6 March 2009 (10 Adar 5769)
Although I live in Israel, where the dominant vernacular is Hebrew, I find myself forced to use English more and more frequently for academic output for a number of reasons. At the same time I continue to publish in Japanese, too, though when I moved to Israel in August 2004, I decided not to, as Japanese is not one of the lingua francas of Jewish studies in the world; ironically and fortunately, however, I continue to receive requests from Japanese publishers to contribute articles to their publications.
I feel comfortable in Japanese, Hebrew and English, but since the latter two are not my native language, I am required to have my articles in them checked by their native speakers. Every time I read their corrections, mainly in style, I am filled with despair that I will never be able to reach that stylistic level in Hebrew and English. Since I have read most of the books and articles in my specialty and its neighboring areas in English and Hebrew, my academic lexicon in Japanese is defective, and I may not be familiar enough with academic style in Japanese. Nevertheless, I feel that only in Japanese I can play (or sometimes experiment) with style, and only in this language I can not only discern subtle stylistic differences in nuances caused by the choice of different synonymous words and expressions but also have full control over them.
What always frustrates me when I use Hebrew, English or any other language for formal academic output is that I do not have such stylistic control and feel destined to rely upon the mercy of their native speakers. The dominance of English as an academic lingua franca is a fact; I do not want to waste my time repeating that this is unfair, nor do I have any better solution for this linguistic inequality, even including Esperanto. So in the meanwhile we, including myself, have to live with this fact, but I would like Anglophone researchers to remember that they are benefiting from a kind of "free ride" on the academic highway, where their non-Anglophone colleagues have to continue paying heavy "tolls".
13 March 2009 (17 Adar 5769)
There is something that has not left my mind for the past six months or so. I have been continuing a rather naive struggle deliriously against all odds. When I look back on it now, I cannot help wondering how I have dared to do such a thing, not because it makes me feel sorry but because it makes me blush with shame. I had a similar struggle in my life only once before.
It has become apparent beyond any doubt - it may have been apparent to others from the very beginning - that the struggle is fruitless. I am a stubborn person who does not admit failure so easily, but I cannot see any point in continuing it. It can only wear out my mind.
So I have decided to expel it completely from my thought little by little. It is, of course, easier said than done. I cannot bring a complete and sudden halt to my thought about it after spending an enormous amount of emotional energy on it. As one of the first steps, I have decided to discard, both physically and electronically, all the things that remind me of it, except for one piece of music that also happens to be one of my most favorites.
This decision is not an easy one, but I have to go forward. Unless I rid myself of things that remind me of it and then the thought itself about it, I will be eternally stuck in illusion and unable to open up new opportunities. This will cause some emotional void, but my past experiences have taught me that there always appears something sooner or later that fills it. Emotional void cannot remain unfilled eternally.
20 March 2009 (24 Adar 5769)
Although Japanese is (and will probably remain) the only language over which I have a full stylistic control in formal writing, I am not sure any more whether it is also the most comfortable means of interpersonal communication for me, especially when it comes to the oral expression of emotions. I feel far more comfortable in Hebrew and its default mode of communication than any other language, not only because I live in Israel now, but mainly because of the way it is normally used socially.
I write Japanese almost on a daily basis for personal email correspondence, but I seldom use it orally here in Israel. This week I had a chance to speak it after such a long time. I felt quite uncomfortable speaking it not for lack of use but because of its mode of communication, which I found anew very suffocating and frustrating. I have even come to feel that I cannot think of any other language than Hebrew as a means of intimate communication. Other languages, including even Japanese, make me feel as if I were running with someone else's shoes on.
As a native speaker of Japanese I feel uncomfortable violating its sociolinguistic etiquette, though there was a time when I was stupid and naive enough to try to do so. But on the other hand, following it, I feel even more uncomfortable. What makes Japanese mode of communication suffocating and frustrating for me, even in casual contexts? The main reason is the fact that it is a highly context-dependent language that forces you to remain constantly aware of your relative position in the social hierarchy vis-à-vis that of your interlocutor and choose your language accordingly, unless both of you are drunk. You often find yourself spending more energy over how to say than on what to say, and this selection must be made simultaneously while speaking. Many speakers of Japanese, especially in formal contexts, seem to be in constant fear of using socially unacceptable forms of language, thus offending their interlocutors. I am happy that I do not have to lead a daily life in a language that fetters me to the perpetuation of social hierarcy, which in my opinion hinders free exchange of ideas and makes the atmosphere of interpersonal communication tense, again unless all or most of the participants in communication are drunk.
27 March 2009 (2 Nisan 5769)
I am making a 17-day trip to Japan from next Tuesday until after the Passover. Until quite recently I had only reasons to be happy about it and was very anxious for it. I will be able to see my parents, my sister and her husband, celebrate the seder at my Jewish "alma mater", i.e., the Jewish community in Kobe, and give a talk at a seasonal meeting of one of my almae matres in Kyoto. I am also looking forward to visiting my favorite bookstores in Tokyo, which I consider the best in the world, and eating my favorite vegetarian Japanese foods.
But strange things happen in life. Now I have a reason to have mixed feelings about this imminent trip. Quite unexpectedly, I found myself starting a certain new project recently. The timing is so bad. I have to suspend this project for about two weeks in its initial stage. Unfortunately, this project is not portable, i.e., it can be developed only in the soil of Jerusalem.
I tried similar unportable projects in the past. Physical proximity was crucial for incubating them; it is like water for living beings. But temporal lack of water supply often occurs. My temporal physical absence could either nurture or wither them without water supply; it always turned out to be a good way to measure the potential of each new project, i.e., if its germs cannot survive such temporal lack of water supply in its incubation period, it will probably be unable to grow further. I had both exhilarating and disappointing experiences in this respect. I can only hope and pray that I will have the former experience again this time and my trip will only help strengthen the foundation of my new important project.