思った以上に「茶の本」の反響が多く、主に外国の方の訪問が多い．実に興味深いことだ．一つ、翻訳について説明をしておくと、「茶の本」の原題である「The Book of Tea」はすでに著作権が失効している．だからといって好き勝手して良いというわけではないのは知っていて、著者に敬意を払いつつ翻訳をさせてもらっているということになる．商用に使う気は毛頭なく、もし全翻訳が終わった暁には、青空文庫へのリンクを申請しようかと思っている．もちろん、翻訳に粗があるので全体を読み直して研磨するつもりだ．
私が当事者であれば、溜まったものでは無い．しょーがねぇだろ好きなんだから．といった具合で、J. P. Sartre によれば実存は本質に先行するようである．好きになった理由を語る術はない．王女の家系をたどるとどうやら伝説級の血脈であるから、権威付けが高まるのだろう、それに媚びる人やそれで生きている人にとって反感を買うのかもしれない．ともかく王室、王家というのは神経症の巣窟のような気がしてならない．侍医は何というのだろうか．「姫、これは試練ですぞ」
One is reminded in this connection of a story concerning Kobori-Enshiu. Enshiu was complimented by his disciples on the admirable taste he had displayed in the choice of his collection. Said they, “Each piece is such that no one could help admiring. It shows that you had better taste than had Rikiu, for his collection could only be appreciated by one beholder in a thousand.” Sorrowfully Enshiu replied: “This only proves how commonplace I am. The Great Rikiu dared to love only those objects which personally appealed to him, whereas I unconsciously cater to the taste of the majority. Verily, Rikiu was one in a thousand among tea-masters.”
It is much to be regretted that so much of the apparent enthusiasm for art at the present day has no foundation in real feeling. In this democratic age of ours men clamour for what is popularly considered the best, regardless of their feelings. They want the costly, not the refined; the fashionable, not the beautiful. To the masses, contemplation of illustrated periodicals, the worthy product of their own industrialism, would give more digestible food for artistic enjoyment than the early Italians or Ashikaga masters, whom they pretend to admire. The name of the artist is more important to them than the quality of the work. As a Chinese critic complained many centuries ago, “People criticise a picture by their ear.” It is this lack of genuine appreciation that is responsible for the pseudo-classic horrors that to-day greet us wherever we turn.
Another common mistake is that of confusing art with archaeology. The veneration born of antiquity is one of the best traits in the human character, and fain would we have it cultivated to a greater extent. The old masters are rightly to be honoured for opening the path to future enlightenment. The mere fact that they have passed unscathed through centuries of criticism and come down to us still covered with glory commands our respect. But we should be foolish indeed if we valued their achievement simply on the score of age. Yet we allow our historical sympathy to override our aesthetic discrimination. We offer flowers of approbation when the artist is safely laid in his grave. The nineteenth century, pregnant with the theory of evolution, has moreover created in us the habit of losing sight of the individual in the species. A collector is anxious to acquire specimens to illustrate a period or a school, and forgets that a single masterpiece can teach us more than any number of the mediocre products of given period or school. We classify too much and enjoy too little. The sacrifice of the aesthetic to the so-called scientific method of exhibition has been the bane of many museums.
The claims of contemporary art cannot be ignored in any vital scheme of life. The art of to-day is that which really belongs to us: it is our own reflection. In condemning it we but condemn ourselves. We say that the present age possess no art: – who is responsible for this? It is indeed a shame that despite all our rhapsodies about the ancients we pay so little attention to our own possibilities. Struggling artists, weary souls lingering in the shadow of cold disdain! In our self-centred century, what inspiration do we offer them? The past may well look with pity at the poverty of our civilisation; the future will laugh at the barrenness of our art. We are destroying art in destroying beautiful life. Would that some great wizard might from the stem of society shape a mighty harp whose strings would resound to the touch of genius.
To the sympathetic a masterpiece becomes a living reality towards which we feel drawn in bonds of comradeship. The masters are immortal, for their loves and fears live in us over and over again. It is rather the soul than the hand, the man than the technique, which appeals to us, – the more human the all the deeper is our response. It is because of this secret understanding between the master and ourselves that in poetry or romance we suffer and rejoice with the hero and heroine. Chikamatsu, our Japanese Shakespeare, has laid down as one of the first principle of dramatic composition the importance of taking the audience into the confidence of the author. Several of his pupils submitted played for his approval, but only one of pieces appealed to him. It was a play somewhat resembling the comedy of Errors, in which twin brethren suffer through mistaken identify. “This,” said Chikamatsu, “has the proper spirit of the drama, for it takes the audience into consideration. The public is permitted to know more than the actors. It knows where the mistake lies, and pities the poor figures on the board who innocently rush to their fate.”
