James W. Heisig's "Remembering the Kanji I: A Complete Course on How Not to Forget the Meaning and Writing of Japanese Characters"

“漢字 Kanji: A Japanese system of writing based on borrowed or modified Chinese characters.”

• 50,000 kanji exist.


• 1,945 of these kanji are known as “jouyou Kanji” which were “established as the standard by the Japanese Ministry of Education in 1946” and which represent a sixteen year-old’s fluency in the literary world. (Heisig 8).


• The Japanese writing system also uses hiragana, katakana, and sometimes romaji (Roman Alphabet letters). These characters are distinct from, though commonly used in combination with, kanji. Furigana are also added sometimes.


• Nearly each character has a Japanese as well as Chinese reading, which changes depending upon the combination of two or more kanji that is being used to form a word.

It’s no surprise that the endeavor to learn how to read and write Japanese—especially for the native English speaker who is used to the 26-letter Alphabet— is at the very least an intimidating and seemingly life-long challenge. I definitely ran into this wall more than once, and still do, while studying the language.

I first came to Japan in the winter of 2002 and I took to studying Japanese immediately, or more poignantly, I took to speaking Japanese immediately. I showed signs of progress, but knew that, without any literary skills, I was far from being on the road to true language mastery. When my mind drifted to the written word, I often asked myself “what is the best way to become literate in this language”? Is it to write, write, and re-write each kanji over again? Should one study the Chinese and Japanese readings of each kanji, and then move from there? Which Kanji should I study first? Should I simply read kanji in context and forge ahead? Among all of these questions—which is an entirely different issue in itself—I wondered: “How do native speakers raised in Japan internalize the 1,945 general-use kanji?”

Professor Laurence M. Wiig of Hiroshima University, answers the question: “The process involves starting Japanese first graders with the most readily grasped symbols such as 一 one, 二 two, 三 three, 犬 dog, 見 see, 木 tree and 森 forest. Some three and a half years later, by the end of fourth grade, Japanese children have mastered a total of 640 kanji including 200 kanji presented during the fourth grade such as 好 be fond of, 松 pine tree, and 胃 stomach.
During fifth and sixth grade they are introduced to easy kanji such as 机 desk and 句 phrase as well as complex (but frequently encountered) symbols like 警 police and 塾 cram school.
By the end of 4,380 days (365 days/year x 12 years = 4,380 days) of Japanese education, kanji literacy training is complete” (http://www.kanjiclinic.com/reviewheisigwiig.htm).

4,380 days? Not to mention, during this time, the students are writing love letters, seeing kanji hung up in classes, on posters, written on desks, arriving on paper in the mail, and doodled on notepads; in essence, during this time kanji works its way into all facets of daily life. So, of course, for a foreigner studying Japanese, such a method is obviously not an option.

This is where James Heisig’s book “Remembering the Kanji” comes in. The book covers the 1,945 jouyou kanji, giving the reader the ability to remember and write each kanji, but no idea how to read them. The book has as many critics as it does admirers, and has been around since the 1970s. Hesieg, a university professor at The Nanzan University Institute for Religion and Culture in Nagoya, Japan, is very well-known in the field of Japanese language study. In his book, Remembering the Kanji I: A Complete Course on How Not to Forget the Meaning and Writing of Japanese Characters, Heisig likens the study of kanji to looking through a kaleidoscope. You hold it up to the light, trying to fix a particular pattern in your mind. After you do this for quite some time, thinking you have the pattern frozen in your memory, you close your eyes, tracing the pattern in your head. You check the pattern against the original image, and swear you’ve got it. Then someone walks by and jars your elbow. The pattern is lost, and in its place a new one appears. Your mind then, scrambles to remember what you had just memorized, but to no avail. The reason it is so difficult, according to Heisig, is because there is “simply nothing left in memory to grab ahold of. The kanji are like that” (Heisig 6).

So what is one to do? I, for one, have sure felt this way while studying kanji. The answer to this learning impasse is what Heisig calls “imaginative memory: the faculty to recall images created purely in the mind, with no actual or remembered visual stimuli behind them” (Heisig 7). What this does, in theory, is provide the student with the ability to recall kanji by using concrete images, instead of visual memory. “It may surprise the reader casually leafing through these pages,” says Heisig in the introduction, “not to find a single drawing or pictographic representation. This is fully consistent with what was said earlier about placing the stress on imaginative memory… the pictograph should be discovered by the student…” (Heisig, 10).

