#DayofDH Good morning and self introduction

Cross-posted from Day of DH Wasting Gold Paper

I’m up early on this Day of DH 2014. So much to do!

I thought I’d introduce myself to you all, so you have an idea of my background. I’m not your typical DH practitioner – I’m not in the academy (in a traditional way) and I’m also not working with Western-language materials. My concerns don’t always apply to English-language text or European medieval manuscripts. So, if you looked in Asia I’d be less remarkable, but here in the English-language DH world I don’t run across many people like myself.

Anyway, good morning; I’m Molly, the Japanese Studies Librarian at University of Pennsylvania, also managing Korean collection. That means that I take care of everything – from collection development to reference and instruction – that has to do with Japan/Korea, or is in Japanese/Korean at the library and beyond.

Penn_1

Let’s start off with my background. I went to college at University of Pittsburgh for Computer Science and History (Asian history of course) and studied Japanese there for 4 years. I fully intended at the outset to become a software developer, but somewhere along the line, I decided to apply my skills somewhere outside that traditional path: librarianship. And so off I went (with a two-year hiatus in between) to graduate school for a PhD in Asian studies (Japanese literature and book history) and an MSI in Library Science at University of Michigan. Along the way, I interned at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln’s Center for Digital Research in the Humanities (CDRH), redesigning the website for, and rewriting part of the code of, a text analysis app using XSLT for the Cather archive.

After Michigan, I spent a year as a postdoc at Harvard’s Resichauer Institute, working half-time on my humanities research and half-time on a digital archive (The Digital Archive of Japan’s 2011 Disasters, or JDArchive.) Then, in July 2013, I made my first big step into librarianship here at Penn, and have been happily practicing in my chosen profession since then. I’m still new, and there is a lot to learn, but I’m loving every minute.

I admit, finding ways to integrate my CS and humanities background has been a huge challenge. I was most of the way through graduate school when someone recommended going into DH (which didn’t exactly happen – there aren’t a lot of non-postdoc or non-teaching jobs out there now). My dissertation project, a very close-reading-based analysis of five case studies of single books as objects and in terms of their publishing and reception, did not lend itself at all to a digital methodology other than using digital archives to get ahold of their prefaces and keyworded newspaper databases to find their advertisements and reviews. I used a citation index that goes back to the Meiji (1868-1912) period to find sources. Well, most of my research in fact involved browsing physical issues of early 20th-century magazines in the basement of a library in Japan, and looking at the books themselves in addition to the discourse surrounding them. I simply couldn’t think of anything to do that would be “digital.”

So my research in that area – plus what I’m working on now – have continued to be non-DH, although if you’re the kind of person who involves anything “new media” in the DH definition, it may be a little. (I am not that person.) Why do I still call myself a DH practitioner, and why do I bother participating in the community even now?

Well, despite working full time, I’m still committed to figuring out how to apply my skills to new, more DH-style projects, even as I don’t want my other traditional humanities research to die out either. It’s a balancing act. How to find the time and energy to learn new skills and just plain old carve out space to practice ones I already have?

I have a couple of opportunities. One is my copious non-work free time. (Ha. Ha.) Second is my involvement in the open and focused lab sessions of Vitale II, the digital lab (okay, it’s a room with a whiteboard and a camera) at the Kislak Center for special collections in Van Pelt Library. I have a top-secret brainstorming session with a buddy today about how we can make even more social, mental, and temporal space for DH work in the library on a topically focused basis. I’m jealous of the Literary Lab; that should speak for itself. In any case, I also ran into a fellow Japanese studies DH aspirant at the Association for Asian Studies Conference a few weeks ago too, and he and I are plotting with each other as well.

So there are time and social connections to be made, and collaboration that can take place despite all odds. But it’s still a huge challenge. I can do my DH work at 5:30 am, in the evening (when I have no brainpower left), or early on the weekends. I have many other things competing for my time, not least two other research articles I’m working on. I could also be doing my real work at any of those times without the need to explain.

Yet I do it. It’s because I love making things, because I love bringing my interests together and working on something that involves a different part of my brain from reading and writing. I’m excited about the strange and wonderful things that can come from experimental analysis that, even if they aren’t usable, can make me think more broadly and weirdly.

More to follow. よろしくお願いします!

the first-world internet

I heard an interesting presentation today, but it concluded with a very developed-world, class-based interpretation of the Internet that I simply can’t agree with.