The great masters both of the East and West never forgot the value of suggestion as a means for taking the spectator into their confidence. Who can contemplate a masterpiece without being awed by the immense vista of thought presented to our consideration? How familiar and sympathetic are they all; how cold in contrast the modern commonplaces! In the former we feel the warm outpouring of man’s heart; in the latter only a formal salute. Engrossed in his technique, the modern rarely rise himself above. Like the musicians who vainly invoked the Lungmen harp, he sings only of himself. His works may be nearer science, but are further from humanity. We have an old saying in Japan that a woman cannot love a man who is truly vain, for there is no crevice in his heart for love to enter and fill up. In art vanity is equally fatal to sympathetic feeling, whether on the part of the artist or the public.
Nothing is more hallowing than the union of kindred spirits in art. At the moment of meeting, the art lover transcends himself. At once he is and is not. He catches a glimpse of Infinity, but words cannot voice his delight, for the eye has no tongue. Freed from the fetters of matter, his spirit moves in the rhythm of things. It is thus that art becomes akin to religion and ennobles mankind. It is this which makes a masterpiece something sacred. In the old days the veneration in which the Japanese held the work of the great artist intense. The tea-masters guarded their treasures with religious secrecy, and it was often necessary to open a whole series of boxes, one within another, before reaching the shrine itself – the silken wrapping within whose soft folds lay the holy of holies. Rarely was the object exposed to view, and then only to the initiated.
At the time when Teaism was in the ascendency the Taiko’s generals would be better satisfied with the present of a rare work of art than a large grant of territory as a reward of victory. Many of our favourite dramas are based on the loss and recovery of a palace of Lord Hosokawa, in which was preserved the celebrated painting of Dharuma by Sesson, suddenly takes fire through the negligence of the samurai in charge. Resolved at all hazards to rescue the precious painting, he rushes into the burning building and seizes the kakemono, only to find all means of exit cut off by the flames. Thinking only of the picture, he slashes open his body with his sword, wraps his torn sleeve about the Sesson and plunges it into the gaping wound. The fire is at last extinguished. Among the smoking embers is found a half-consumed corpse, within which reposes the treasure uninjured by the fire. Horrible as such tales are, they illustrate the great value that we set upon a masterpiece, as well as the devotion of a trusted samurai.
We must remember, however, that art is of value only to the extent that it speaks to us. It might be a universal language if we ourselves were universal in our sympathies. Our finite nature, the power of tradition and conventionality, as well as our hereditary instincts, restrict the scope of our capacity for artistic enjoyment. Our very individuality establishes in one sense a limit to our understanding; and our aesthetic personality seeks its own affinities in the creation of the past. It is true that with cultivation our sense of art appreciation broadens, and we become able to enjoy many hitherto unrecognised expressions of beauty. But, after all, we see only our own image in the universe, -our particular idiosyncrasies dictate the mode of our perceptions. The tea-masters collected only objects which fell strictly within the measure of their individual appreciation.
HAVE you heard the Taoist tale of the Taming of the Harp?
Once in the hoary ages in the Ravine of Lungmen stood a Kiri tree, a veritable king of the forest. It reared its head to talk to the stars; its roots struck deep into the earth, mingling their bronzed coils with those of the silver dragon that slept beneath. And it came to pass that a might wizard made of this tree a wondrous harp, whose stubborn spirit should be tamed but but the greatest of musicians. For long the instrument was treasured by the Emperor of China, but all in vain were the efforts of those who in turn tried to draw melody from its strings. In response to their utmost strivings there came from the harp but harsh notes of disdain, ill-according with the songs they fain would sing. The harp refused to recognise a master.
At last came Peiwoh, the prince of harpists. With tender hand he caressed the harp as one might seek to soothe an unruly horse, and softly touched the chords. he sang of nature and the seasons, of high mountains and flowing waters, and all the memories of the tree awoke! Once more the sweet breath of spring played amidst its branches. The young cataracts, as they danced down the ravine, laughed to the budding flowers. Anon were heard the dreamy voices of summer with its myriad insects, the gentle patterning of rain, the wail of the cuckoo. Hark! a tiger roars, – the valley answers again. In autumn; in the desert night, sharp like sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now winter reigns, and through the snow-filled air swirl flocks of swan and rattling hailstones beat upon the boughs with fierce delight.
