“He’s no artist,” I keep on running.
On October 6 I’m giving a reading at MIT, and since I’ll have to speak in front of people, today as I
ran I practiced the speech (not out loud, of course). When I do this, I don’t listen to music. I just
whisper the English in my head.
When I’m in Japan I rarely have to speak in front of people. I don’t give any talks. In English,
though, I’ve given a number of talks, and I expect that, if the opportunity arises, I’ll give more in the
future. It’s strange, but when I have to speak in front of an audience, I find it more comfortable to use
my far-from-perfect English than Japanese. I think this is because when I have to speak seriously
about something in Japanese I’m overcome with the feeling of being swallowed up in a sea of words.
There’s an infinite number of choices for me, infinite possibilities. As a writer, Japanese and I have a
tight relationship. So if I’m going to speak in front of an undefined large group of people, I grow
confused and frustrated when faced by that teeming ocean of words.
With Japanese, I want to cling, as much as I can, to the act of sitting alone at my desk and writing.
On this home ground of writing I can catch hold of words and context effectively, just the way I want
to, and turn them into something concrete. That’s my job, after all. But once I try to actually speak
about things I was sure I’d pinned down, I feel very keenly that something—something very important
—has spilled out and escaped. And I just can’t accept that sort of disorienting estrangement.
Once I try to put together a talk in a foreign language, though, inevitably my linguistic choices and
possibilities are limited: much as I love reading books in English, speaking in English is definitely not
my forte. But that makes me feel all the more comfortable giving a speech. I just think, It’s a foreign
language, so what’re you going to do? This was a fascinating discovery for me. Naturally it takes a lot
of time to prepare. Before I get up on stage I have to memorize a thirty- or forty-minute talk in
English. If you just read a written speech as is, the whole thing will feel lifeless to the audience. I have
to choose words that are easy to pronounce so people can understand me, and remember to get the
audience to laugh to put them at ease. I have to convey to those listening a sense of who I am. Even if
it’s just for a short time, I have to get the audience on my side if I want them to listen to me. And in
order to do that, I have to practice the speech over and over, which takes a lot of effort. But there’s
also the payoff that comes with a new challenge.
Running is a great activity to do while memorizing a speech. As, almost unconsciously, I move my
legs, I line the words up in order in my mind. I measure the rhythm of the sentences, the way they’ll
sound. With my mind elsewhere I’m able to run for a long while, keeping up a natural speed that
doesn’t tire me out. Sometimes when I’m practicing a speech in my head, I catch myself making all
kinds of gestures and facial expressions, and the people passing me from the opposite direction give
me a weird look.
Today as I was running I saw a plump Canada goose lying dead by the shore of the Charles. A dead
squirrel, too, lying next to a tree. They both looked like they were fast asleep, but they were dead.
Their expressions were calm, as if they’d accepted the end of life, as if they were finally liberated.