An Interview with Nobuo Kazashi
By Hannah Frasure (PO '24)
By Hannah Frasure (PO '24)
Nobuo Kazashi is Professor Emeritus at Kobe University. He specializes in comparative philosophy and is the 1991 recipient of the American Philosophical Association’s William James Prize and the 2012 Japanese Society for Science and Technology Studies’ Kakiuchi Memorial Practice Award. In October 2022, he gave a virtual lecture at the Claremont Colleges on the poetry of different hibakusha — hibakusha being the title for Japanese survivors of the atomic bombs — and how the philosophies within their works illustrate Japan’s historical relationship to nuclear weapons.
In this interview, we discuss the relationship between philosophy and literature. Anyone interested in either subject or the relationship between the two will enjoy hearing his thoughts — aspiring writers in particular, who desire to learn more about how to incorporate elements of philosophy in their work.
What inspiration did Immanuel Kant have on Fyodor Dostoevsky, and in turn, Haruki Murakami? Where lies the gray zone between works that are categorized as strictly philosophical versus works that are fiction of a philosophical nature? How does a split between two camps of philosophers influence how one answers that question? Read on for possible answers to these questions, and others.
Hannah: So in the work of yours that I've read, I know you have written about various authors and artists. What drew you to being a philosopher who uses literary and artistic sources in your philosophical work?
Kazashi: I think some people say philosophy starts with the experience of surprise or astonishment. So I think there is a core experience that can be a starting point for lots of people who are attracted to philosophy. When we look at the history of philosophy, especially in contemporary times, there are lots of examples of philosophers who do the same. In Greece, Plato himself was a very — literally — poetic writer. In the case of France, there is Albert Camus. And also in Germany, for example, Hegel wrote a lot about poets. So I think there's a very close, essential relationship between philosophy and literature in the first place. I don't think there's anything surprising about me writing about those subjects. For example, one of the hibakusha poets I referenced in the talk from October, Hara Tamiki, described seeing the blue sky for the first time after the A-bomb experience and the feeling of being really astonished by the blue.
I think it’s not uncommon for both philosophers and writers of literature to be inspired by emotions and sentiments. Also, especially in modern times in Japan, at least on the side of the philosophers, there has been a very conscious attempt to broaden the field of philosophy. Our conception of philosophy can be very narrow, as you know, and a very science-oriented one.
Philosophy should at least try to include, not only logical thinking and scientific questions, but also art and also literature. Science and art are necessary companions for philosophical thinking.
Hannah: I have two questions branching off of that. First, I can say, studying philosophy at an American undergraduate institution, there is a push to write in a sterilized and almost scientific fashion — at least for me — in almost all of my classes. Do you know where that push has come from and why that style of writing is predominant? Maybe that is not the case in Japan.
Kazashi: I guess you have heard some stories about how in the United States, there has been a very strong and significant analytic tradition, right? There was even some competition between language-centered analytic philosophy and the so-called American pragmatic tradition, too.
For example, I did my PhD studies at Yale, and Yale at that time was known as a place where you can study both analytic and continental philosophy. And so from France, Jacques Derrida used to come to Yale as a visiting lecturer every year. He attracted lots of students, from the philosophy and comparative literature departments.
But overall, there was a very clear competition between the analytic-oriented professors and the literature professors.
However, there has been a very conscious attempt to broaden the field.
There is the famous case of someone, Richard Rorty, who started out as a hardcore analytic philosopher. But he expanded the field in a very scandalous way, after writing about Martin Heidegger, John Dewey, and Ludwig Wittgenstein altogether. Rorty changed the academic situation not only in the United States, but also around the world. We can also think of many other examples of people.
Although there is still a rather clear difference among philosophers between the analytic camp and the continental camp, the relations between the two are much better. So flexibility in philosophy is important — I think there should not be a particular or very strict notion of philosophy. I think various enterprises should be counted freely as a philosophy. I think this has to do with philosophy’s essence.
Hannah: That’s a good transition to my next question. Which is, how — and if at all — do you distinguish between philosophically-termed literature and academic philosophical writing?
