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under the blue sky of iowa
became a legitimate medium of written communication and gained the status of official language, alongside English. Now some Botswanan writers write in English and others in Tswana, and between the two there is tension. When I asked Barolong why he chose to write in English, he answered that the secondary school years he had spent in England made him more adept at it—at least, that was his explanation. And, as if to atone for the sin of ethnolinguistic betrayal, he was working on English translations of Tswana proverbs. I found it fascinating that Africans with a command of Western languages are now taking over the task of those Western missionaries and anthropologists who once traveled to far-off Africa to collect regional folktales. Already numerous writers from former British colonies write in Standard English, and some, like Barolong, are from sub-Saharan African countries that historically had no written language of their own. I used to wonder what it would feel like to write in a language not one’s own. I also used to wonder if such writing could be considered part of “national” literature. Not anymore. Now these African writers seemed to me to be heralding a new era by embracing the English language and opening a new world with their writing. This may be a perverse thing to say, but they even seemed like a blessed group—not only because they could adopt the English language with such ease but also because they, at least, would not have to watch their literature and language irrevocably fall.
One French expression began coming back to me: une littérature majeure (a major literature). Someone used this expression in reference to Japanese literature when I was in Paris many years ago. I felt that these words, uttered casually at the time, were trying to tell me something important, but I could not pinpoint what that something was. One, two, then three years passed, the expression slowly fading from my memory, only to resurface on rare occasions. And then this invitation to participate in the IWP came to me—providentially, in retrospect. As I lived under the blue Iowa sky while the leaves turned yellow, surrounded by writers all writing in their own language, and as I began to think that they and I might alike be on the road to a downfall, I began gradually to understand what it was that the expression une littérature majeure was trying to convey, assuredly far beyond the intent of the one who had uttered it. My thoughts turned to Japan’s modernity. And I saw for the first time how extraordinary it was that my country had such an extensive body of modern
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