Although it’s true that more students are coming from abroad to study in the US (attributed in the presentation partially to budgetary issues in public schools in the US, another issue entirely), the idea of ‘globalization’, I’d argue, is really a concept based in the developed world. Yes, we have more students studying ‘cross-border’ topics, and interested in the world outside of the US. American students are coming into more contact with international students thanks to their presence in American universities, and perhaps gaining more cultural competency through this interaction. ‘Global studies’ are now a thing.

But this presentation talked at the end about the global power of the Internet, and globalization generally, about being able to reach across borders and communicate unimpeded. It doesn’t just have the potential to break down barriers, but already actively does so, this presenter posited. It doesn’t just encourage dissent but is already a channel for dissent, and an opportunity available to all.

International students in the US may be experiencing this power of the Internet, yes. But at home? Students from nations such as China and Saudi Arabia may not have experienced the Internet in this way, and may not be able to experience it back home in the same way as they can in the West, in Korea, in Japan, in other developed countries. (And I realize that’s a problematic term in itself.) Moreover, not all American students have experienced this Internet either. The students we find in universities generally already have opportunities not available to everyone, including their access to technology and the Internet.

There’s also the inherent assumption that this global access – and ‘global studies’ in general – takes place in English. While many students abroad are studying English, not all have this opportunity; moreover, their access to the educational opportunities of the developed world are limited to those opportunities they can access in English. Many undergraduates and even graduate students in the US limit themselves to the kind of global studies that can take place without foreign language competency. I realize that many do attempt foreign language studies and while the vast majority of undergraduates I encounter who are interested in Japan and Korea cannot read materials in their focus countries’ languages, they are often enrolled in language classes and doing their best. However, there are many more who are not. They do not come to the world – they expect the world to come to them.

And there are many, many students around the world who do not have access to the English Internet, or cross-border collaboration in English through the opportunities the Internet potentially affords (or doesn’t, depending on the country). They may not even have reliable access to electricity, let alone a data connection. This is changing, but not at the speed that the kind of thinking I encountered today assumes.

Related to this, another presentation talked about the power of MOOCs and online learning experiences in general. And yes, while I generally agree that there is much potential here, the vast majority of MOOCs currently available require English, a reliable connection, reliable electricity. They are by and large taken by educated adult males, who speak English. There is potential, but that is not the same as actual opportunity.

Overall, I think we need to question what we are saying when we talk about the power of the global Internet, and distinguish between potential and reality. Moreover, we need to distinguish exactly the groups we are talking about when we talk about globalization, global studies, and cross-border/cross-cultural communication. Even without the assumption of a developed-world, upper-class Internet, we need to recognize that by and large, our work is still conducted in silos, especially in the humanities. Science researchers in Japan may be doing English-language collaboration with international colleagues, but humanities researchers largely cannot communicate in English and cross-language research in those fields is rare. I can’t speak for countries other than Japan and the US, really, but despite the close mutual interest in areas such as Japanese literature and history, there is little collaboration between the two countries – despite the potential, as with digitizing rare materials and pooling resources to create common-interest digital archives, for example.

Even those international students often conduct their American educations in language and culture silos. Even the ones with reliable Internet access use country-based chat and social media, although resources such as Facebook are gaining in popularity. We go with what is most comfortable for us, what comes to us; that doesn’t apply only to Americans. Our channels of communication are those that allow us the path of least resistance. Even if Twitter and Facebook weren’t blocked in China, would they prove as popular as Sina Weibo and other Chinese technologies? Do Americans know what Line is or are they going to continue using WhatsApp?

If we find that English, money, and understanding of American cultural norms are major barriers to our communication, we might find other ways. Yes, that developed-world Internet may hold a lot of potential, but its global promise may not go in a direction that points toward us in America anyway.

ruins – the past, the real, the monumental, the personal

Did I ever tell you about one of my favorite buildings in the world? It’s a public housing project named Kaigan-dori Danchi 海岸通り団地 (not to be confused with the type of projects one finds in the US, it was perfectly desirable housing in its time). This particular danchi (“community housing” or – generally public – housing project) was located smack in the middle of the richest section of Yokohama, between Kannai and Minato Mirai, perhaps one of the richest areas of the Tokyo region. Here it is in all its dirty, dirty glory, with Landmark Tower in the background.

Yes. This is Kaigan-dori Danchi, one of the grossest “ruins” (haikyo 廃墟) I had ever seen. Or, I thought it was a ruin. You know, an abandoned building. Because it looked too much like a shell to be anything else.