In essence, Heisig helps the student create a set of imaginative pneumonics (in this case, stories, or plots), starting with the first kanji in his book, which soon act as “primitive elements” that make up the more complex and higher-level kanji discovered later on. The book then, starting from the first simple kanji, helps the reader create a series of imaginative stories that create a base of images that can be later used to help piece together each kanji as the reader comes across them; it’s like creating a massive visual spiderweb where each image created in the learners mind is linked in some way and therefore can soon be used to create another image to learn each new kanji he or she comes across.

For example: About three-hundred kanji into the book, you learn that 高 means “tall” and you also learn that, when 高 is used as a primitive element (is found in the creation of a different kanji) above another kanji it loses the bottom five strokes. At this point, you also know that 子 means "child", 土 means “ground” and 太 means “fat”. So when you find 享, (made up of the kanji at the top, for “tall” and the kanji at the bottom for “child”) the story goes: “tall children grow up to make better football receivers” (Heisig 122). The meaning of this kanji being “Receive”. You then, visualize this little “story” and once it is in place, you move on to the next kanji, which happens to be 塾. The meaning of this seemingly complex kanji is “Cram School” but since you have the visual elements already in place, you can create a story easily enough to cement how this kanji is written, in your mind. Here it goes: on the top left is the kanji we just learned for “receive” or “tall children 享”, on the top right is the kanji for “fat 太” and the bottom is the kanji for “ground 土”. This is what Heisig writes to accompany the kanji in the book: “cram schools are after-hours educational institutions where kids can cram for coming examinations or drill what they missed during regular class hours. The exception are the tall children who are also fat and therefore need to be out there on the school grounds burning off calories (Heisig, 123). It is then up to the reader to create any sort of image (the more vivid and ridiculous, the better) that matches these primitive elements, and then move on from there.

Whew! It may seem complex, but remember this kanji appears nearly 300 into the book and isn't taught in the japanese system until the fifth or sixth grade. Heisig gives you a method to remember it in less than two weeks. If you check the book out on your own, you'll realize how simple the method really is. After taking a look at what is involved in remembering the kanji, it becomes apparent very early on that the order of learning the kanji is incredibly important, as Heisig says, “the method is simplicity itself” (heisig 9). And this is where Heisig pedagogy shines and fails: It shines in that it is laid out wonderfully, helping the student maneuver through the thousands of kanji in a way where each “primitive element” is learned then called upon to remember the new ones. Yet, it fails in the eyes of many of its critics as it requires the readery to go through the entire book, one-kanji-by-one-kanji, regardless of how frequently each character appears in every day reading.

Heisig himself acknowledges this characteristic of his book: “The method presented here needs to be learned step by step, lest one find oneself forced later to retreat to the first stages and start over. 20 or 25 characters per day would not be excessive for someone who has only a couple hours to give to study” (Heisig, 10).

Among the biggest arguments against this book, besides the one outlined above, is that it does not give the reader any skills in actually reading Japanese. But, one must keep in mind that this is not Heisig's intent; it's purpose is to give the learner of Japanese a massive set of tools to break apart any new kanji that comes his or her way--to be able to recall and write each kanji based on a personal image already created, then go on to learning each kanji's various forms of reading from there.

This is a a method which tests dedication, routine, and creativity. But, it is indeed simple—it just takes time and patience. Therefore, if you’re studying for the JLPT, it may require more time than you have. I took the 二級 (Level Two) exam last December, not passing due to insuficient reading skills. I now have another year before I can take it, and therefore I have made the decision to give myself a proper base to learn and remember each kanji as I come across them in my studies. I have spent countless hours studying kanji, and although I have retained scores of them, I only can recall each character passively, lending me no ability to actively write or remember them. If I run across a kanji in a body of text, I have a good chance of remembering it, but even that can be a tad sketchy. And so, if you are like me, where you are learning on your own, have a strong visual memory, and have spent countless days studying kanji only to have them vanish in your head all the while feeling as though there has to be a better way for you, this book is probably your best choice.