Kazashi: I know an American who taught a course entitled Philosophy and Literature. In this course, for example, they studied writers like Fyodor Dostoevsky, Franz Kafka, and Camus, as was mentioned from earlier. There’s a view that Dostoevsky’s work is a response to the German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s philosophical framework. That is to say, Kant’s notion of a posteriori reasoning and the theory that the existence of God is necessary for human morality to be maintained. Kant thought, as you know, that human freewill exists as does the human soul. He thought we cannot talk about whether it is certain if these factors are not real. If God does not exist, anything can go and there should not be any sort of ethical or moral judgment.
The point is that some works can be interpreted as a literary response to these notions of Kant’s. Suppose if God does not exist, what kind of life can human beings lead? Some characters in Dostoevsky’s novels begin with this supposition that God does not exist. These characters then are free to do anything as they pursue their own resulting ideas. While other characters build their life from the opposite supposition, believing in God is a very pure-minded way.
But their philosophies skillfully question each other in those works. And their exchange of questions and responses begins to appear in their lives. This style of writing is called ponyphonic — in the sense that the characters do not appear to simply be products of the author or products manipulated by the author.
Although they are fictional, they interact and pursue their lives according to these real ideas, and Dostoevsky himself could not have foreseen in advance how the endings would come about.
Polyphony was introduced by the Russian philosopher, Mikhail Bakhtin. He primarily used Dostoevsky’s literature to explain the concept.
Moreover, Plato himself wrote dialogues, right? So dialogues and dialectics, conversations, and the question and response have always had a very central position from the beginning of Western philosophy. In that sense, polyphony is essential to philosophical activity. Moreover, meaning that literature has a close kinship with philosophy when it is based on dialogical or polyphonic exchange.
Lots of people admire the writer Haruki Murakami, who himself admires and respects Dostoevsky. Sometimes, there is a very sort of an intriguing sense of polyphonic exchange among the characters in his novels.
Hannah: Because your responses are so detailed and we’ve already been speaking for so long, I'll just ask one last question. Something you’ve touched on is the notion that there's an experience going on as a reader, and in some cases, a sensory one, that seems central to literature. Would you be able to speak about the role that descriptions of experience — perhaps sensory experience in particular — play in conveying a philosophical message?
Kazashi: Let me throw in my favorite American philosopher, William James. According to James, philosophers are of different characters and temperaments. Most unconsciously are seeking a kind of image of the world, a viewpoint of the world, which can suit their temperament. But because philosophy is supposed to seek universal knowledge, very often philosophers pretend to be making universal arguments. James thought this may be the source of all the problems, and so philosophers should admit that we are human beings with different characters and motivations. So, from this angle, it is natural that there are very different types of philosophical inquiry. To your question, the so-called linguistic turn in philosophy wanted to do without the notion of experience, because — to some people — they seem to conflict.
[Editor’s note: What Kazashi refers to as the conflict between language and experience has to do with the aforementioned split between the analytic camp and the continental camp in philosophy. At the risk of oversimplification — for this is a complex topic that is difficult to generalize given the extensive history and occasionally heated nature — some philosophers who consider themselves to be in the analytic camp are heavily opposed to a particular method used by some philosophers who consider themselves to be in the continental camp. That is, some of the latter employ phenomenological analysis — that is, proceeding to deduce truths about reality by deducing truths about how one experiences reality. The criticism that some of the former have with this type of analysis is that it is unsound — these critics tend to believe that mental experience should not serve as the ground for understanding philosophical issues since, for too many reasons to discuss here. Instead, they believe that certain logical rules — alone — should serve as the ground for understanding those issues. In particular, language becomes important, because from this angle, understanding any philosophical issue tends to be one of understanding its semantics. So this is what Kazashi means by the conflict between the role of language and experience in philosophy, which is central to understanding why some works may be categorized as philosophy and some may not — it is most importantly a matter of one’s stance on what constitutes a sound philosophical argument. There are many other differences, as well, not explored here nor relevant to the discussion. But to understand these finer details, read this article for a general audience in a prominent philosophy magazine.]