Then I got a message on Flickr.

In it, the messager wrote that he grew up in Kaigan-dori Danchi and now lives in New York City. He advised me that yes, it’s still inhabited, and thanked me for putting so many photos of it on Flickr. (Yes, I went for a photo shoot of this complex, more than once – hey, it was on my walk home from school!) He felt nostalgic at seeing his boyhood home and was interested to see what it looked like now.

In other words, what I’d felt vaguely strange about as some kind of ruins voyeurism – the same kind of ruins porn that takes hold of nearly everyone who wants to take photos of Detroit, for example – turned out to be a two-way street. It wasn’t pure voyeurism; it was a way to connect with someone who had a direct experience of the past of this place, a place that was still alive and had a memory and a history, rather than being some monstrosity out of time – as I’d been thinking of it. I saw it as a monument, not an artifact.

So this was in 2008, a half year after I’d become obsessed with Japanese urban exploration photography, which was enjoying a boom in the form of guidebooks, a glossy monthly magazine, calendars, DVDs, tours, photo books, and more, in Japan at the time. (Shortly thereafter, and I CALLED IT, came the public housing complex boom. I do have some of the photo books related to this boom too, because there’s nothing I love more than a good danchi.)

As part of the research for a presentation I gave on the topic for my Japanese class at IUC that year, I’d done some research into websites about ruins in Japan (all in Japanese of course). These were fascinating: some of them were just about the photography, but others were about reconnecting with the past, posting pictures of old schools and letting former classmates write on the guestbooks of the sites. There was a mixi (like myspace) group for the Shime Coal Mine (the only landmark of the first town I’d lived in in Japan). The photo books, on the other hand, profoundly decontextualized their objects and presented them as aesthetic monuments, much the way I’d first viewed Kaidan-dori Danchi.

So I wonder, with ruins porn a genre in the United States and Europe as well, do we have the same yearning for a concrete, real past that some of these sites and photographers exhibit, and not just vague nostalgia for the ruins of something that never existed? How much of ruins photography and guidebooks are about the site in context – the end point of a history – and how much is just about “hey I found this thing”? How much of this past is invented, never existed, purely fantasy, and how much of it is real, at least in the minds of those who remember it?

These are answers I don’t yet have, but I’ve just begun on this project. In the meantime, I’m happy to share Kaigan-dori Danchi with you.

politics and anthologizing

In this past year, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how the form of the anthologies I study (literary individual author anthologies in Japan at the turn of the 20th century) impacts possibilities of reading and interpretation. I’ve also commented at a couple of conferences that the narratives of who these authors “belong” to have been shaped and guided in these anthologies, and have written that taking works out of their original contexts fundamentally erases a part of their meaning (in terms of the ways readers encounter them) and simultaneously alters the work in terms of its received meaning.

After doing some reading this morning, I realized that one thing links these various threads in anthologies, and it’s a word I wasn’t using: politics.

I want to talk specifically about the example of Higuchi Ichiyō. For much of her career, she wrote for the magazine Bungakukai (among others) which was a driver of the first Romantic movement in Japan. In her anthologies, of course her serial works from that magazine are included as whole pieces, as though they were wholes from the outset, which has its own implications for reading. But the other piece of this is that just as the editors were writing the Bungakukai coterie social and ideological connections out of her career in their prefaces, they simultaneously erased this connection – this fundamental supplier of meaning – from her works by taking them out of their original Romantic context.

The first readers of Ichiyō’s works would have seen them embedded in theory and poetry heavily influenced by western Romanticism, including translations of English works and illustrations of faded ruins and statuary. The readers of her individual anthology, as well as reprints in wider circulation magazines such as Bungei kurabu before her death, would have encountered a very different context: in the magazines, other “modern” mainstream Japanese literature (presented as unaffiliated with any coterie or group other than the influential publishers of the magazines), and in the anthology, Ichiyō’s own works as a cohesive and self-contained whole. No longer would her work be infused, by virtue of proximity, with the politics of literature at the time she wrote in the early-to-mid 1890s. She becomes depoliticized, ironically despite the heavily social and what I would call political themes of her work: that is, the plight of the lower class and the inequity of Japanese society at the turn of the 20th century.