I am currently studying 30 kanji a day while also continuing ahead with in-context kanji reading--the traditional way. The thirty kanji a day is a bit fast-paced, and I may knock it down to 25 so I can fit in a proper amount of reviewing. But, if you have some time and dedication, (which I do have at the moment, living in the boonies of Japan) you can definitely get through this book well enough (three months being reasonable). Each kanji that I do come across now during my own reading, becomes locked in my memory (visual memory, as Heisig would say) which gives me the skill to recall them actively at a later point.

There are as many critics of the book as there are admirers. I just look at this book as an investment… if you are thinking about studying the language for years to come, want to be armed with a set of skills to tackle any kanji that comes your way, need something more than just the visual kanji to anchor them in your memory, and have the time and dedication to stick with the book from the beginning to the end, then Hesig's Remembering the Kanji I: A Complete Course on How Not to Forget the Meaning and Writing of Japanese Characters very well may be for you (you can download it in its full form here).

References:

Heisig. W James. Remembering the Kanji I: A complete Course on how not to forget the meaning and writing of Japanese Characters. 1977. Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo: Japan. Japan Publications trading Co. Ltd.

Some pertinent links to check out:

• http://www.kanjiclinic.com/riverainterview.htm (A great interview with Heisig about his own personal kanji studying experience).


• http://www.omoshiroigame.com/_sgt/m1_1.htm (An interesting resource of online Japanese language learning games).


• http://www.kanjiclinic.com/index.html (The Kanji Clinic: a column of the Japan Times which publishes a lot of helpful Japanese studying resources among interesting food for thought)


• http://www.csse.monash.edu.au/~jwb/wwwjdic.html (one of the best online Japanese grammar/kanji dictionaries out there)


• http://www.polarcloud.com/node/39 (for those of you already studying Remembering the Kanji Vol:1, here’s an online and printable set of flashcards, which are coordinated with the book, and appear in the proper order).


• http://www.whiterabbitpress.com/ (Studying for the JLPT and need a good set of flashcards without any romaji and which are geared towards the test itself? Go to White Rabbit Press


• http://www.polarcloud.com/rikaichan/ (Rikaichan: A wonderful add-on to FireFox which enables you to simply hover your mouse over any kanji that appears on a website to learn its reading).

Sanbei San

I wake up with an insatiable urge to get the hell out of my house, out my apartment, out of my small town—away from the frozen rice paddies, gravel parking lots and ringing train-crossings—and simply go somewhere, anywhere. This feeling comes and goes for me, some days stronger than others. Although it has been nearly three years, I still get hit with the realization that I am in a foreign country (no matter how familiar it has become) with an uncountable amount of new and different places all within my fingertips. It's like a smack upside the head reminding you of why you left your country to begin with; it is a reminder for you to shake off the dust of routine and 9-5 jobs, outstanding bills, and year-long working contracts. This is how I woke up on this any-old Saturday morning in Japan.

I turn on the kerosene heater, step into my slippers and open up the curtains. Sunshine floods into my apartment, giving me the extra boost of motivation that I need. With my breath visible before me and my skin tight from the cold, I walk through my tatami mat bedroom, which is littered with clothes and books, and undergo my usual morning routine--drink some freshly ground coffee, eat a bowl of granola and a piece of toast with jam and peanut butter for breakfast, and quickly check my e-mail. I eat in front of the computer—the portal to the outside world—for a little chunk of time, then I go about getting all my gear together for a camp-out on one of the only mountains in Western Japan (or what is called the 中国地方Chugoku Chihou, meaning "central country" region of Japan, although it's more to the left and down a bit on the Japanese map).

