述語制言語の思想：流れの中の自己Thought in Predicate Languages

The Japanese language is frequently considered as tending not to explicitly express the self or “I.” It is often explained by the absence of subjects in Japanese; however, rather than accepting this negatively as lacking a subject, it is essential to pay attention to the linguistic structure itself, in which the context naturally determines who is “I” and who is “you” within conversations.

While English manages this with the single term “you,” Japanese dynamically alters forms of address depending on situational context. When foreigners learn Japanese, they might sense that conversations continually bring forth a new “I,” emerging moment by moment based on relationships, particularly those tied to specific places. Both self and others in Japan appear as variable entities within relational contexts; there is no fixed, predetermined self prior to encounters. In other words, the self in the Japanese language can be considered as fluidity itself. This means that, in Japan, there is no self.

Personally, when briefly explaining this concept to English-speaking audiences, I often describe it from the perspective of “existing within the flow” (流れの中に存在する). However, within the Japanese cultural sphere, where there is no subject, no agent, no self, and no ego, I think even this “existence” is absent. We may call it a fluid self that exists within the flow, with no fixed existence, but the “self” meant here is entirely different from the Western sense of self, that is, the sense understood in languages built on a subject. Language structure plays a central role here; thus, it becomes inevitably challenging to convey Japanese philosophical thought accurately in English, as the latter inherently requires a subject for communication.

Take, for example, the novelist Haruki Murakami, who enjoys considerable popularity in the West. His original Japanese texts and their English translations become entirely different works. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Murakami’s Japanese works are essentially his own creations, whereas their English counterparts are largely the works of his primary English translator, Jay Rubin. The worlds presented are drastically different. Translation, therefore, is not a matter of looking words up in a dictionary but an intellectual task encompassing the differences in linguistic structures, hence differences in ways of thinking. Consequently, much original philosophical content inevitably vanishes during translation, giving rise to entirely distinct impressions.

Further examining Buddhist philosophy, one finds that it consistently emphasizes the idea of a “non-fixed self.” For instance, one central realization attributed to the Buddha is the truth of dependent origination, or engi (縁起). Dependent origination holds that all phenomena arise in mutual dependence through innen (因縁), causes and conditions, and that no independent, unchanging self, or ga (我), exists. Yet, even this viewpoint fundamentally presupposes a subject-oriented perspective, making it inherently unsatisfying from a purely Japanese philosophical standpoint.

This dissatisfaction and internal struggle became evident throughout the history of Japanese Buddhism, where Buddhist thought was persistently adapted and made Japanese. As previously mentioned in Shitsurae, this often manifested as power struggles within the imperial court; however, the deeper issue involved spiritual concerns. Rather than merely accepting Buddhism as a foreign religion, Japan rigorously assimilated and transformed it, cleverly integrating its foreign elements into a unique faith, continually reflecting Japanese sensibilities. Thus, the clans of ancient Japan with an affinity for Buddhism took it up readily, while those who sought to protect the beliefs rooted in the land resisted it. This resistance directly spurred the elevation of Shinto into a religious system in its own right (this process intensified from the Heian period onward).

Additionally, older Buddhist scriptures present essential teachings: shogyo mujo (諸行無常), that all things are impermanent, and shoho muga (諸法無我), that nothing has a permanent self. These teachings imply that all phenomena constantly change, and no enduring self exists. Even what we perceive as our minds or bodies is merely an aggregation of continuously changing elements. This impermanence does not convey nihilism or loss but offers insight into perceiving the world as a great flowing continuum—an understanding increasingly acknowledged globally today.

Philosopher Kitaro Nishida magnificently developed this Buddhist philosophy of identity into a distinctively Japanese form. Nishida proposed a concept known as the “self-identity of absolute contradiction (絶対矛盾的自己同一),” perceiving the world as composed of two inherently contradictory yet simultaneously identical elements: multiplicity (“多”) and unity (“一”). Nishida thus overcame previous linguistic barriers, achieving a profound Japanese philosophical insight. In his view, multiplicity and unity, though mutually contradictory, reflect each other self-identically, creating and animating the world through their paradoxical coexistence.

Nishida further perceived that this “contradiction” deeply relates to the flow of time, describing it as the “continuity of discontinuity (非連続の連続).” According to Nishida, the flow of time proceeds continuously as discrete, discontinuous “monads” relate to each other paradoxically yet identically. He critically responded to the Westernizing tendencies prevalent since the Meiji period, which separated concepts like “subject and object,” “self and others,” and “individual and totality,” by asserting that these dualities are paradoxically unified within true reality.