Especially in her second anthology, published in 1912, Ichiyō becomes a timeless woman writer, an elegant author of prose and poetry whose works are infused with tragedy – just as her poverty-stricken life was, to paraphrase the editors of the two volumes. Yet it is not a structural tragedy that pervades society, as it is in her work, but a personal, elegant, and heart-wrenching individual tragedy, one that makes her work even more poignant without necessarily having political implications. I can’t speak to the Romantic movement’s attitude toward this kind of theme found in Bungakukai, not being as familiar with its politics as I should be, but I can say that Kitamura Tōkoku – the founder of Bungakukai – basically started his career with the publication of Soshū no shi, a piece of “new-form” poetry about a prisoner, written at the height of his political involvement in the late 1880s.

So there is an association, simply by virtue of publishing in the same venues, between Ichiyō’s politics and those of Tōkoku, and the literary politics of the Romantic movement vis-à-vis the multitude of other ideologies of writing that existed at the time. Yet in her anthologies, this politics disappears and her context is lost entirely, in favor of a new context of Ichiyō alone, her works as something that stand alone without interference from the outside world. It is a profound depoliticization and something to think about in considering other anthologies as well, both early ones in Japan, current ones, and those found elsewhere in the world.

Japanese tokenization – tools and trials

I’ve been looking (okay, not looking, wishing) for a Japanese tokenizer for a while now, and today I decided to sit down and do some research into what’s out there. It didn’t take long – things have improved recently.

I found two tools quickly: kuromoji Japanese morphological analyzer and the U-Tokenizer CJK Tokenizer API.

First off – so what is tokenization? Basically, it’s separating sentences by words, or documents by sentences, or any text by some unit, to be able to chunk that text into parts and analyze them (or do other things with them). When you tokenize a document by word, like a web page, you enable searching: this is how Google finds individual words in documents. You can also find keywords from a document this way, by writing an algorithm to choose the most meaningful nouns, for example. It’s also the first step in more involved linguistic analysis like part-of-speech tagging (thing, marking individual words as nouns, verbs, and so on) and lemmatizing (paring words down to their stems, such as removing plural markers and un-conjugating verbs).

This gives you a taste of why tokenization is so fundamental and important for text analysis. It’s what lets you break up an otherwise unintelligible (to the computer) string of characters into units that the computer can attempt to analyze. It can index them, search them, categorize them, group them, visualize them, and so on. Without this, you’re stuck with “words” that are entire sentences or documents, that the computer thinks are individual units based on the fact that they’re one long string of characters.

Usually, the way you tokenize is to break up “words” based on spaces (or sentences based on punctuation rules, etc., although that doesn’t always work). (I put “words” in quotes because you can really make any kind of unit you want, the computer doesn’t understand what words are, and in the end it doesn’t matter. I’m using “words” as an example here.) However, for languages like Japanese and Chinese (and to a lesser extent Korean) that don’t use spaces to delimit all words (for example, in Korean particles are attached to nouns with no space in between, like saying “athome” instead of “at home”), you run into problems quickly. How to break up texts into words when there’s no easy way to distinguish between them?

The question of tokenizing Japanese may be a linguistic debate. I don’t know enough about linguistics to begin to participate in it, if it is. But I’ll quickly say that you can break up Japanese based on linguistic rules and dictionary rules – understanding which character compounds are nouns, which verb conjugations go with which verb stems (as opposed to being particles in between words), then breaking up common particles into their own units. This appears to be how these tools are doing it. For my own purposes, I’m not as interested in linguistic patterns as I am in noun and verb usage (the meaning rather than the kind) so linguistic nitpicking won’t be my area anyway.

Moving on to the tools. I put them through the wringer: Higuchi Ichiyō’s Ame no yoru, the first two lines, from Aozora bunko.

One, kuromoji, is the tokenizer behind Solr and Lucene. It does a fairly good job, although with Ichiyō’s uncommon word usage and conjugation, it faltered and couldn’t figure out that 高やか is one word; rather it divided it into 高 や か.  It gives the base form, reading, and pronunciation, but nothing else. However, in the version that ships with Solr/Lucene, it lemmatizes. Would that ever make me happy. (That’s, again, reducing a word to its base form, making it easy to count all instances of both “people” and “person” for example, if you’re just after meaning.) I would kill for this feature to be integrated with the below tool.

