talks about the need for pedagogical changes. The ideas presented in earlier chapters often get lost in the shuffle. Yet what makes this book a genuinely worthwhile read is its theoretical and historical analysis of written language, literature, and translation, a contribution that has significance far beyond the rise and fall of any one language. May readers around the world engage in a fruitful dialogue with the ideas presented in this fascinating book.

NOTE ON NAMES AND BOOK TITLES

Except for the names of the author and the translator Mari Yoshihara, who have established identities in English, Japanese names are rendered family name first, as custom dictates in Japan. For authors writing at the dawn of modernity who are better known by a pen name, that name is used, after their name is first introduced in full. For instance, Natsume Sōseki is referred to as “Sōseki.” For Japanese books that have been translated, the title is given in English first, with the original title in parentheses; for untranslated books, the Japanese title is used, with an English gloss.

September mornings in Iowa City get pretty chilly.

Stepping out of the hotel, I saw a scattering of writers waiting for the minibuses, standing stooped with mugs of steamy Starbucks coffee in hand. Writers tend to be stooped specimens to begin with, and these looked particularly so in the cold morning air. At their feet was a variety of luggage in all shapes and sizes.

Before I left Japan, I had gone to the Web site of the International Writing Program, or IWP, and printed out the list of writers participating in this Fall Residency. Intent on familiarizing myself with their faces, names, and brief biographies during my flight to Iowa, I made a point of putting the printout in my carry-on bag. Yet even now, the morning when we were about to set out together on a four-day trip to Minneapolis, I still hadn’t studied the list. My physical ailments and the medication that I had been taking left me groggy, unable to muster the energy to browse through it. Besides, nearly all the names on the list were foreign ones I could hardly pronounce.

Today was going to be the day I would meet most of the other writers for the first time. Some were engaged in a friendly chat, while others stood apart, looking all the more aloof in the cold morning air. They had already been in Iowa for a month or so, whereas I had arrived just a few days before. Not only that, I had arrived with a hidden vow to keep my participation to a minimum. Still, as I stood there alone with my overnight bag, not knowing what to do with myself, I felt that as a newcomer I should at least introduce myself to some of the others. But this morning, as on so many other mornings, I was feeling lethargic, and so I only kept eyeing them.

Two minibuses soon arrived. Most of the Westerners headed toward one, and shortly afterward, Asians with uniformly black hair began trooping toward the other. The group seemed to split naturally into two as for one reason or another the Westerners stuck together, leaving the Asians behind. I see, this is how it goes, I told myself. I then headed toward the second bus, the one with mostly Asian passengers.

Seated at the back of the bus were several buff East Asian men at the peak of their manhood, Chinese or Korean or both. In the middle of the bus was a woman with the air of a girl. The line from cheekbone to chin, as keen as if carved with a knife, reminded me of the women in the film The Scent of Green Papaya , which I had seen about ten years earlier. She must be Vietnamese, I thought, or some other Southeast Asian nationality. Toward the front of the bus was a man who looked just like a Japanese, with plump cheeks and small eyes slanting downward. He seemed close to sixty, not exactly the peak of manhood. I wondered what nationality he was, knowing that I was the sole Japanese participant. There were three whites on the bus, among them the program director, Chris, to whom I had already introduced myself the day before; he was doing double duty as our driver. I was the last one to board the bus through the front door, so I ended up sitting in the passenger seat beside him. A journalist and a poet, Chris was a handsome man whose blond-bearded face still looked a bit boyish.