Filler Words: No Different Than Conversing with a Cat / Yoshihiro Tanigawa

ētto ētto might open up worlds. we don‛t know about yet!
The festival‛s key phrase for 2024 is ētto ētto (an everyday Japanese phrase meaning “um” and “er” in English). A phrase used when you’re stuck for words during a conversation. Although it might seem meaningless, it can act as a kind of buffer during communication, allowing you to think, ponder or recall a memory. This year, the festival lineup includes all kinds of performances and talks that in some way relate to ētto ētto. In conjunction with this, we asked two writers to contribute articles about this key phrase. We hope these act as alternative doors for experiencing the festival!

Weaving Words: No Different Than Courtship
In I Wanted to Go Somewhere Else, the essayist Mai Shiotani likens posting something on social media to courtship behavior. I’m here. I want you to look at me. I want to connect with someone. Behind every post is this feeling of wanting to appeal to another person. Quite possibly, the person in question is not even aware of that. Whether it’s posts full of hate, political controversies, or just little comments to oneself about the temperature today, beneath the surface lurk elements of courtship. At the end of the day, social media brims with inexplicable acts of courtship.

I’m made aware of the courtship lurking beneath communication not when I’m tapping out a message on my phone. It’s when I talk to my pet cat and stroke its cheek. I ask my cat if it ate its food. I mimic the distinctive meow of that viral cat from those short online videos. When touching my cat and saying silly things, it makes me realize how helpless I am to resist the urge to appeal to someone else, and that this is akin to a prayer.

Communication: No Different Than Prayer
When talking to my cat, of course I do not believe that what I say is actually understood. My interlocutor is a cat, so I don’t even want to convey a basic message. In which case, it is pretty strange that I nonetheless talk to the animal. There seems to be something like faith at work here. As we pass time together, I come to believe that my cat somehow understands the feelings behind my words.

Needless to say, my cat does not understand Japanese (or any human language for that matter). It’s doubtful if it can even understand its own name. According to a certain study, pet cats are able to distinguish and perceive some sounds from others, but we can’t say for sure if they recognize a name as a name. My cat might think “cute” is its name, and that its actual name refers to the action of stroking.

That I nonetheless want to convey something and talk to my cat is because of the underlying prayer-like hope that something will get across. The cat probably doesn’t understand, it surely can’t actually understand, and yet I still hope it does. It’s precisely because of this prayer-like thinking that I talk to my cat and my cat talks to me. If I didn’t believe my interlocutor could understand my feelings from the tone or rhythm of my voice, I wouldn’t even bother talking to them.

Communication with a cat fails in terms of the transfer of information. My cat wags its tail like a dog while rubbing its cheek against my fingers or the palm of my hand. Sometimes it gives a little meow. But its meows are impossible for me to understand like I could understand what a Japanese speaker says. And yet, when I’m in the moment, it really feels like we understand each other’s feelings.

We might well misinterpret one another, but I have a prayer-like hope that we can transcend such mistakes and communicate. I stroke my cat’s cheek, kiss its nose, and listen to its meows that ring like a bell. Underlining this communication is prayer. Communication is not conveying information, but this acceptance of uncertainty over whether we can make ourselves understood, and trying somehow to connect with someone else.

I want to be pampered. Stroke me. I’m hungry. Give me more attention. I wanna snack. C’mon, give me a stroke. I’m bored. My cat meows to express such caprices. This is not merely meaningless noise. When that meowing works in tandem with a facial expression, the movement of whiskers, and the touch of its paw, and forms a particular rhythm, I am acutely aware of its mood, even if I can’t understand what it is saying. As strange and naive as that sounds, I am convinced of this.

Filler Words: No Different Than Conversing with a Cat
Living with someone is similar to conversing with a cat. I came to think that way after seeing oozing (2018) by the visual artist Ryosuke Higo. Focusing on fillers—the sounds or words like “um,” “ah,” or “hmm” that speakers use during a pause in speech—the video work edits a series of interviews down to only the fillers to show how people communicate in a new light.

The rhythm of the words. The breathing. The spacing of syllables. The flashes of facial expressions. The movements of hands and feet. Gazing vaguely at these elements, the viewer realizes that they understand how the person feels from the video footage, despite the fact that it does not convey anything explicitly. The speaker’s nerves at being in front of the camera. Confusion over being asked about things they don’t normally think about. Anxiety over having to appear serious. Uncertainty over not being able to see the artist’s intentions. Embarrassment about not knowing where to look. The viewer has absolutely no idea what is being said, and yet curiously can still understand the speaker’s mood. Kinda like a conversation with a cat.

“Um” is no different than conversing with a cat. Hmm, yeah, well, like, you know, so. Extracting only those fillers from interviews, oozing conveys the speakers’ feelings all the more clearly because there is no message. Being together with someone is fundamentally the same as being with a cat. Call it naïve, but We believe we communicate by saying and not saying things, by touching and not touching.

I instantly sense that prayer-like feeling underlying communication; that is, that the other party wants to tell me something, even though I cannot understand what it is exactly. Me talking to my cat about the day is no different than my cat meowing at me. And when my cat nuzzles up against my fingers, it is very similar to a human laughing or exchanging words with a friend.

Yoshihiro Tanigawa
Yoshihiro Tanigawa is a philosopher who earned his PhD in human and environmental studies. He currently teaches at Kyoto City University of Arts Faculty of Arts. His writings include Finding Impulses That Come off the Rails of Life (Chikuma Shobo), Philosophy in the Smartphone Age (Discover 21), and Living with a Negative Capability (Sakurasha). His translations include Martyn Hammersley’s The Dilemma of Qualitative Method.