孟母三遷（もうぼさんせん）

Mencius : mother : three : move

Listed out individually, the meanings of these kanji don't really come together to form anything coherent. But then again, the words "lion", "witch", and "wardrobe" hardly sound connected to anyone who's never read Narnia. Much like mentioning Cinderella's glass slipper or Achilles' ever-so-delicate heel, some yoji-jukugo can be used to make an abbreviated reference to the overarching moral of a particular story. 孟母三遷 in particular refers to an old parable about Mencius's upbringing.

Known as the "second Sage", Mencius (or Mengzi as he is traditionally known, but we have Jesuit missionaries to thank for the Latinization) was a famous wayfaring philosopher who practiced and preached the teachings of Confucius. For the sake of brevity, however, we're going to focus less on him and more on his mother, who even now is held up as an exemplary female figure in Chinese culture.

孟母三遷 first appears in the Ancient Traditions of Illustrious Women (古列女傳, Japanese pronunciation: これつじょでん). In this biographical collection of notable Chinese women is an account of Mencius's mother and the choices she made for the sake of her son. The story is well known in Japan as well, and is recounted as follows:

"Mencius's family originally lived near a graveyard. However, young Mencius soon took to playing make-believe funerals, so the family moved near the marketplace. But when they did, Mencius began spending his free time mimicking merchants. So, the family moved again, this time near a school. Only then, surrounded by scholars and academics, did Mencius start behaving with civility and etiquette. Mencius's mother said to herself, 'now this is truly where my child can thrive.' There, the family finally felt at home."

While picturing a young child play-acting funerals and sales pitches sounds like something right out of Calvin & Hobbes (it is, actually), the moral to take away from this story is that environment plays a key role in a child's development, be it social, economic, or even geographical. It is not uncommon in modern-day Tokyo for mothers and fathers to travel sizable distances on their commute into the city. I admit that I initially thought such living situations to be unnecessarily inconvenient; but after reflecting on the lesson to be found in 孟母三遷, I've come to realize that perhaps making that sacrifice so your child can grow up comfortably in the tranquil, forested suburbs isn't so bad after all.

My attempt at a four-word translation of 孟母三遷

Mencius's Mother Knows Best

杯酒解怨（はいしゅかいえん）

cup : sake : solution : grudge

Who's to say a little enmity can't be solved by sharing a pint? Certainly not Li Sheng, to whom the origin of this yoji-jukugo is credited. Today's proverb comes from the New Book of Tang: an official chronicle of one of the golden ages of Chinese history, the Tang Dynasty (ca. 618–907).

杯酒解怨 is defined as: "washing away all enmity and ill will by sharing a drink". It first appeared during a confrontation between military general Li Sheng and Chancellor Zhang Yanshang. Having long held grudges against each other (over a woman, no less), it appeared as though the two had finally begun to make amends after the Zhu Ci rebellion; however, upon Li's request that Zhang give a daughter to one of his sons for marriage, he refused. Still apparent that Zhang harbored ill will towards him, Li commented:

"For I am a military man, I choose to forget old grudges against someone after I have shared a drink with them. Those who call themselves Confucians are not so; though they may appear peaceful on the outside, they hold anger in their chest. That you would refuse the marriage is because you have not forgotten our former quarrel, is it not?"

As much as this would make for a wonderful soap opera, the key point to take away is that—among its other reputation as the cause of many a quarrel—alcohol was apparently also regarded as the solution to many friendship problems. And unless I'm much mistaken, that pretty much still holds true today.

My attempt at a four-word translation of 杯酒解怨

Drink 'Til You're Friends

弱肉強食（じゃくにくきょうしょく）

weak : meat : strong : eat

After a lengthy hiatus, I'm back to introduce a yoji-jukugo so comically well known that quite a few non-native Japanese speakers should have already heard of it: 弱肉強食. Fully stocked with two preexisting 4-word translations, 弱肉強食 is defined as the "law of the jungle", or the "survival of the fittest". Han Yu—arguably known as the Chinese Shakespeare of his time—is credited with coining this term in his literary work, Preface Seeing Off the Buddhist Wenchang. 

This particular yoji-jukugo has been indoctrinated into a group of comedic Japanese known as proverbial parodies. Some of these parodies take advantage of homophonous kanji to change the meaning while preserving the pronunciation—such as 馬子にも衣裳 (まごにもいしょう, "anyone can look good with the right clothing"), which can be hilariously miswritten as 孫にも衣裳 (same pronunciation, "even your grandchildren can look good with the right clothing"). Meanwhile, others change a few words here and there while keeping the core rhythm of the expression intact: for example, 寄らば大樹の陰 (よらばだいじゅのかげ, "If you seek shelter, look for a large tree") has been given a not-so-subtle edit to reflect modern sentiments in business-era Japan as 寄らば大企業 (よらばだいきぎょう, "If you seek job security, work for a large firm"). 弱肉強食 falls into the latter of those two categories, thanks in large part to a slight formatting flop in Japanese standardized testing a couple decades back. 