Then Peiwoh changed the key and sang of love. The forest swayed like an ardent swain deep lost in thought. On high, like a haughty maiden, swept a cloud bright and fair; but passing, trailed long shadows on the ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwoh sang of war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the harp arose the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rode the lightning, the thundering avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch asked Peiwoh where in lay the secret of his victory. “Sire,” he replied, “others have failed because they sang but of themselves. I left the harp to choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had been Peiwoh or Peiwoh were the harp.”
This story illustrates the mystery of art appreciation. The masterpiece is a sympathy played upon our finest feelings. True art is Peiwoh, and we the harp of Lungmen. At the magic touch of the beautiful the secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken, we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not of. Memories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognise, stand forth in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.
The sympathetic communication minds necessary for art appreciation must be based on mutual concession. The spectator must cultivate the proper attitude for receiving the message, as the artist must know how to impart it. The tea-master, Kobori-Enshiu, himself a daimyo, has left to us these memorable words: “Approach a great painting as thou wouldst approach a great prince.” In order to understand a masterpiece, you must lay yourself low before it and await with bated breath its least utterance. An eminent Sung critic once made a charming confession. Said he: “In my young days I praised the master whose pictures I liked, but as my judgement matured I praised myself for liking what the masters had chosen to have me like.” It is to be deplored that so few of us really take pains to study the moods of the masters. In our stubborn ignorance we refuse to render them this simple courtesy, and thus often miss the rich repast of beauty spread before our very eyes. A master has always something to offer, while we go hungry solely because of our own lack of appreciation.
This essay is an English translation of “「記憶／物語」を読んで”.
Event, History, Memory and Narrative
When I was a junior high school student, there was a assembly in the school gym on the hottest day of summer, the holiday was close to came. The assembly was a talk about “The Pacific War”, spoken by a former school girl, the survivor of the Battle of Okinawa, June, 1945. I personally thought that it was an invaluable talk. I was hugely expecting to listen to her talk, because she had survived the war, also vaguely I was curious about World Modern history. I believe that there must be few students who willingly listened to the talk like me. The reason is that it would be impossible for youngsters to put up with the tales of the old stranger in the sultry school gym. I knew that there were people asleep. But I am not apt to blame on them at all. I was one of the guy who simply listened to the talk for just satisfying own curiosity of the war, although I sympathised the cruelty of the war on the ground. So, I admit that I was a student who was not appropriate for the talk that ought to be, that I have no right to denounce other students who were asleep. It would rather be a majority if I were indifferent with the testimony of the war as a student of junior high school living in the remote city from Okinawa. I wonder that the estrangement from the situation must be extraordinary that present day students wishing to enjoy summer vacation and the former boys and girls seventy-five years ago resign themselves to fate who were given hand grenades which suggest them to suicide against their will in the trench, in the same summer.
I strongly believe that everyone should remember these tragedies had happened in the past, and the opportunities to know the facts must be given through the public place. But, it may be a difficult matter to discuss when to have opportunity, I personally guess that it would be better to let them know in the term of compulsory education. The time flies, the survivors of the war live out their natural life span, so that it would be getting difficult to ask for a testify the memory of tragedy even if we obtained their consent. It has been 75 years since the war was over.
Why the war happened ? I think people who can answer this question are very few. Why the war must not be occurred forever? This question also can be answered by very few number of people, I guess. In our country, the lesson that the war must not be repeated is broadcasted in June, and August. Memorial service for the war is held every year, mourning ceremony is reported in the TV. The mourning is the work of reminiscence of dead. The process of universal healing for those who involved and died in the war(it is different nuance with ‘worshipping the souls of the war dead’). It is good thing for mass-media to broadcast these events. But what should they report the most is that to listening to the whispers of ‘narratives’ suggested by the behaviour of people praying in June 23rd, August 6th, 9th and 15th, I believe. Why happened the general mobilisation that enforce people to service an absurd event? I have been questioning myself about this since I was a child. I knew tentatively the logics and a complete history of Japan but I could not learn any more while I was taking the class of social study. I did not expected at any rate, but evening TV news never taught me the answer. The news always dispassionately tells us only truth likely facts.
“Do not repeat the war, never to happen the tragedy.”
Okay, okay, I understood. but tell me why you say so.
“Because It is tragic.” I knew it! That is not what I want to know. When I was a kid, I thought like that. Is that a common knowledge for adults? That’s why they won’t tell me.