The other, U-Tokenizer, did significantly better, but its major drawback is that it’s done in the form of an HTTP request, meaning that you can’t put in entire documents (well, maybe you could? how much can you pass in an HTTP request?). If it were downloadable code with an API, I would be very happy (kuromoji is downloadable and has a command line interface). U-Tokenizer figured out that 高やか is one word, and also provides a list of “keywords,” which as far as I can tell is a bunch of salient nouns. I used it for a very short piece of text, so I can’t comment on how many keywords it would come up with for an entire document. The documentation on this is sparse, and it’s not open source, so it’s impossible to know what it’s doing. Still, it’s a fantastic tool, and also seems to work decently for Chinese and Korean.

Each of these tools has its strengths, and both are quite usable for modern and contemporary Japanese. (I really was cruel to feed them Ichiyō.) However, there is a major trial involved in using them with freely-available corpora like Aozora bunko. Guess what? Preprocessing ruby.

Aozora texts contain ruby marked up within the documents. I have my issues with stripping out ruby from documents that heavily use them (like Meiji writers, for example) because they add so much meaning to the text, but let’s say for argument’s sake that we’re not interested in the ruby. Now, it’s time to cut it all out. If I were a regular expressions wizard (or even had basic competency with them) I could probably strip this out easily, but it’s still time consuming. Download text, strip out ruby and other metadata, save as plain text. (Aozora texts are XHTML, NOT “plain text” as they’re often touted to be.) Repeat. For topic modeling using a tool like MALLET, you’re going to want to have hundreds of documents at the end of it. For example, you might be downloading all Meiji novels from Aozora and dividing them into chunks or chapters. Even the complete works of Natsume Sōseki aren’t enough without cutting them down into chapters or even paragraphs to make enough documents to use a topic modeling tool effectively. Possibly, run all these through a part-of-speech tagger like KH Coder. This is going to take a significant amount of time.

Then again, preprocessing is an essential and extremely time-consuming part of almost any text analysis project. I went through a moderate amount of work just removing Project Gutenberg metadata and dividing into chapters a set of travel narratives that I downloaded in plain text, thankfully not in HTML or XML. It made for easy processing. With something that’s not already real plain text, with a lot of metadata, and with a lot of ruby, it’s going to take much more time and effort, which is more typical of a project like this. The digital humanities are a lot of manual labor, despite the glamorous image and the idea that computers can do a lot of manual labor for us. They are a little finicky with what they’ll accept. (Granted, I’ll be using a computer script to strip out the XHTML and ruby tags, but it’s going to take work for me to write it in the first place.)

In conclusion? Text analysis, despite exciting available tools, is still hard and time consuming. There is a lot of potential here, but I also see myself going through some trials to get to the fun part, the experimentation. Still, stay tuned, especially for some follow-up posts on these tools and KH Coder as I become more familiar with them. And, I promise to stop being difficult and giving them Ichiyō’s Meiji-style bungo.

Introducing Waseda bungaku #2 早稲田文学第二次

Waseda bungaku, the literary magazine of Waseda University (Tokyo Senmon Gakkō until 1902), was originally published in the 1880s by famed writer and theater critic (and professor) Tsubouchi Shōyō, and ceased publication in the 1890s. It was started up again by his successors, explicitly in his honor and in that of the original magazine, in 1906, and went until 1927. This, as opposed to the first run (dai ichi-ji) is known now as the second series or run, dai ni-ji. It’s since gone through a number of changes in ji and is on dai-jūji (#10) in its current form – it’s still a running literary magazine today.

I’m particularly interested in this second run of the magazine because of its content, as well as its clear intent to do honor to the original, influential mid-Meiji (1868-1912) periodical. As I’ve touched on in previous posts, it’s highly nostalgic, with articles not only on current novels but on earlier Meiji works, and memories of the writers regarding their literary and social groups from their youths in the 1880s and early 1890s. There were some special Meiji literature issues (特別号) that came out in expanded form and cost significantly more than the typical issue, but even the other issues are full of memories, not just current concerns.

photoThe publisher of the magazine, Tōkyōdō, is also of interest to me, and I’m currently starting to try to look into the relationship of this commercial publisher and the academic interest group behind Waseda bungaku. Surprisingly to me, there is quite a lot published (in a relative sense, and relative to my expectations) on both Waseda University, and also Tōkyōdō itself. (Including great titles like A Stroll Through 100 Years of Tōkyōdō History.) I’m fast checking these books out and they’re becoming a growing mountain on my office bookshelves, with a significant amount of space taken up by four volumes of the 9-volume set 100 Years of Waseda University History.