But I think experience can be very essential to philosophical inquiry. A part of my dissertation was the experience of listening to music. Our sense experience cannot be exhausted in terms of describing it in language. For example, when we listen to instrumental music, we can still differentiate between different styles — even though there are no words involved. So in that sense, music is deeply rooted in this sense of experience without concept. So when we think of philosophy, not in the narrow sense, but in the wide sense [referring to the kind of literature asked about that uses narratives, including descriptions of characters’ physical experiences, to help convey a philosophical idea], it is very good at making this aspect of our human experience [on the whole] come alive.
In this interview, we discuss the relationship between philosophy and literature. Anyone interested in either subject or the relationship between the two will enjoy hearing his thoughts — aspiring writers in particular, who desire to learn more about how to incorporate elements of philosophy in their work.
What inspiration did Immanuel Kant have on Fyodor Dostoevsky, and in turn, Haruki Murakami? Where lies the gray zone between works that are categorized as strictly philosophical versus works that are fiction of a philosophical nature? How does a split between two camps of philosophers influence how one answers that question? Read on for possible answers to these questions, and others.
Hannah: So in the work of yours that I've read, I know you have written about various authors and artists. What drew you to being a philosopher who uses literary and artistic sources in your philosophical work?
Kazashi: I think some people say philosophy starts with the experience of surprise or astonishment. So I think there is a core experience that can be a starting point for lots of people who are attracted to philosophy. When we look at the history of philosophy, especially in contemporary times, there are lots of examples of philosophers who do the same. In Greece, Plato himself was a very — literally — poetic writer. In the case of France, there is Albert Camus. And also in Germany, for example, Hegel wrote a lot about poets. So I think there's a very close, essential relationship between philosophy and literature in the first place. I don't think there's anything surprising about me writing about those subjects. For example, one of the hibakusha poets I referenced in the talk from October, Hara Tamiki, described seeing the blue sky for the first time after the A-bomb experience and the feeling of being really astonished by the blue.
I think it’s not uncommon for both philosophers and writers of literature to be inspired by emotions and sentiments. Also, especially in modern times in Japan, at least on the side of the philosophers, there has been a very conscious attempt to broaden the field of philosophy. Our conception of philosophy can be very narrow, as you know, and a very science-oriented one.
Philosophy should at least try to include, not only logical thinking and scientific questions, but also art and also literature. Science and art are necessary companions for philosophical thinking.
Hannah: I have two questions branching off of that. First, I can say, studying philosophy at an American undergraduate institution, there is a push to write in a sterilized and almost scientific fashion — at least for me — in almost all of my classes. Do you know where that push has come from and why that style of writing is predominant? Maybe that is not the case in Japan.
Kazashi: I guess you have heard some stories about how in the United States, there has been a very strong and significant analytic tradition, right? There was even some competition between language-centered analytic philosophy and the so-called American pragmatic tradition, too.
For example, I did my PhD studies at Yale, and Yale at that time was known as a place where you can study both analytic and continental philosophy. And so from France, Jacques Derrida used to come to Yale as a visiting lecturer every year. He attracted lots of students, from the philosophy and comparative literature departments.
But overall, there was a very clear competition between the analytic-oriented professors and the literature professors.
However, there has been a very conscious attempt to broaden the field.
There is the famous case of someone, Richard Rorty, who started out as a hardcore analytic philosopher. But he expanded the field in a very scandalous way, after writing about Martin Heidegger, John Dewey, and Ludwig Wittgenstein altogether. Rorty changed the academic situation not only in the United States, but also around the world. We can also think of many other examples of people.
Although there is still a rather clear difference among philosophers between the analytic camp and the continental camp, the relations between the two are much better. So flexibility in philosophy is important — I think there should not be a particular or very strict notion of philosophy. I think various enterprises should be counted freely as a philosophy. I think this has to do with philosophy’s essence.
Hannah: That’s a good transition to my next question. Which is, how — and if at all — do you distinguish between philosophically-termed literature and academic philosophical writing?
Kazashi: I know an American who taught a course entitled Philosophy and Literature. In this course, for example, they studied writers like Fyodor Dostoevsky, Franz Kafka, and Camus, as was mentioned from earlier. There’s a view that Dostoevsky’s work is a response to the German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s philosophical framework. That is to say, Kant’s notion of a posteriori reasoning and the theory that the existence of God is necessary for human morality to be maintained. Kant thought, as you know, that human freewill exists as does the human soul. He thought we cannot talk about whether it is certain if these factors are not real. If God does not exist, anything can go and there should not be any sort of ethical or moral judgment.
