For the Sake of Words

The poet Yasuda insists that expression must cut through the age.

Chōkōdō Shujin discusses the Japanese poet Yasuda’s argument that language must be purified to save culture itself.

“I am extremely cruel to words. Such exclamations are the fruit of the expressions of most fine poets...”

Thus begins Yojūrō Yasuda’s lengthy essay “For the Sake of Words.” The piece is, at its core, a philosophical reflection on language, poetry, and the poet’s role in society. Yasuda draws on various historical, cultural, and literary contexts to describe the nature of this poetic cruelty. One would initially assume the opposite; that the poet reveres words, and that is certainly true. However, poets have historically pushed language to its limits to convey complex, often contradictory emotions or truths, often “torturing” words through metaphor, ambiguity, or innovation. This can be seen in Yukio Mishima’s rich, dense symbolism, or the fragmented style of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa’s later writings, where language is deliberately bent and distorted to reflect his disillusionment with the modern era.

Poetry can be a hypnotic force. Yasuda himself employs such techniques to great effect in “Japanese Bridges,” now regarded as a defiantly nationalistic prose poem, perhaps his most famous work. Using the bridge, hashi, as a metaphor, Yasuda gracefully spans the chasm between the ancient and the modern, the individual and society, the warrior and the poet. The language is reminiscent of an epic poem, deliberately anachronistic. One is reminded of Edgar Allan Poe, or Charles Baudelaire.

Yasuda is correct in his claims that the particular words in common usage among those in literary circles are not common within the literature of the masses. “This is the sad fate of language,” Yasuda contends. “The mission of the noble poet is to try to do something about it.” This aligns with the classical Romantic view, as espoused by Percy Bysshe Shelley, in that the poet is the “unacknowledged legislator,” tasked with refining and expanding language, producing exclamatory or intense expressions as a byproduct of his own artistic struggle. As Sōseki Natsume writes, “The poet has an obligation to dissect himself and reveal the symptoms of his disease to the world.”

The terms that are used within circles of like-minded individuals—in Yasuda’s case, among the Shōwa-era Japanese literati—are quite often misunderstood by those outside of such coteries. Language is unique to a nation’s particular history, character, and culture. A single word has a great deal of significance that would be missed by those who are not familiar with a particular culture or era. Words carry various connotations that are inseparable from history. For example, in contemporary America, the word “freedom” typically evokes individualism, while in Japan, it often prioritizes being free from inner constraints such as ego, desire, and habitual patterns, leading to cultural misunderstandings.

“Refinement of language first of all requires refinement of atmosphere,” Yasuda continues. “In a new society and atmosphere, old words can be corrected. The lover of argument is the one who most foolishly kills the very essence of other people’s words.” But, Yasuda then claims, only those who are highly in touch with the realities of life are capable of this. In his era as well as in our own, there has been much controversy over the manipulation of language.

Linguistically, words are rather malleable tools; the poet’s cruelty often serves to correct overuse or banality, preventing semantic erosion, as evidenced in how Shakespeare coined thousands of words to capture a specific nuance. Similarly, one is reminded of T. S. Eliot’s famous line, “to purify the dialect of the tribe,” in which the poet renews language in order to combat decay, a concept rooted in modernist efforts to make language precise amid industrial chaos. Yasuda was a contemporary of Eliot, and there is no doubt that this sentiment is a reflection of the era in which they both wrote.

Scholars of literature must take this into account; otherwise, their studies are worthless. “The most extensive content of words is the content of the language,” Yasuda writes. “It is between comrades, between friendships, that words have their broadest content.” He notes that in primitive societies, there was no division between nouns and verbs. Yasuda also says that liturgical language is similarly structured, describing it as “pure.” The language of the transitional period—that is, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—is the most expansive in content. The result of this is that the meaning of the same language was confused more than any other language in this period. “Therefore, it is necessary to correct the content of the previous concept,” Yasuda says. “Because of this task, their language became richer and richer. Our ideal, however, is to keep the language simple and the content pure.” But he goes on to write that such cultural projects will be left to the next generation.

A single word can have vastly different meanings and implications depending upon the person being called upon to define it, as well as the person’s own intentions. This is especially true today. Yasuda uses the word “actual” as an example; if he were to write the same essay today, perhaps he would have chosen instead to use the word “literally.” To use a rather crude example, many political figures have been described as being “literally Hitler.”

This massive variation in definition is all too common in the modern era, but in the past, even in the more recent past, the meaning of a word was understood far more uniformly. To describe a man as a fascist literally meant that he was a member of a fascist party, or that he supported the ideology of fascism. “The primal task of the poet is the purification of words,” Yasuda writes. “The direction of his thought is naturally guided by the idea of social purification.” But the modern poet, in his quest to obfuscate language, has forgotten the meaning of pure poetry. Yasuda greatly lamented this loss.