Let me digress for a second. Japan has mountains over it like pubescent teenagers have pimples. They're everywhere, and they jut out of the terrain, not giving a second thought to the country's inhabitants. As a result, the Japanese people have to either build around them or simply demolish them (like was done during the construction of greater Tokyo and other metropolises and is still being done to this very day to aid rampant public works projects). But anyway, unlike the slanting, slow-rising mountain chains in the West that one can build on the sides of, it's nearly impossible to build anywhere on Japan's mountains due to the severe angles in which they protrude from the earth. This causes Japan to be way greener than one would suspect with large amounts of undeveloped land, and also creates a spider web-looking network of cities covering any even surface in-between these tectonic folds. But, even so and to my surprise, Western Japan--especially Hiroshima Prefecture--has next to nothing when it comes to mountains. Sure there are a lot of jagged hills rubbing shoulder with rugged terrain, but there are only two mountains that are taller than 1000 metres (the bare minimum of height for a hill to be able to call itself a mountain in my opinion). These two mountains are: 三瓶山 (Sanbei mountain; 1126 meters) and 大山 (Daisen mountain; a decent 1729 metres). So, not having much to chose from anyway, and not wanting to drive for too long, I decide to tackle the former.

Considering that it is mid January, I grab my snowshoes, my winter gear (made up of hand-me-downs and inexpensive sweatshop-made clothing bought from Japan's trendy Uniqlo clothing store chain), a day or so worth of food and water, gas, cooker, and get into my three (maybe four) cylinder Suzuki and head Northwest--my i-pod connected to my old tape deck and blaring away. It's just me, my music, sunshine, and the excitement of being destination-bound.

Sanbei-san. I arrive just after Noon, driving as far as I can on a closed road that happened to have the road block moved aside, until, due to snow and a huge truck stuck in a ditch, prevents me from going any further. Perhaps I should take the truck and its driver, who is trying to fit chains on the back tires with frozen fingers, as a bad sign. But, after checking to see if I can help or not (and not being able to, but getting heaps of bows in thanks for "my generous and wanting-to-help feeling") I park my car on the side of the otherwise abandoned road, dawn my snowshoes and backpack and treck the two kilometres to the base of the mountain, look up towards the summit (now cloudy) and make my way into the white forest.

I've been told not to go hiking by myself. But you have to understand that hiking in Japan is an altogether different sport/activity than it is in other parts of the world. Who knows, maybe Japan can lay claim to a version of this sport that is entirely theirs (as all those professors of Asian studies out their groan at me for calling Japan "unique", but it's true). Here’s a list of five reasons to back up Japan’s hiking-uniqueness: 1) on almost every mountain in this country you can get away with using your cell phone. 2) the paths have been so worn-in from centuries of use by monks, priests, and now sports enthusiasts, that it's nearly impossible to get lost 3) there is a constant drone of people hitting the trails at all times of the year 4) due to this country’s love of concrete, you can reach nearly any trail head as long as you have some yen in your pocket 5) there is a lack of wildlife (especially any dangerous ones, except for the random boar or snake, which I have never seen), so there's nothing to worry in that department (unless you go up to Hokkaido and that's an entirely new ball game). All of these reasons and more make heading into the Japanese wilderness so accessible and carefree that I oftentimes don't even consider myself to much of a mountain hiker. And I say that even though I've hiked and camped in some of the most hard-to-get-to and highest mountains in the country. So, anyway, I set off alone to hike this mountain. Hell, I think, it's only about an hour and a half to the summit, what could go wrong?

Well, after all this being said, I discovered winter is still winter and it can throw some curve balls at you—or at least some heavy duty wind, clouds, snow and an overall mass of grey that cuts down the extent of one's vision to about one meter in any direction. And considering that there is snow on the ground—hence no path to be seen and white in all directions anyway including up and down—that is one hard curve ball to hit. Luckily, this storm (which got tossed in from the Japan Sea) didn't hit until about ten minutes after I reached the summit and safely got into the mountain hut on top.

The hut is small, two levels, has some extra blankets (thankfully so) and is essentially all one needs. I crawl up to the top floor, set out my bed and boil some water--eat some instant noodles, drink some tea, and have a banana and rice. That’s when I look out the small window and see nothing but a void of swirling grey. I suddenly realize that I am in limbo, in a state of complete helplessness, at complete mercy to Mother Nature. It was the frozen version of Dante’s purgatory. It was a rather surreal feeling. I didn't feel like I was in any immediate danger, but that feeling of Jack Kerouac "lets hit the road" type of thing I had early this morning was replaced by a lurking, nauseating feeling. I realized I only had about two days worth of food (if rationed), no compass, no map, and really, no winter experience behind me to lead me in such a situation. But, to be honest, it all sort of felt like a massive feint or test, because I could still use my cell phone (remember the Japan unique-hiking factor?), so I knew if worse came to worse I could call someone to get the local rescue team to save my white ass. But this story isn’t about life or death. It's about finding yourself completely helpless in a freezing bubble of raging snow and wind, with no one near to give you a helping hand. Although, I knew I could ask for help, I also knew that if I tried descending the mountain at the wrong time—regardless of its low height—I could easily lose my way and, well, face the risk of freezing to death. That put a rather sobering aspect on my little weekend getaway.