But later on, I could feel the reason to deny the war by watching overflowing insanity of war, suggested from documentary film, such as “NHK special” at 9 o’clock, and “The 20th century on film(Eizo no Seiki)”, which was collaborated with ABC Television. Moreover, I found that this “Event” is in truly complicated situation. I also found the difficulty to speak of the reason why we Japanese had began the Pacific War. Then I thought that the sequence of “Memories” would gradually fade out, and the handing down of narratives might not succeed.
The time goes by, I grew up a bit, I had a chance to visit the United Kingdom. The news program on TV that I watched in hotel on September 2nd was the broadcast of “Victory over Japan day”, as the stance of a victorious nation. I rapidly felt uneasiness like a cold breeze in the UK, reminded me of the feeling that I was in the country which used to fight against our country, even now they celebrated the victory over us. Probably It may be the first time for me to touch the shadow of the war. What I knew were fragments memory that my grand-grandfather served in the battlefield of Manchuria, and my grandfather was nearly expelled from school due to lese majesty. Another grandfather wished to enrol as navy officer but he failed in examination for admission. The more change of generation takes place, the less reliability of spoken tales, and they get short, sometimes surprising punch line appears, otherwise the narrative turns into the record which only tells that one went there and there, Even the memories of my true family fades away.
I have began to answer and find the question by reading books of Modern history of Japan written by specialities like Ms. Kato Yoko and so-on. It is true that some writing of her has the same questioning as me. She tries to make a discussion with high school students on the case as if we were the statesmen of Japan at the era of Pacific war, standing on an equal footing. Of course I have read the book, but it has been a quite long time since I finished it, so that I cannot tell you right now in detail. However, I am sure that the writing was worth reading in that she considers how the Japanese executives made decision in the critical moment of history, and she tries to describe how they felt at that moments as much as possible.
During my reading, I found that some beings insisting sharp remarks and (it may be all very reasonable for them to)confront the books which were written by highly specialised authors, based on thousands of references and former controversial studies. They speak aloud and we cannot ignore them. By all means we should listen to what they are saying. Their voices echo regarding negative “events” such as the Nanjing massacre, comfort women, saying “There were no such things.” History revisionism, desertification of memories, letting past be bygones. Various words are rushing through my mind. Although we are sure to have walked one straight line of “History”, there seems to be tracks of two, three or more lines when we look back. Which line did we walk through? Suddenly I am likely to be suspicious of the “narrative” that I have believed a little while ago. The voices inflame our self-esteem, attempting to conserve the dignity of one’s country from the past to the present. The voices echo with loudly speaking of authenticity of following timeline of our history. Sometimes they are comfortable to our ears, and attracting. I wonder I am a traveler walking among the woods seduced by a whisper of pixie, or a sailor who voyage around the sea yield to the temptation of a sing of Siren.
All of a sudden, everything turned to chaos that I felt like that I cannot understand whole things mentioned above. How should I understand history, narrative and folklore? Survivors who lived “Events” are ageing gradually and passing away, memories are fading as time goes by, they are spreading into branches, and turned into narratives. In order to appreciate why would “Event” has happened, we must think of the royal way of handing down narratives. If the way exists.
Recently, I have read a book(which belongs to my wife), written by Oka Mari, titled as “Memory/Narrative”, published by Iwanami Shoten. This discussion was written in 2000, what I own is noted that it is printed in 2014, as 14th edition. I think it suggests that this book are widely read. It has about 110 pages, I found it is a good amount for me to read carefully. Her insight starts from the “Event” that massacre of Palestines took place in August 12th, 1976, where the place named “thymes thriving hill”, “Tel al-Zaatar, تل الزعتر”. She mentions the questions occurred by reading the work of Liana Badr, who is a Palestine writer, “The Eye of the Mirror”, written about the massacre. Then she proceeds her questions as follows.
How could we share the memory of “Event’? In order to possess Memory of “Event”, the “Event” should firstly be told, should be handed down. What is the mean of telling memory of “Event” as it is shared genuinely with others? Is it possible to exist such narrative? Will it be consisted as we expected? If it exists, is that a matter of precision of realism? Numerous questions occurs.
There must be a critical meaning for thinking about the possibility of sharing memory of “Event”, when we are involved with the struggle of memory regarding various ”Events”, in the present. I would like to think of these questions by starting following discussion.