Yasuda had little tolerance for modern poetry. It should be noted that his definition of modern begins in the seventeenth century. Even so, there were some modern poets whose verse was to his liking. “Here, a true poet of language has emerged,” Yasuda writes. “Bashō’s spirit of correcting language, the work of a poet, is the conscience of the early modern age.” The seventeenth-century poet Matsuo Bashō advocated for the correction of colloquialism in haiku, using simple yet profound language to strip away the excess and reveal the purest essence. Bashō’s teachings, as recorded by his disciples, emphasize karumi, or lightness, and rectifying everyday speech to achieve deeper insight. He was heavily influential in Japanese literature’s eventual shift towards a more minimalistic style.

Philosophically, Martin Heidegger’s thoughts on language as serving as the “house of being” suggest that the poet reveals hidden truths by purifying words, preventing them from becoming empty signifiers in mass society. Yasuda was an avid scholar of Heidegger. His view was that the finest linguistic philosophy of the modern era has demonstrated that words must always carry linguistic activity behind their more shallow meanings.

“On this day, the poet must understand his final mission,” Yasuda writes. Yasuda uses Maxim Gorky as an example of a poet who has genuinely grasped the realization of the poet’s mission: the transformation of language and its eventual purification. Yasuda relished his task in bringing about the purification of language. Gorky, as a proponent of socialist realism, transformed language to serve his proletarian ideals, purifying it from what he viewed as bourgeois excess. While Yasuda was not a socialist, Gorky’s views are certainly in alignment with his views on poetry as literary purification during revolutionary times. Yasuda had similar views regarding the nineteenth-century Romantics; in fact, he was the founder of the Nippon Roman-ha. The Meiji and Taishō eras saw a great surge in poets influenced by Western Romantics, perhaps most notably the Shirakaba-ha, leading to a proliferation of poetry as a form of cultural introspection and resistance to modernization.

Yasuda was also of the opinion that poetry should be written for the sake of conscience, rather than for profit. “The original mission of poetry was not poetry to eat,” he writes. “However, a certain spirit of a person who thinks about poetry to be eaten must be dedicated to blocking the current situation that compels him to think that way, to think within himself.” Yasuda’s statement captures a profound tension in the philosophy of art, particularly poetry, pitting its idealistic, intrinsic value against the harsh realities of economic survival. He posits that the fundamental purpose of poetry is not merely utilitarian or materialistic.

The phrase “poetry to eat” is a metaphorical critique, evoking poetry as mere sustenance—a means to sustain oneself literally through income, rather than nourishing the soul or society. This suggests an original, pure essence of poetry rooted in introspection, ethical reflection, or cultural expression. It is not a matter of survival or mass appeal, but of confronting truths, challenging norms, and preserving human dignity.

Naturally, Yasuda recognizes the external pressures, be they poverty, capitalism, or the commodification of culture, that push artists towards commercializing their work. He does not blindly condemn the poet for succumbing to such forces, although he urges resistance. This spirit implies an internal resolve, something like a rebellious mindset dedicated to “blocking” the status quo. The emphasis on the line “to think within himself” highlights introspection as a tool for change. The poet must reflect deeply in order to reclaim the autonomy of poetry. For Yasuda, poetry is something akin to self-interrogation. Overall, he writes a call to arms for artistic integrity. It is not naive idealism; Yasuda concedes the current situation, but insists on active opposition through personal and philosophical commitment.

In this case, I did not distinguish between language and words for the sake of language. Also, at this time, I am going to speak of things practically. I think of responsibility as the corroboration of a living reality. This reasoning, that I think about this fact, is not criticized anywhere. If we are to consider the occurrence of criticism, it should be done solely from the standpoint of conscience. In all cases, conscience is the only thing that survives today.

Yasuda begins many of his essays, this one included, with the word “for.” This phrase was formed from his relationship with the economic depression at the time, as well as his personal impressions and inclinations. He links his own reflection to a broader cultural malaise. It should be noted that these “for” essays were mainly written during the final years of the Pacific War. “The time when the people of the night streets are beautiful and the people of the book are dirty is a dangerous time indeed...” Yasuda writes. He describes the war years, when the ideological projection of the intelligentsia had reached its peak, as being the most dreadful of times.

Immediately following this, Yasuda critiques romanticized urban decay versus degraded intellectualism. He especially detests that poets are compelled to “wrestle” with language in the midst of the situation. He describes this predicament as being extremely difficult, a legitimate danger. He warns against succumbing to propaganda, although he acknowledges that propaganda is superficial, and true danger comes from nuanced works. Yasuda’s words are blunt. “Dangerous thoughts are not fostered by sentimental slogan poetry.” Yasuda had similar thoughts on bread and circuses to appease the disillusioned masses. “Fireworks and incense are nothing more than a temporary deterrent to the mindless.” Such things appeal only to those who lack introspection.

