Osamu Dazai (1909–1948)

Second Read

I read Osamu Dazai's "No Longer Human" about two years ago, I say about because a heavy fog poisons my memory (I've never been good with recalling temporal things), perhaps it is a testament to the way I've chosen to spend the past few years. Nevertheless, I was (probably) fifteen at the time and this book resonated with me deeply. Actually, "resonated" probably isn't the right word for it... "Intrigued" is probably a better way of putting it (Though it's safe to say that it was show more intriguing because it also resonated with me). Since I haven't logged my first experience with this book, I might as well do it now. I have to say, however, that rereading it was a surprise, like reopening a present only to find it very different from what you'd found before.

As a fifteen year old, there were two main factors which drove me to purchase and read this novel. One, I had a mad obsession (which began a year prior) with all things Japanese; and two, I'd done prior research on Dazai himself (by research I mean skimming through Wikipedia) and found out about his numerous suicide attempts (not to mention lovers, alcoholism, and drug abuse), which ultimately ended in the taking of his own life. Naturally, the mystical suicide was what drew me towards the book. I guess the context put an air of heaviness and even importance to the book, and that I was, being a middle-class boy at a private school, drawn to the misery that Dazai's life entailed. I still remember reading through the introduction, comprehending about half of what was written, and constantly thinking about suicide. The prologue caught me off-guard, the strange way that the narrator described the boy aroused an image in my head that was at-once disturbing and seductive, the final image evoked a keen sense of desolation. I don't think I've ever really felt such things before. I vaguely remember going through each of the notebooks, becoming more and more obsessed with Yozo's life, feeling what he was feeling (which was, for the most part, a big pile of nothingness). I remember being somewhat disappointed with the ending and that was all. More than anything, it was an entertaining read that gave way to new senses and for that I called it my favourite book.

My experience this time around was extremely different. I understood the introduction and what it was trying to say about globalisation's effects on Japanese literature and culture, though my lack of experience with classic Japanese literature meant I couldn't comprehend the context. The prologue felt more meandering than before, the language strange and almost assumptive. The effect wasn't as strong, but the imagery of the final picture never fails to shock. I found the first notebook to be uninteresting, but was able to make it through without too much trouble. The second notebook, which describes Yozo's student years, caught my attention. I could feel myself becoming more and more obsessed with Yozo's experiences and thoughts, and I'm guessing this is what I felt on the first read-through. The names of the women who he encounters are immediately familiar, and so they must have left an impact on me. Perhaps it was the connotations of kindness and hope that I had associated with them the first time through that they had left such an impact, but there is also a keen melancholy about their names. I found myself less able to understand Yozo's thought process this time around, and questioned myself several times as to whether or not I'd become more "normalised". Nevertheless, I felt sympathy for Yozo and the people who got caught up around him, and felt tears well up in my eyes several times during the novel, even though it is told with little sentimentality. The rape scene was more horrible than I'd remembered. Two years ago I'd reminisced on how it had been described, how it was so effective yet so simple. Only now do I realise the real power of the scene, and how it had broken Yozo completely. The asylum period was strangely tranquil, even though Yozo himself believed he was finally a reject of human society. The tranquility is a consequence of his acceptance of what has happened, and a sign of surrender to the battles of society. He concludes the notebooks as a nihilist more than anything else.

What ultimately "got" me, however, was the epilogue and the self-awareness that it brings to the entire novel. The madam calling Yozo an "angel" and the juxtaposition it forms between the notebooks and "reality" brings a entire new aspect to the novel that is at once heart-rending and lifting. show less

Given its themes of endings, decline, decadence, and life-weariness, and its post-war setting, Dazai's novel cannot fail to be sad. Terminal illness, omens of death, addiction, emotional cruelty and suicide feature prominently, and Dazai died by suicide the year after its initial 1947 publication. But...

Despite her brother's dismissal of the old order as failed, and the new generation as dying on the vine, there is a scintilla of hope in Kazuko's rejection of social mores, and her show more determination to bear new life on her own terms. I think the atmosphere of this book will linger with me for a while. 4.25⭐ show less

What if Patrick Bateman was less psychopathic coke fiend, and more westaboo japanese alcoholic? The narrative dissonance between what the protagonist thinks is happening, and what a critical eye to what's presented is saying is similar to what creates the humorous satire in American Psycho. Though this is further removed in time and culture, I find it hard not to read a similar over-the-top take on the depressed outsider verging on comedic, though clearly most readers are taking the story show more 'straight' as it were. It's certainly played much closer to the chest, but the incongruence of his love affairs in the face of his self loathing, and the mirror image friend he normalizes sure suggest a satirical read. show less

"Despising ourselves as we did, we were always together."

Yozo searches for human connection, to cross the line between shameful disaster to acceptable member of society. He cannot control his impulses, both his impulse towards self-destruction and his impulse to push himself away from other humans.

"Is trustfulness a sin?" Yozo asks, and it seems a fatal flaw. Yozo can't trust, can't believe, can't connect. As the darkness of this little novel spirals further down Yozo embodies his entire show more country, as he vomits the rising sun in blood into the snow. show less