The verb “share” means “have a portion of (something) with another or others”. Her questions like these are quite stimulating for me, I am not sure that I can solve them anyway, I found that this could be the utmost opportunity to reflect on these matters of mine.
「新世紀エヴァンゲリオン」というアニメ・映画を観た私は、エヴァンゲリオン初号機と第四の使徒「サキエル」が死闘を繰り広げるのを観て、「これは心と心の距離感の比喩ではないのかな」と素人ながら感じたものである．特に初号機が使徒の「A.T. フィールド」（絶対不可侵領域・絶対恐怖領域）を破って攻撃する描写は十代の青少年に対する暴力的な心の侵入をよく描写したもののように思った．A. T. フィールドの展開範囲や強度は、ファントム空間論の理解の助けになりそうである（と思ったのだ）．
Hello. The chapter four ends in this page and we’ll move on next chapter later. The translation was quite challenging but so comfy to me when the work came to the end. His style of writing is vigorous, contains a profound knowledge, and full of overwhelming passion. I can but manage to appreciate it by reading hundred times and trying to find what Tenshin meant to claim.
The name, Adobe of Fancy, implies a structure created to meet some individual artistic requirement. The tea-room is made for the tea-master, not the tea-master for the tea-room. It is not intended for posterity and is therefore ephemeral. The idea that everyone should have a house of his own is based on an ancient custom of the Japanese race, Shinto superstition ordaining that every dwelling should be evacuated on the death of its chief occupant. Perhaps there may have been some unrealised sanitary reason for this practice. Another early custom was that a newly built house should be provided for each couple that married. It is on account of such customs that we find the Imperial capitals so frequently removed from one site to another in ancient days. The rebuilding, every twenty years, of Ise Temple, the supreme shrine of the Sun-Goddess, is an example of one of these ancient rites which still obtain at the present day. The observance of these customs was only possible with some such form of construction as that furnished by our system of wooden architecture, easily pulled down, easily built up. A more lasting style, employing brick and stone, would have rendered migrations impracticable, as indeed they became when the more stable and massive wooden construction of China was adopted by us after the Nara period.
With the predominance of Zen individualism in the fifteenth century, however, the old idea became imbued with a deeper significance as conceived in connection with the tea-room. Zennism, with the Buddhist theory of evanescence and its demands for the mastery of spirit over matter, recognised the house only as temporary refuge for the body. The body itself was but as a hut in the wilderness, a flimsy shelter made by tying together the grasses that grew around, – when these ceased to be bound together they again became resolved into the original waste. In the tea-room fugitiveness is suggested in the thatched roof, frailty in the slender pillars, lightness in the bamboo support, apparent carelessness in the use of commonplace materials. The eternal is to be found only in the spirit which, embodied in these simple surroundings, beautifies them with the subtle light of its refinement.
That the tea-room should be built to suit some individual taste is an enforcement of the principle of vitality in art. Art, to be fully appreciated, must be true to contemporaneous life. It is not that we should ignore the claims of posterity, but that we should seek to enjoy the present more. It is not that we should disregard the creations of the past, but that we should try to assimilate them into our consciousness. Slavish conformity to traditions and formulas fetters the expression of individuality in architecture. We can but weep over those senseless imitations of European buildings which one beholds in modern Japan. We marvel why, among the most progressive Western nations, architecture should be so devoid of originality, so replete with repetitions of obsolete styles. Perhaps we are now passing through an age of democratisation in art, while awaiting the rise of some princely master who shall establish a new dynasty. Would that we loved the ancients more and copied them less! It has been said that the Greeks were great because they never drew from the antique.
The term, Adobe of Vacancy, besides conveying the Taoist theory of the all-containing involves the conception of a continued need of change in decorative motives. The tea-room is absolutely empty, except for what may be placed there temporarily to satisfy some aesthetic mood. Some special art object is brought in for the occasion, and everything else is selected and arranged to enhance the beauty of the principal theme. One cannot listen to listen to different pieces of music at the same time, a real comprehension of the beautiful being possible only through concentration upon some central motive. Thus it will be seen that the system of decoration in our tea-rooms is opposed to that which obtains in the West, where the interior of a house is often converted into a museum. To a Japanese, accustomed to simplicity of ornamentation and frequent change of decorative method, a Western interior permanently filled with a vast array of pictures, statuary, and bric-à-brac gives the impression of mere vulgar display of riches. It calls for mighty wealth of appreciation to enjoy the constant sight of even a masterpiece, and limitless indeed must be the capacity for artistic feeling in those who can exist day after day in the midst of such confusion of colour and form as is to be often seen in the homes of Europe and America.