It is common in Kanji Kentei to test yoji-jukugo proficiency by omitting one or two kanji from the proverb and asking the participants to fill in the blanks. In the latter half of the 1980s, 弱肉強食 was often depicted on tests as ○肉○食, tricking children across the country into foolheartedly writing down 焼肉定食 (やきにくていしょく), or "set meal with grilled meat". It became such a common mistake that critic Hideo Okuma included it in his book How to Write Understandable Japanese (unofficial title translation), noting that he was struck dumbfounded when students provided no explanation other than "that's all I could think of".

Playing along with the proverbial parodies (and since we already have two fully functional 4-word translations of this proverb), I'll make a couple puns out of this one.

My attempt at two parodies of 弱肉強食（焼肉定食）

Survival Of The Fattest

Law Of The Cafeteria

喜怒哀楽（きどあいらく）

joy : anger : pathos : humor

In our quest to understand more of Japan's yoji-yukugo, we must yet again delve into the massive stockpile of knowledge that is Chinese literary history. The more I research, the more I too am discovering just how many of these idioms come from Chinese literature. This is by no means a bad thing, but for those of you who were hoping for a little more Japanese history in my exposition, I hope you'll understand our somewhat frequent academic journeys to mainland Asia. This week's yoji-jukugo first appeared in the Doctrine of the Mean (中庸, Japanese pronunciation: ちゅうよう), one of the four books of Confucian philosophy. The Doctrine of the Mean was published as a chapter of the Book of Rites (礼記, Japanese pronunciation: らいき), which exists as one of the core texts of the Confucian canon. Due to many revisions, additions, and an historically far-fetched but still culturally influential event known as the burning of the books, it is unclear as to the exact date these texts were published, but it is safe to say that they were well circulated by the end of the BC era.

Faithful to the kanji's individual meanings, this yoji-jukugo is defined as "human emotions; joy, anger, pathos, and humor." More specifically, however, the Doctrine of the Mean expresses that these emotions compose morality and dictate human nature. Maintaining a proper rhythm of these emotions is supposedly linked to the ultimate Dao, or "ethical way," of the world.* With this in mind, defining 喜怒哀楽 simply as the four emotions its kanji refer to feels a little lackluster, but I'll try to address that further down the page with my own attempt at a translation.

喜怒哀楽 is among those yoji-jukugo that are still used quite often in modern Japan, one common expression being 喜怒哀楽を顔に現す (きどあいらくをかおにあらわす), meaning "to let one's feelings show on their face." Similar to the old adage "to err is human," Japanese phrases that use this yoji-jukugo seem centered on the idea that showing these emotions, however embarrassing they may be given the situation, are indicative of and intrinsic to human nature. And that's definitely good news for us thespians out there.

*If you care to read the Doctrine of the Mean in English, you can find an expertly translated and diligently annotated version published by Robert Eno here for free.

My attempt at a four-word translation of 喜怒哀楽

To Feel Is Human

虎尾春氷（こびしゅんぴょう）

tiger : tail : spring : ice

This week's blog post takes us back to China to look into some of the oldest and most politically influential prose there is. The Book of Documents (a.k.a. the Classic of History, or the Shangshu) is one of the five classics of ancient Chinese literature, and provided fundamental political philosophies for the country for more than two millennia. Known as 書経 (しょきょう) in Japanese, the Book of Documents was also influential in Japanese history; at least 35 of Japan's era names, including the two most recent (Heisei and Showa), are known to have been derived from this text, suggesting that Chinese political philosophy has been periodically employed in Japan as well.

The origin of 虎尾春氷 can be found in chapter 53 of the fourth section, which dictates a speech by King Cheng of Zhou to Kun-ya (君牙, Japanese pronunciation: くんが). The full speech, provided in English here thanks to the Chinese Text Project, begins with the young king's appointment of Kun-ya as lord adviser, owing to the loyalty his family had shown in prior generations. Worried that his ascension to the throne at such a young age may lead to his quick downfall, the king urges Kun-ya to assist him however possible, and expresses his anxiety using the metaphors of "treading on a tiger's tail" and "walking on spring ice."

Needless to say, both of those metaphorical situations are highly dangerous. So although none of the Japanese-to-English dictionaries I've checked have a translation for this yoji-jukugo, with a little bit of historical background we're able to understand it to mean "an extremely precarious situation." As with some of the yoji-jukugo I've written about in the past, 虎尾春氷 is composed of two quasi-synonymous two-kanji expressions, thereby compounding its intended meaning.

Funnily enough, in English we already have a very similar four-word expression for this: "walking on thin ice." Yet much like its distant relatives "playing with fire" and "tempting the gods," I would argue that the English phrase "walking on thin ice" carries with it the implication that the person is well aware of the danger of the situation, and proceeds anyway. Meanwhile, the history behind 虎尾春氷 suggests that it is used for people cast unwillingly into danger; "being thrown in the deep end" or "walking a tightrope" might actually be closer English equivalents. In either case, I think everyone can still agree that it's really not a good idea to go stepping on tiger tails.