Ultimately, Yasuda champions poetry as a defiant act of the spirit, urging the modern poet to reclaim his mission amidst the myriad pressures threatening to consume and defile it. This not only preserves the vitality of art, but reminds us that true creation thrives in resistance. The final passages of “For the Sake of Words” are so finely written that I will translate them in full:

Writing about words, I talked about the past and the future of words. I am extremely attached to words. This is because the realm in which the words of the past can teach us is extremely limited, and I am the only one who can conceive most of them using my own words. And there are the classics, aren’t there?

I would like to talk about the world of modern language. By the way, this may be a misnomer. Poetry is for feelings that cannot be expressed. In a perfect world, there would be no such impatience, anxiety, and discontent. Until that day, poetry will exist. Everything a poet does is for the sake of words... I respect today’s poets, believing that today’s poets are probably the ones who write poetry as the principle of generation. Poetry has developed because of this desire to express the inexpressible. At times, it may have been a sad toy. At other times, that difficult feeling existed, distorted by the might of the powerful or by the snobbishness of the petty bourgeoisie, by shame. Our poets generally exist to erase such snobbish reservation and to change the ground on which it rests. Every poet thus exists for the sake of the word. They exist for the freedom of the word in general. Furthermore, they struggle for the freedom of the word. They opine for the freedom to love others, to sing of the times, to say what is in their hearts, in other words, to establish the freedom of speech.

Poetry, moreover, is in the midst of a reality in which there was no choice but to be inconvenienced. In this day and age, poetry forms the last bastion of conscience. Originally, the development of our traditional folk songs was a way of escaping from inexpressible feelings. In fact, the poet’s highest mission is to reclaim this unpleasant way of escape as a right of the beauty of the heart. This is how hymns developed, expressing in a subtle way what could not be said directly. The poet’s lamentation and indignation are always directed at the world of the masses. This sentiment then takes the direction of the will, and perhaps words of honest love are not in the reality of this day. These words, which are often written, are all direct analogies of Western literature and are borrowed from Western photography. The unfortunate people are more concerned with the borrowing of words. This is the psychology behind the popularity of the disturbing buzzwords. They feel as if their negative feelings will be alleviated by doing so. This is also true in the case of a theory. And then, the people of the time opened up to revise the world inhabited by snobs for the sake of words. To beautify words, to frame words, to eliminate unpleasant words, to carry out (redacted), and so on.

But first and foremost, the problem is to create a world in which everyone speaks his own words with honesty and integrity, and the best way to make words beautiful is the way of the poet. There is the essence of reality in such abstraction. The philistine who claims to know the actuality often only knows the form captured by the actuality, but does not know the abstraction that captures the actuality. What the mundanes see as the actuality is the cornerstone of their shoulders. What is it that has brought the Tower of Babel to the ground? But we are confronted with the greatest evil of all, and have learned how to appreciate it more than we know. It is precisely because of this collapse that the conscience of our time exists. This is the reason why the conscience of the times exists, and why all the suffering of nineteenth-century literature was conceived. This is not a question of race. From God to man, and from man to what?

And from man to what? Only in this dual world of anguish lies the spirit of literature and the poet’s dream of the world. The poet is, for all intents and purposes, the rebellious brother of today. Therefore, the poets sang of beauty in the midst of the filth and showed a determination to open up for that beauty. They needed neither Napoleon nor Marx, but the spirit of the womb that gave birth to these people. The poets of the nineteenth century were those who rose and fell again for the purification of this filth, those who loved the beautiful, and who, unable to hold it close to their hearts, shed their own blood without regret. I drew it “for the sake of words.” But the poets who know most deeply how to be for the word, and who have done it with their own bodies, are the poets of the dead. The poets who formed the history of pessimism in the last century, and whose future was always fully assured in the hearts and minds of the people of summer, were those poets. Do not simply dismiss my views as subjective, for today we know history for the first time. I respect only the heart of this poet. I separate popular writers from underground poets as an attack on them. I do not have any literary opinions about the artists who can capture the soul. For this reason, I prefer to think in terms of friendship and kinship. Rather than being today’s productivists, we only consider it an advantage to be known as idealists of the past. We can look forward to the poet’s conscience as such an idealist—today. There is no evidence that humans have turned away from a single declaration. However, whether or not this happens, it is a coincidence, a legend, or a fiction. I only want to be a poet for the sake of words, for the sake of words.