Loekalization Blog

造 (tsukuru) is a kanji that started off as a complete snooze fest and somehow ended up with a far more dramatic and somewhat absurd history than anyone could have anticipated. Let’s rewind and look at how this character went from boring to “wow, now that’s something.”

Originally, 造 (tsukuru) was made up of two components: 辶 (chaku) and 艸 (kusa). The 辶 (chaku) radical is all about movement, or going somewhere. It’s the perfect radical to indicate action or progress. Now, the 艸 (kusa) radical, which usually means “grass,” was used purely for its sound here—there was no deep connection to plants, just its phonetic value. This combo was originally just a bland, phonetically-driven character that meant something akin to a priest going somewhere, possibly to a ritualistic altar to do some sacred stuff. There was no glamour, no drama, just movement with some grass, and that’s about as exciting as watching a priest go for a walk.

But then, something marvelous—or at least a lot more interesting—happened. The grass radical (艸) was accidentally—or perhaps deliberately—replaced by 告 (koku), which looked similar, and suddenly 造 (tsukuru) changed from a dull, utilitarian character into something far more intriguing. And this is where the fun starts.

First, let’s look at the new radical: 告 (koku). 告 (koku) is a character associated with communication, but it’s not just about saying things. Its roots go back to ritual announcements, where the priest would make some divine proclamation or prayer, often involving a sacrifice. The character 告 (koku) is made up of two parts: 牛 (cow) and 口 (mouth). The 牛 (ushi) radical stands for a cow, and 口 (kuchi) represents a mouth or something related to speech. In the ancient context, this wasn’t just about talking for the sake of talking. Oh no, this was about a priest taking a cow to an altar to offer it as a sacrifice while making a proclamation to the gods. Now, I don’t know about you, but this is starting to sound a lot more exciting than just walking to an altar.

In fact, the original meaning of 告 (koku) involved a ritualistic sacrifice, with the priest communicating with the gods through the sacrifice of a cow. Can you imagine the spectacle? There’s the priest, possibly wearing robes, walking to an altar with a cow in tow, praying and sacrificing for some divine purpose. Suddenly, the meaning of 造 (tsukuru) wasn’t just about movement or going somewhere—it became about action with purpose, about creating something with divine significance, and, yes, involving the sacrifice of a cow to make things happen. How’s that for drama?

Now, when we put this all together, we see that 造 (tsukuru) isn’t just about building in the mundane sense. No, it’s about creation with intention and ritual. It’s about setting off to create something grand, to make something come into existence, just like those priests in ancient times. And who knows—maybe there’s a cow involved in the process somewhere, because, apparently, you needed one to make a proper creation.

So what about the difference between 造 (tsukuru) and 作 (tsukuru)? Ah, the two kanji are often confused, but the difference is crucial. 作 (saku) is your everyday, workhorse kanji. It’s for anything and everything you “make” on a regular basis. If you’re assembling furniture, cooking dinner, or making a salad, you’re using 作 (saku). It’s a catch-all for everyday creation, for the small stuff that gets done. On the other hand, 造 (zō) is reserved for the big stuff. It’s about constructing, building, or creating on a larger, more significant scale. We’re talking grand projects, like building a dam, or a temple, or some major infrastructure. 造 (zō) is for the kind of creation that has impact, that leaves a mark, the kind of stuff you can’t just slap together with a few pieces of wood.

So, when you use 造 (zō), you’re not just building. You’re invoking a grand, almost divine act of creation. You’re not just hammering in nails; you’re channeling the power of ancient rituals, potentially sacrificing a cow in the name of your work. Next time you’re out there constructing something—whether it’s a building, a dam, or your next big project—just remember, you’re not merely making something; you’re tapping into the power of creation itself. And that, my friends, is how 造 (zō) went from boring to extraordinary.