My attempt at a four-word translation of 虎尾春氷

Far From Safe Ground

岡目八目（おかめはちもく）

hill : eyes : eight : eyes

This week's yoji-jukugo will take us down the delightful little rabbit hole of literary culture in the Edo period. For those who need a crash course in Japanese history, the Edo period lasted from 1603 to 1868, and is considered to have been a landmark era for the country's social and cultural development. After feudal lord Tokugawa Ieyasu's decisive military victories led him to take the seat of shogun, Japan closed all but a handful of its naval ports and the spent the better half of the next three centuries forming a rich and unique cultural identity, with the country's newfound passion for literature playing an extremely influential role.

I could talk for hours about the Edo period in general, but for this yoji-jukugo I'm going to focus in on a short-lived yet widely popular medium for social and political satire known as kibyoshi (黄表紙 : きびょうし). Recognizable from their yellow-backed covers (the first kanji of 黄表紙 means "yellow"), kibyoshi began appearing in the late 1700s and quickly gained popularity for their sophisticated and contemporary political satire, as well as their comedic and somewhat debaucherous stories of Yoshiwara and other pleasure quarters. They were also often used to post reviews of theatrical performances and other literary works, and even carried woodblock print artwork by various artists. Unfortunately, censorship reforms and other factors led to the quick death of kibyoshi; the medium only lasted about three decades.

Again, I could go on for hours, but let's get back to 岡目八目. Credited with the creation of this yoji-jukugo is the late poet and fiction writer, Ota Nanpo. Popular in the 1770s and 1780s for his comedic poetry (狂歌：きょうか), Nanpo was quick to take up kibyoshi as a literary medium. One of his 1782 publications was entitled 岡目八目. By a stroke of luck, I found a complete and wonderfully detailed scan of this kibyoshi in the National Diet Library Digital Collections database. Take a look if you're interested.

On its own, the yoji-jukugo 岡目八目 is defined as "the bystander's vantage point." Meanwhile, the title of Nanpo's kibyoshi has been translated similarly albeit inconsistently as both The Observer and Onlookers See It Better. 岡目八目 is actually often used in Go, the Japanese board game, to refer to the strategic phenomenon that bystanders often see better moves as they have a calmer and more objective viewpoint than the players themselves. Captured territories in Go are referred to as "eyes," which perhaps helps to explain the use of the particular kanji in this idiom. The use of the "hill" kanji (岡) is to metaphorically emphasize the bystander's objective distance, and thankfully has nothing to do with the 2006 slasher film The Hills Have Eyes.

Nanpo's choice title of 岡目八目 was likely a stab at the political hierarchy, echoing the timeless opinion that policymakers are blind to the ramifications of their actions on the rest of the social classes. Given current political trends, it's no far stretch to say that this yoji-jukugo could definitely still be used today for the same purpose.

My attempt at a four-word translation of 岡目八目

Bystanders Have Better Judgment

羞月閉花（しゅうげつへいか）

shy : moon : close : flower

Coming up in this week's blog post is a yoji-jukugo so rare by etymological standards that using it with your Japanese colleagues may prompt them to claim you know more Japanese than they do: 羞月閉花. It belongs to Rank 2 of the Kanji Kentei, which means that most Japanese high school students will have come across it in their studies, but it is obscure enough that some online Japanese dictionaries merely cite a reference of it without providing a full-page definition.

Individually, the four kanji may seem to have little in common, but this is actually another example of a two-by-two composition, as I first introduced with 勇猛果敢 a few weeks back. Both "shy" (羞) and "close" (閉) evoke feelings of withdrawal, while "moon" (月) and "flower" (花) represent different aspects of nature. Thus, the metaphorical concept of "nature withdrawing itself" is uniquely stacked by using separate kanji. Knowing this, it is now much easier to explain the definition of this yoji-jukugo, which is: "the charms of a uniquely beautiful woman, so beautiful that the moon is abashed and flowers wilt."

The origin of 羞月閉花 is, not surprisingly, Chinese. What is slightly interesting, however, is that this is the only yoji-jukugo to come from this specific source. As we delve further into the etymology of these idioms, we'll see that while most do come from Chinese literature, they are quite variegated within that categorization. 羞月閉花 in particular comes from a poem written by Yang Guo (楊果, Japanese pronunciation: ようか), a poet who lived from 1195 to 1269. It took quite a bit of digging around the internet, but I finally found the English title of the poem: The Lotus Gatherer (采蓮女, Japanese pronunciation: さいれんじょ). Unfortunately, after a long-winded yet fruitless search, it would appear that only two of the eleven verses of the poem have been translated into English, neither of which being the verse that contains the phrase 羞月閉花. That being said, the overall imagery and thematic elements in the translated verses are just as beautiful as you would expect from classical Chinese poetry; no doubt, this yoji-jukugo is right at home among the other elegant phrases in The Lotus Gatherer.

My attempt at a four-word translation of 羞月閉花

Nature Blushes Before Her