Your mind goes through some interesting thoughts in such a situation. My mind drifted to my, as of two weeks ago, ex-girlfriend. I felt like phoning her up and crying like a baby. But, I didn't think that'd help her any (nor our remaining friendship). My mind thought about my family, why the hell in the first place I even thought snowshoeing in the winter in uninhabited terrain would be fun, and what it would be like not be able to see where you were going on a mountain, within a couple kilometers of civilization but with death still a very real possibility. That night I dreamt of my family. We were part of some crazy life and death futuristic game (like the movie The Running Man with Arnold Schwarzenegger here you're put through a series of grim death-defying tests as people watch, enthused by bloodlust). The game in my dream was a massive mountain-shaped town, with the highest level--the summit--being the start, and the last level--the base of the mountain--being the end. And in order to make it to the next level we had to overcome great odds, enemies and such. I guess I was a tad worried that the weather wouldn't clear up before my food ran out.

I woke up many times throughout the night, my sleeping bag wet on the outside due to the condensation as I slept in the fetal position on the inside. My water bottle was half-frozen and the wind roaring. I didn't want to look out the window, for it made me want to whimper like a pup. So I slept. I woke up to my alarm clock. 6:45 AM. The moment of truth. I leapt up like someone branded me with a hot cow prod, my heart still trying to catch up to itself, and looked out the window. It was absolutely gorgeous.

One of my favorite kanji—characters borrowed from China that make up the Japanese writing system--is the word 雲海 （unkai). It means "cloud sea" or "sea of clouds". I first learned it from a person I met while hiking Mount Fuji. We stood there, together, looking down at these beautiful cotton ball clouds and he asked me if I had ever heard the word before. That memory has stuck with me to this very day. And that is exactly what I was standing above now: tops of mountains peaking their heads through a sea of clouds, with Japan's iconic rising sun starting the day. If I wasn't thinking that now could be my only chance to get off the mountain, I would've been awestruck. I was amazed enough though, to take some pictures and gawk for a couple minutes before I scrambled everything together abandoned all hope in finding some sort of trail and simply ran to the nearest edge of the mountain and slid my way down the side until I reached the small village below. My muscles were screaming, my stomach empty, my heart pounding, and my head still half-asleep, but I found my window of opportunity and took it. And it did cloud over again, so I felt a tad relieved for my quick descent even with such breathtaking beauty to be appreciated left behind.

Once I reached civilization, it was like the slow motion button was hit. I could think again, I appreciated concrete more than ever, and the simple fact of being below the clouds made me want to recite poetry of old to maidens locked in towers. I felt, simply put, good to be alive. Or, perhaps more succinctly, good to feel safe. I meandered my way back to my car, stopping to take pictures, slowly drinking water, nibbling on food and just enjoying myself. My car was still in good shape, the battery still alive. I plugged my i-pod back in, and headed to the nearest natural hot spring (or onsen as they're called here). One of the main reasons I took up mountain hiking in Japan (although I already had an affinity for nature, as I grew up in a small mountainous town called Nelson in Western Canada) is that at nearly every mountain base there is a hot spring--each ranging in temperature, minerals, healing effects, as well as in facilities. It is the absolutely best combination: a long exhausting hike and a long hot soak in volcanically heated natural baths. Wow. That reason alone makes it worth being in this country.

At any rate, here I am, sitting in a make-shift barrel, big enough for one only, soaking in rust-orange hot spring water, reflecting on my moment in the clouds, at mercy to things bigger than I. As naked old men walk by, steam rising into the winter air, I find myself feeling good about getting out of my apartment on this any-old Saturday in Japan.