Why am I so interested in this publishing history? Well, I recently received the 1929 Meiji bungaku kenkyū, which is ostensibly (according to catalog records, anyway) a reprint edition of the special Meiji literature issues of Waseda bungaku. However, when I examined the two-volume set itself, it’s a set of rebound issues – original covers and advertisements and all, bound up in hardcovers. Even the preface refers to new binding (新装) specifically, rather than a new printing or a collection. It’s extremely explicit that it’s a literal collection of old magazine issues.

The fact that Tōkyōdō seems to have rebound its overstock in 1929, two years after the journal ceased, and sold it at relatively low prices (5 yen for the set) is interesting enough, but what is even better is the fact that the advertisements are not from 1925, when the first issues included were originally published, but from 1927. Even more interesting, they’re Meiji-focused, largely for the series Meiji bungaku meicho zenshū, a collection of “famous writers” of Meiji literature (which I’ve posted on previously). These are obviously reprinted issues of the magazine from 1927, two years after their original publication date, and have had current advertisements related to the content of the issues (remember, “special Meiji literature” issues) inserted into them instead of the original 1925 ads for things like books written by the journal editors on Western philosophers. (By “original” I’m referring actually to a reproduction I have of these same issues with 1925 ads, but am not actually sure if these are from “originals” as in first printings, or if these are also later printings that have been reproduced.)

So this indicates that not only are these overstock that Tōkyōdō wanted to try to sell off in a repackaged format (“as a resource for future Meiji scholars” rather than “old issues of a literary magazine from four years ago”), but they were later printings than the 1925 original first printings. This means that there was enough interest in and demand for the Meiji special issues, whether at the time or after the fact, for them to be reissued by a commercial publisher whose goal is to make money off of them. There must have been such demand that the publisher saw profit in it.

This brings me back to previous posts about interest in Meiji, Meiji nostalgia, and Meiji and Meiji literature themselves as “things” to be studied, as fields, newly invented post-Meiji and specifically in the late 1920s. (Even if this isn’t the first appearance of the phrase “Meiji literature,” I’d still argue that as a “thing,” it really came into being at this time in terms of being popular, published, studied, and talked about.) There is obviously a market and demand for things Meiji at this time, testified to by both the reissued magazines and their rebinding, packaging, and marketing to “scholars.” I’m still on the fence about what the interest in Meiji actually meant – was it really scholarly work as these collections advertise themselves, or was it something about grasping onto recently lived past and lost youth? Or perhaps both?

Meiji nostalgia: the 1910s-1920s

I’m always struck by the nostalgia for the Meiji period (1868-1912) that I find even before the end of Meiji, but especially in what ramps up in the 1910s-late 1920s, in particular with the reprinting of literary coterie Ken’yūsha’s Garakuta bunko (late 1880s) in 1927, the re-publication of Waseda bungaku‘s special Meiji articles and issues in the form of Meiji bungaku kenkyū in 1929, and the publication of Meiji bungaku meicho zenshsū (The Complete Collection of Famous Meiji Literary Writers) from 1926. It’s something about this late-20s flurry of Meiji activity, plus what precedes it in the literary journal Waseda bungaku, that fascinates the part of me that is interested in archives and social memory.*

Why social memory? Well, Waseda bungaku, the literary journal of Waseda University (started by Tsubouchi Shoyo in the 1880s-1890s, then on hiatus until 1906, restarting in that year – late Meiji), contains a huge number of articles written by surviving members of Meiji literary groups about their memories and their friends, long or recently dead, and their reminiscences of the early days of those groups and associated publications. Shimazaki Tōson writes of the founding and early period of literary magazine Bungakkai and its coterie in the early 1890s, Kōda Rohan writes of the death and life of Awashima Kangetsu, and Emi Suiin writes volumes about Ken’yūsha and its early and late history.

In fact, Suiin not only wrote these lengthy articles, he also penned the book Meiji bundanshi – jiko chūshin (A History of the Meiji Literary World – Focused on Myself) in 1927, and another, Ken’yūsha to Kōyō (Ken’yūsha and [Ozaki] Kōyō) in the same year. These are focused entirely on his memories of his life in the Meiji literary world, including big shot Ozaki Kōyō, Ken’yūsha’s founder and one of the most popular and influential writers of the mid-Meiji period (d. 1902). His books, coincidentally – or perhaps not – came out in the very same year as a reproduction of Ken’yūsha’s first literary magazine, Garakuta bunko, reprinted by an individual (Kaneyama Fumio) with the express purpose of providing more material to Meiji literary scholars interested in that coterie’s activities, for whom the archives were dwindling if they existed at all. Likewise, in 1927 an article appeared in Waseda bungaku on Ken’yūsha’s somewhat later Edo murasaki magazine, testifying to renewed (if perhaps not sustained) interest in that coterie’s publications and, importantly, that specific time period of the early Meiji 20s (late 1880s-early 1890s).

