Linguistic Emotivity: Centrality of Place, the Topic-Comment Dynamic, and an Ideology of Pathos in Japanese Discourse (Pragmatics and Beyond New Series)

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 Justus Liebig University Giessen, English Department Otto-Behaghel-Strasse 10, D-35394 Giessen, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

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Herman Parret Belgian National Science Foundation, Universities of Louvain and Antwerp

Jef Verschueren Belgian National Science Foundation, University of Antwerp

Editorial Board Shoshana Blum-Kulka

Catherine Kerbrat-Orecchioni

Hebrew University of Jerusalem

University of Lyon 2

Jean Caron

Claudia de Lemos

Université de Poitiers

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Robyn Carston

Marina Sbisà

University College London

University of Trieste

Bruce Fraser

Emanuel Schegloff

Boston University

University of California at Los Angeles

Thorstein Fretheim

Deborah Schiffrin

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John Heritage

Paul O. Takahara

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University of California at Santa Barbara

Masako K. Hiraga

Teun A. Van Dijk

St.Paul’s (Rikkyo) University

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Sachiko Ide Japan Women’s University

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-

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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,

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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

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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

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

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,

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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.

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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-

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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.

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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

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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

Background

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

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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

Background

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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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,

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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

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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-

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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)

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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;

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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

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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

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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

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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)

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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

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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

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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

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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)

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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-

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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).

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

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

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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, gen