Buddhism teaches that the true nature of the self lies within the dynamic interconnectedness of existence flowing through constant change. Yet Nishida pointed out that Buddhism lacks the fundamental element of “contradiction” and thus reached his philosophy of “the self-identity of absolute contradiction”. Simply put, it is hard to say the Japanese genuinely adopted Buddhist philosophy; rather, it seems more accurate to state that the Japanese received and adapted Buddhism through a practical dimension of daily life that required no explicit philosophical reasoning, represented by Nishida’s idea of the “continuity of discontinuity.” Hence, Japanese Buddhism has a markedly different reality from continental Buddhist philosophy. In my view, the foundational reason Buddhism took root in Japan was not primarily due to a positive embrace by the Japanese themselves, but because Buddhism arrived indirectly—originally Indian Buddhism filtered through China and then Korea—and was first introduced into the Yamato region (southern Nara Prefecture), which had many immigrant groups naturally more inclined toward Buddhism.

From another perspective, traditional Japanese thought has considered the human “self” inseparable from its surrounding environment, including nature and society. In Christian culture, humans are described as made in God’s image and entrusted with all things, while Shinto looks at human beings from a different place, viewing them as small and weak, akin to plants and flowers, always sustained by the immense power of their surroundings. In Shinto, which holds that yaoyorozu no kami (八百万の神), the eight million gods, dwell within all phenomena, natural features such as mountains and rivers themselves become sacred. Humans, too, exist harmoniously within this natural order. Furthermore, rivers aren’t perceived as representing a specific fixed deity; rather, the varied ways rivers flow and change, whether clear or turbid, become fluidly personified as kami. This exemplifies why, in Japan, kami are said to reside literally everywhere.

This understanding is linked to the Japanese virtue of reading kuki (空気), the atmosphere of a place, rather than asserting oneself strongly in every situation, encouraging flexibility in behavior according to circumstances. Such context is often said to demonstrate a distinctly Japanese “logic of ba” (場の論理), valuing a self that continually emerges within environmental relationships over a fixed identity. However, personally, I must emphasize caution here: there is no logic of ba in Japan, but rather a logic of basho (場所), of place. The concept of ba inherently arises from languages structured around subjects, while in predicate-centered languages like Japanese, only basho exists. Nishida philosophically explored this notion, ultimately formulating it as the “place of absolute nothingness” (zettai mu no basho, 絶対無の場所).

Whether during the excitement of a festival, peaceful family moments, or responsibilities at work—the different selves appearing at each place are not mere masks but authentic reflections arising through resonance with this “place (the place of absolute nothingness).” Historically, the Japanese have positively embraced such shifting selves according to place, enabling them to possess a remarkable cultural ability to integrate and gently assimilate foreign cultures without rigidity. Again, because this self is not fixed, even identical words possess inherently different qualities. This flexibility largely characterizes how the Japanese have historically absorbed external cultures.

The perspective of “existing within the flow” is not a passive anxiety over losing a fixed self; rather, it is an exceedingly active attitude finding the authentic self within continuous change. Of course, even for the Japanese, achieving this perspective is not easy. Yet, historically examining how Buddhism and Confucianism were received reveals surprisingly Japanese influences rather than continental ones. Originally, the ancient Japanese did not experience anxiety over losing a fixed self. From this viewpoint, I feel that the wavering of identity that younger generations face today may be one form of the question that arises within a structure that reads the world by setting up a subject.

In Japan as well, due to the heavy influence of Western thought since the Meiji era, contemporary Japanese may now experience anxiety over self-loss, yet its quality seems different from the wavering of the self that arises within a structure built on a subject. Here I speak of the influence of Western thought in Japan, but this is a different thing from the thinking of each place in the West itself. It too has been made Japanese, so it cannot simply be laid over Western thought.

Thus, due to differences in linguistic structures creating vastly different ways of thinking, everything becomes essentially different in reality. Conversely, as thought has drifted away from the structure of the Japanese language, the footing of culture and spirit has thinned, and this appears to be showing up as various issues in contemporary Japanese society. Indeed, modern Japanese now mistakenly assume their language possesses a subject-copula structure, and schools sincerely continue teaching that Japanese contains subjects and copulas. However, the truth is that Japanese fundamentally lacks these grammatical features. If readers are interested in this issue, I propose we explore in future writings the intriguing modern history behind why predicate-centered Japanese became misconstrued as a subject-based language.