Just two years later, in 1929, a publication came out that commemorated the 27th anniversary of Ozaki Kōyō’s death with a special society pamphlet, for lack of a better word (kaishi 会誌). Why it’s the 27th anniversary is anyone’s guess (or, if I’m missing something culturally significant, please fill me in!).

I recently received a fascinating set of books for my library that collects the “Meiji issues” (Meiji bungaku gō) of Waseda bungaku from 1925-1927, and was published in 1929. It appears to be bound volumes of individual, original Waseda bungaku issues, although there is a discrepancy between those and the reproduction of the “originals” that also arrived – the ads are different, and the ones in the “1925” issues all date from 1927 or later. Leaving this fascinating publishing story aside for the time being, let’s take a look at the preface. Just as with the Garakuta bunko reprints, the editor (Honma Hisao) of Waseda bungaku and these volumes claims that there is a dearth of material for those studying “Meiji literature” and in order to help future scholars, it is a mission of “a magazine with a tradition stretching back into the Meiji period” (i.e., Waseda bungaku) to collect its issues in a gappon 合本 and re-release them to the public.

preface As Michael Williams pointed out to me, this isn’t even primary sources on Meiji literature – it contains Taisho and Showa writing on Meiji. But I think there’s a particular draw, an almost-primary-source quality, because the articles are by and large written by other Meiji big shots (if not the deceased Kōyō himself) such as Rohan and Tōson and Suiin, and they’re about those Meiji memories and Meiji experiences. They’re social memories of Meiji, giving the reader a direct connection to events and literature of the past through the firsthand experiences of the writers.

So is it really about a lack of Meiji sources? Possibly, but unlikely. Meiji literature was being reprinted and recirculated both in single-volume form as well as in zenshū, or “complete” literary collections, of various kinds. I think it’s more a mixture of nostalgia and fear of the experiences and memories of the period disappearing, perhaps along with the fires that accompanied the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake, and along with those who were dying, like Awashima Kangetsu had only a few years before. It was a time when the original Ken’yūsha members were old and dying off, when major Meiji figures were disappearing and no longer accessible – and no longer surrounded by others who could also remember the time of their youth.

I have one other tidbit to add to the Meiji nostalgia boom of the late 20s. The series I referenced above, Meiji bungaku meicho zenshū, was published in 12 volumes from 1926-1927 and there are publisher advertising leaflets for it stuffed into the books that make up Meiji bungaku kenkyū (the Meiji re-issues of Waseda bungaku that has been discussed). One is nearly poster-sized. The books that make them up, save for Kōyō’s Irozange and Rohan’s Fūryūbutsu, are largely forgotten now, and it even includes one translation by Morita Shiken. Yet it’s a “scholarly resource” including explications, criticism, photographs, and illustrations – not exactly nostalgic. But I’d argue that it’s the context in which I find those leaflets that makes them intimate parts of the fabric of Meiji social memory: they’re reprints of the very books that the writers of the nostalgic essays would have read in their youths, and supply the means to remember Meiji through direct experience in 1927, 15 years after the end of the period in 1912.

All of this Meiji-related publishing activity, I see as a flurry of nostalgia for and fear of the loss of Meiji memories, of Meiji experiences, and ultimately of the memories of the writers’ and publishers’ very youth itself. These actions bind up inextricably the institutions of archives (personal and official), publication (private and commercial), remembering (individually and socially), and commemorating – creating the very idea of “Meiji” and “Meiji literature,” an idea that can never be severed, at least in the late 1920s, from the memory and social fabric of those Meiji survivors still living.

leafletsmall leaflet

* Actually, I came to my dissertation research topic – literary anthologies of the recently deceased – through a course entitled “Archives and Institutions of Social Memory.”

buying a Japanese article – win!

I recently played around on CiNii Articles while doing some research for a student, specifically into whether there is a pay service that allows access to full text of subscription-based journal articles. It turns out there is, to my astonishment (because I always say “there is no JSTOR for Japanese journals”, which remains true), although it’s almost uniformly science and medicine journals. In the process of playing around, I ran across an article I desperately wanted to read, but was behind a paywall.

