“There are some things in this world that can only be spoken of in a quiet voice.”

While reading a book yesterday by a Waseda professor who researches literature on disability, I came across this line. The words have lingered with me ever since.

Some things can be spoken of in a loud voice. Some things can be spoken of in the correct words. Things that fit into a social context, things that can be turned into a statement, a movement, or connected to an institution. I believe those have their place. Yet there are other things in this world. Things that break the moment they are spoken of loudly. Things that become something slightly different the moment they are put into correct words. Things that detach from the individual body the moment they are organized into social issues. Things that slip through the cracks the moment we declare, “This is what this problem is about.” Such things do exist.

The field of disability literature may be particularly filled with these kinds of voices. “Lived experience,” “diversity,” “inclusion,” “reasonable accommodation,” “the social model.” These are all important terms. But there are things that can be spoken of with these words, and things that cannot. The physical pain of a single body, the difficulty of moving, the obscurity of sight, the dullness of hearing, the ease of fatigue, embarrassment, anger, resignation, humor, and a sense of discomfort that can be explained to no one. The moment these are wrapped in the correct words, they sometimes drift just a little further away.

There are times when a loud voice is necessary. But there are also things that can only survive in a quiet voice.

I feel this when listening to music as well. If Doji Morita’s “Bokutachi no Shippai” (Our Failure) had been sung in a loud voice, it would surely have been a different song. It is precisely because the voice in that song is so quiet that we find ourselves leaning in to listen. Off Course’s “Kotoba ni Dekinai” (Beyond Words) is the same. It does not attempt to explain in words what cannot be phrased. It becomes a song because there are things that remain out of reach. In Rimi Natsukawa’s “Nada Sou Sou” (Tears Flowing), the absence of a loved one is not turned into a grand narrative. An old photo album, the twilight sky, the first evening star, a whispered thank you. That very smallness, conversely, feels vast. The same goes for Southern All Stars’ “Hotaru” (Firefly). Keisuke Kuwata could have spoken of war, the dead, and prayers in grand terms, yet he placed them within the image of a firefly—a tiny thing that flickers and fades. Grand history resides in a tiny light. That is what I believe.

Japanese songs are filled with these quiet voices. Scattering, fading, disappearing, receding, blurring, swaying, not returning. These are not strong assertions. Yet they linger for a long time. Rather than being told loudly, “We must never forget,” having something remain within a casual song can sometimes reach us much more deeply.

Literature is no different. Kyoko Okazaki depicted the wounds of urban youth. Kiriko Nananan drew even smaller silences. Yoshiharu Tsuge and the creators of the magazine Garo depicted the strange lives and inexplicable anxieties of those who do not occupy the center of society. What we find there is not a loud righteousness. Instead, it is something far more ambiguous, fragile, and peculiar, existing before it can be reclaimed by the language of justice. A hopeless person. Someone who cannot live well. A person staying in their room. Someone drinking. Someone lying. Someone falling silent. Someone in the corner of the city. Their voices are not loud. Yet within those small voices lies the depth of being human.

Ramo Nakajima was also of this nature. What exists in “Tonight, at All the Bars” is not a correct life. It is the utter hopelessness of a human being who drinks, ruins his health, enters a hospital, and yet still tries to turn something into laughter. That hopelessness is not romanticized. It does not turn into a sermon. It is never over-organized as a social issue. A broken thing is simply left as broken. And that is how it should be.

In this modern era, everything is easily converted into a loud voice. Social media amplifies anger. The media demands clear, easy-to-understand narratives. Corporations seek to turn everything into a philosophy. AI translates thoughts into orderly words. Ambiguous voices are summarized, quiet voices are tagged, individual discomfort is categorized as a social issue, and silence is viewed as a failure to communicate. But perhaps the things that truly matter exist prior to all this processing.

For instance, a single word muttered by someone. A fatigue that cannot be easily explained. Words understand only within a family. The memorial tablet of a deceased cat. An old photo album. A gravestone researched for an elementary school project. The memory of taking black-and-white photos in the back Alleys of Kyoto. A memo read by no one. A brief phrase appearing for just a moment in a song. These things may not change the world. Yet they sustain that person’s world.

The reason my interest turns toward the Field and The Folklore of Generated Things is likely the same. Rather than the things generated by AI themselves, how do people get caught up in them? What kind of images do they save? What kind of words make them feel uneasy? Which failed creations can they somehow not bring themselves to discard? Within those questions lies a quiet voice.

The output of AI often becomes a loud voice. It is smooth, orderly, plausible, explainable, and easy to share. But the things that truly catch a human heart are not so orderly. They are a little strange, a little frightening, a little nostalgic, a little mistaken, and they touch, just slightly, on one's own memory. Not erasing that “slightly”—I believe that is what matters.

Perhaps folklore is inherently close to this mindset. Not grand history, but the small forms that remain in daily life. Festivals, legends, offerings, gravestones, household habits, gestures of unknown origin, half-forgotten songs, seasonal scents, the names of back alleys. These exist in a place far removed from the loud voices of nations, corporations, or the media. Yet, humans live within these small forms.

Music, literature, AI, and folklore—do they not all ultimately return to this place? Not a loud voice, but a quiet one. Not correct words, but words that still waver slightly. This is about presence rather than conclusions, resonance rather than assertions.

To handle a quiet voice while keeping it quiet is no simple task. A quiet voice is easily broken. It breaks if explained too much. It breaks if shared too widely. It breaks if wrapped too tightly in the language of justice, turned into a heartwarming tale, or subjected to marketing. Therefore, moderation is required in how we handle it. Gather it, but do not take it away. Write it, but do not declare it absolute. Place it down, but do not over-decorate it. Listen to it, but do not speak on its behalf. I believe this attitude is necessary.

“There are some things in this world that can only be spoken of in a quiet voice.” This single line connects to the way we listen to music, the way we write, and the way we face AI. We no longer live in an era where speaking loudly ensures we are heard. Rather, precisely because we live in an age where loud voices have multiplied, we must protect the contours of the quiet voice.

Voices on the verge of disappearing. Voices that seem within reach but remain distant. Voices before they are explained. Voices remaining deep inside someone's body. We must not make them too loud. The things that can only be spoken of in a quiet voice should be left to remain as they are.

© SHIRO & Co.

First published: 2026-06-03