“The Adobe of the Unsymmetrical” suggests another phase of our decorative scheme. The absence of symmetry in Japanese art objects has been often commented on by Western critics. This, also, is a result of a working out through Zennism of Taoist ideals. Confucianism, with its deep-seated idea of dualism, and Northern Buddhism with worship of a trinity, were in no way opposed to the expression of symmetry. As a matter of fact, if we study the ancient bronzes of China or the religious arts of the Tang dynasty and the Nara period, we shall recognise a constant striving after symmetry. The decoration of our classical interiors was decidedly regular in its arrangement. The Taoist and Zen conception of perfection, however, was different. The dynamite nature of their philosophy laid more stress upon the process through which perfection was sought than upon perfection itself. True beauty could be discovered only by one who mentally completed the incomplete. The virility of life and art lay in its possibilities for growth. In the tea-room it is left for each guest in imagination to complete the total effect in relation to himself. Since Zennism has come become that prevailing mode of thought, the art of the extreme Orient has purposely avoided the symmetrical as expressing not only completion but repetition. Uniformity of design was considered as fatal to the freshness of imagination. Thus, landscapes, birds, and flowers became the human figure, the latter being present in the person of the beholder himself. We are often too much in evidence as it is, and in spite of our vanity even self-regard is apt to become monotonous.
In the tea-room the fear of repetition is a constant presence. The various objects for the decoration of a room should be so selected that no colour or design shall be repeated. If you have a living flower, a painting of flowers is not allowable. If you are using a round kettle, the water pitcher should be angular. A cup with a black glaze should not be associated with a tea-caddy of black lacquer. In placing a vase on an incense burner on the tokonoma, care should be taken not to put it in the exact centre, lest it divide the space into equal halves. The pillar of the tokonoma should be of a different kind of wood from the other pillars, in order to break any suggestion of monotony in the room.
Here again the Japanese method of interior decoration differs from that of the Occident, where we see objects arrayed symmetrically on mantelpieces and elsewhere. In Western houses we are often confronted with what appears to us useless reiteration. We find it trying to talk to a man while his full-length portrait stares at us from behind his back. We wonder which is real, he of the picture or he who talks, and feel a curious conviction that one of them must be fraud. Many a time have we sat at a festive board contemplating, with a secret shock to on the dining-room walls. Why these pictured victims of chase and sport, the elaborate carvings of fishes and fruit? Why the display of family plates, reminding us of those who have dined and are dead?
The simplicity of the tea-room and its freedom from vulgarity make it truly a sanctuary from the vexations of the outer world. There and there alone can one consecrate himself to undisturbed adoration of the beautiful. In the sixteen century the tea-room afforded a welcome respite from labour to the fierce warriors and statesman engaged in the unification and reconstruction of Japan. In the seventeenth century, after the strict formalism of the Tokugawa rule had been developed, it offered the only opportunity possible for the free communion of artistic spirits. Before a great work of art there was no distinction between daimyo, samurai, and commoner, Nowadays industrialism is making true refinement more difficult all the world over. Do we not need the tea-room more than ever?
皆さんはHeinrich von Kleist（ハインリヒ・フォン・クライスト）という劇作家をご存知だろうか．私は知らなかった．十八世紀から十九世紀の人物である．「記憶／物語」の著者、岡真理は彼の小説「Das Erbeben in Chili」（チリの地震）を例に、出来事が人を領有するということについて理解を試みる．どうやら小説は1647年のチリで起きた地震を題材にしているようだが、あまりイメージが湧かないかもしれない．だが彼女はしっかりあらすじを紹介してくれる．我々は喜んで便乗しよう．先に述べておくと、筆者は1923年の日本の出来事を強く念頭に置いている．
私達に残されたものは記憶の痕跡、出来事の痕跡のみである．出来事がそれ自身の記憶を語った痕跡、それは「女の歓びを知らない」という証言であれば、「Adieu」でもあり、（Tel al Zaatar(مذبحة تل الزعتر)）でもある．出来事をどのようにして分有するかは、私達がその痕跡を現在の物語として如何に呼び戻すかに賭けられている．
Que veut dire témoigner? Non pas se faire pur spectateur, mais vivre avec; non pas contempler, mais partager; non pas se tenir en haut. où l’histoire se décide, mais être en bas où elle se subit. En bas, au plus bas, où le mot disponibilité cesse d’être un verbiage, pour devenir l’acte même d’exister.