The point is that some works can be interpreted as a literary response to these notions of Kant’s. Suppose if God does not exist, what kind of life can human beings lead? Some characters in Dostoevsky’s novels begin with this supposition that God does not exist. These characters then are free to do anything as they pursue their own resulting ideas. While other characters build their life from the opposite supposition, believing in God is a very pure-minded way.
But their philosophies skillfully question each other in those works. And their exchange of questions and responses begins to appear in their lives. This style of writing is called ponyphonic — in the sense that the characters do not appear to simply be products of the author or products manipulated by the author.
Although they are fictional, they interact and pursue their lives according to these real ideas, and Dostoevsky himself could not have foreseen in advance how the endings would come about.
Polyphony was introduced by the Russian philosopher, Mikhail Bakhtin. He primarily used Dostoevsky’s literature to explain the concept.
Moreover, Plato himself wrote dialogues, right? So dialogues and dialectics, conversations, and the question and response have always had a very central position from the beginning of Western philosophy. In that sense, polyphony is essential to philosophical activity. Moreover, meaning that literature has a close kinship with philosophy when it is based on dialogical or polyphonic exchange.
Lots of people admire the writer Haruki Murakami, who himself admires and respects Dostoevsky. Sometimes, there is a very sort of an intriguing sense of polyphonic exchange among the characters in his novels.
Hannah: Because your responses are so detailed and we’ve already been speaking for so long, I'll just ask one last question. Something you’ve touched on is the notion that there's an experience going on as a reader, and in some cases, a sensory one, that seems central to literature. Would you be able to speak about the role that descriptions of experience — perhaps sensory experience in particular — play in conveying a philosophical message?
Kazashi: Let me throw in my favorite American philosopher, William James. According to James, philosophers are of different characters and temperaments. Most unconsciously are seeking a kind of image of the world, a viewpoint of the world, which can suit their temperament. But because philosophy is supposed to seek universal knowledge, very often philosophers pretend to be making universal arguments. James thought this may be the source of all the problems, and so philosophers should admit that we are human beings with different characters and motivations. So, from this angle, it is natural that there are very different types of philosophical inquiry. To your question, the so-called linguistic turn in philosophy wanted to do without the notion of experience, because — to some people — they seem to conflict.
[Editor’s note: What Kazashi refers to as the conflict between language and experience has to do with the aforementioned split between the analytic camp and the continental camp in philosophy. At the risk of oversimplification — for this is a complex topic that is difficult to generalize given the extensive history and occasionally heated nature — some philosophers who consider themselves to be in the analytic camp are heavily opposed to a particular method used by some philosophers who consider themselves to be in the continental camp. That is, some of the latter employ phenomenological analysis — that is, proceeding to deduce truths about reality by deducing truths about how one experiences reality. The criticism that some of the former have with this type of analysis is that it is unsound — these critics tend to believe that mental experience should not serve as the ground for understanding philosophical issues since, for too many reasons to discuss here. Instead, they believe that certain logical rules — alone — should serve as the ground for understanding those issues. In particular, language becomes important, because from this angle, understanding any philosophical issue tends to be one of understanding its semantics. So this is what Kazashi means by the conflict between the role of language and experience in philosophy, which is central to understanding why some works may be categorized as philosophy and some may not — it is most importantly a matter of one’s stance on what constitutes a sound philosophical argument. There are many other differences, as well, not explored here nor relevant to the discussion. But to understand these finer details, read this article for a general audience in a prominent philosophy magazine.]
But I think experience can be very essential to philosophical inquiry. A part of my dissertation was the experience of listening to music. Our sense experience cannot be exhausted in terms of describing it in language. For example, when we listen to instrumental music, we can still differentiate between different styles — even though there are no words involved. So in that sense, music is deeply rooted in this sense of experience without concept. So when we think of philosophy, not in the narrow sense, but in the wide sense [referring to the kind of literature asked about that uses narratives, including descriptions of characters’ physical experiences, to help convey a philosophical idea], it is very good at making this aspect of our human experience [on the whole] come alive.