I noticed something on the journal site, however: a note that the article costs 630 yen for non-subscribers, with a link to purchase it. Within two minutes, I was registered as a member of the site with a credit card number and on my way to downloading the article as an unrestricted PDF.

Screen Shot 2013-09-16 at 1.32.17 PM

This process worked so well and so smoothly that I had to share my experience. Despite wishing, of course, that the article was open access (and that there was a way to restrict my CiNii searches not just to full-text but to open access full-text), I’m highly satisfied with how this worked out and especially with the fact that it’s a DRM-free PDF, so I’m free to save it, print, and put it on any number of devices.

Incidentally, for open access articles, CiNii is absolutely smooth and painless: direct links to PDFs from the “open access” button. Beautiful.

Lesson learned: next time you really, really need or want a Japanese article* and it’s a paid link on CiNii, give it a shot – you may be pleasantly surprised.

* Of course, this tends to not work for humanities journals, which are by and large not online at all, paid or not. This is why I still maintain that there is no Japanese JSTOR.

Meiroku zasshi (明六雑誌) now available online

The Meiji periodical founded and written by Fukuzawa Yukichi and others, Meiroku zasshi 明六雑誌, has now been put online in full text – or rather, page images. They’re available in both JPG and PDF format. This is a great resource for Meiji researchers, as it’s not exactly easy to get ahold of this 1874-1875 periodical otherwise. And let me tell you, these are high quality color images, highly readable, and you can even get a sense of the texture of the page. It’s a beautiful digitization and a valuable project.

You can access it at the 明六雑誌画像 website.

my disagreement with authorship attribution

I’m torn: I’m very interested in stylometry, but I have issues with the fundamental questions that are asked in this field, in particular authorship attribution.

In my research, I’ve thought and written quite a bit about authorship. My dissertation looked at changing concepts of authorship – the singular, cohesive, Romantic genius author as established in collected editions in Japan at the turn of the 20th century – and also at actual practices of writing and authorship that preceded and accompanied these developments. My conclusion about authorship was that it is a kind of performance, embedded in and never preceding the text, and is not coextensive with the historical writer(s) behind the performance – pseudonymous, collective, anonymous, or otherwise.

These performances are necessarily contextualized by space, time, society, culture, literary trends, place of publication, audience. They are more or less without meaning if one doesn’t take context into account, even if not all relevant contexts at once. For a performance takes place within a historic, cultural, and literary moment, and does not exist independently of it. I see that place of performance as both the text and its place of publication, its material manifestation; and it is a performance that is inextricably linked to reader reception.

I also don’t see these performances as necessarily creating a unified authorial identity or unified author-function across space, time, and texts. This may sound extremely counterintuitive given that many performances of authorship share appellations and can be “attributed” to the “same” author, and I recognize that my argument is downright bizarre at times. I blame it on having spent too much time thinking about the implications of this topic. But in a way, our linking of these performances after the fact is artificial, and these different author-functions are, for me, so linked to the time and place of both publication and reading – whether contemporary or not – that they can be seen as separate as well. This is why I concluded that collected literary anthologies are constructing – inventing – an entirely artificial “author” out of the works associated, after the fact, with a historical, individual writer, whose identity and name may not have coincided with that of the authorial performance at all in the first place.

So, that said, let me get to my disagreement with authorship attribution. It’s fundamentally asking the wrong question of authors and authorship: who “really” wrote this text? My argument is that the hand of the historical writer “behind” the authorial performance is a moot point; what matters is the name, or lack of a name, attributed to the text when it is published, republished, read, and reread over time. It’s the performance that takes place at the site of the text, coinciding with and following the creation of the text, deeply associated with and embedded in the text, and located within reception rather than intention. It takes place at a different site than the hand of the historical writer holding a pen or the mind creating an idea. And so the search for the “real” identity of the author is beside the point; what is happening here is really “writership attribution” that is something separate from authorship.

A colleague recently asked me, too, what the greater goal of authorship attribution is – what is it beyond finding out the person behind the text? What is it besides deciding that the entity constructed with the name Shakespeare “really” wrote an unattributed or mysterious text? And I couldn’t answer this question, which brings me to my second fundamental problem with authorship attribution. I don’t see an overarching research question guiding methodology, besides the narrow goal of establishing writership of a text. This could be my own ignorance, and I’d be happy to be corrected on it.

I’m interested to hear your thoughts!

on media, literature, and the digital