Pathway to Japanese Literature

It’s been ten days, and my tooth still hurts. I placed ice on my right cheek, took Sulphon drugs, and lay down. I didn’t want to lie down, but once I placed the ice on, there was nothing else to do but lie there. I read books while lying down. I had mostly reread Dazai’s books.

I emptied three boxes of Sulphon drugs, but the pain wouldn’t stop. I had no choice but to go to the doctor. It wasn’t getting any better in the slightest. “Well now, quite severe—but manageable.” “What I have to say is simply this: take Sulphon drugs and apply an ice pack—that’s all.” “That’s what matters most.”

For me, that alone wasn’t good enough.

“I believe it should heal before long.”

This young doctor employed flawless language. “It should heal before long,” you say? Was medicine a matter of subjective perception or one of drugs’ objective efficacy? Anyway, it was my tooth that hurt. Even if they’d annihilated a million people with an atomic bomb in an instant—if just one person’s toothache didn’t stop—what was civilization worth? Bullshit!

The wife tried to stand the Sulphon drug glass bottle upright and clattered it over. The sound reverberated so violently it could make you leap. “Hey, you fool!”

“This glass bottle can stand upright.” The other party was enjoying her juggling act. “Because you’re a fool, I hate you.” The wife’s countenance changed. Her anger permeated to the very marrow. The pain had permeated to my very marrow. A dagger plunged into my cheek with a sickening thrust. With a grunt, it gouged out. The sensation—how unpleasant it was! A lump had formed in my throat. That spot throbbed. My ear hurt. The core of my head also stung like electricity.

Hang me. Destroy the devil. Vanquish it. Advance. Don't surrender. Fight. That penny-ante hack, driven by toothache, finally hanged himself and died. A look of desperate resolve—fearsome. His fighting spirit was in full measure. Great.

No one would praise me for that, I bet. No one. Something like saying "My tooth hurts"—at present, no one except those suffering toothaches would sympathize. To hell with humanity! Even if I raged about it, did humanity's indifference to toothaches make them rotten? Then to hell with toothaches. What's wrong with that? Just a toothache. Good grief. Was that all a tooth amounted to? A new discovery. Only one person—the eccentric Editor-in-Chief Masukane of Ginza Publishing—showed me sympathy.

“Hmm, Mr. Ango. “Truly, a toothache is a thing that hurts, I tell you. “Dental ailments and genital ailments are gloomy counterparts in the same category, I tell you.”

He sure had a way with words. Truly, it was steeped in gloom. Then I realized debt too was a term of the same category. Debt was a gloomy illness. An incurable illness it was. Even attempting to vanquish it was beyond human power. Ah, sorrow, sorrow.

Enduring the toothache, I grinned. Not impressive at all. You damn fool.

Ah, I wept from toothache. I'll kick them in. You fool. How many teeth are there? This was the problem. I'd thought the number differed between people, but apparently that wasn't true. He'd gone and made even the strangest parts identical. You didn't have to go that far. That's why I hate God. Why'd He have to make even our tooth counts match? You madman! Honestly. That sort of meticulous methodology reeks of insanity. Just be more honest!

Enduring the toothache, I grinned. Grinning, I cut someone down. If you sit quietly, it’ll heal right up. It was Old Man Otasuke. No wonder believers flocked to him.

I was driven into a rage by my toothache for ten days.

My wife was kind. She attended at my bedside, put ice in the metal basin, wrung out a towel, and every five minutes replaced it on my cheek. Though her anger penetrated to the marrow, she showed no sign of it—chaste, a model of womanly virtue.

The tenth day.

“Has it healed?” “Hmm. It’s somewhat healed.”

The animal called woman—what she’s thinking is something even clever humans can’t fathom. My wife’s face instantly twisted in fury,

“For ten days, you tormented me.”

I was clobbered and kicked.

Ah, when I die—my wife’s face would instantly twist in fury, and lamenting “You tormented me all your life,” she would strike my corpse’s neck and strangle it. The moment I were to revive, it would be amusing.

Dan Kazuo arrived.

He took out an expensive cigarette from his pocket, muttering, “When you’re poor, you turn extravagant—when you’ve got money to spare, you buy twenty-yen hand-rolls,” and gave me one. “Dazai has died, hasn’t he?” “Because he died, I didn’t go to the funeral.”

What kind of funeral doesn’t involve someone dying?

Dan once engaged in something like biological activities—what they called Communist Party cells—with Dazai. At that time, Dazai was a leader-type among the organisms, and according to Dan Kazuo’s account, he was supposedly the most serious member in the group. “Because the place he jumped into was near my home, this time I truly thought he had died.” Dan the Sage delivered a divine oracle and declared, “He’s pulled another prank, hasn’t he?” “He must be up to some sort of prank.” “The day he died was the thirteenth, *Goodbye* was his thirteenth attempt—something, something… thirteen…”

Dan the Sage lined up thirteen in a row. Since I hadn’t noticed at all, I was left dumbfounded. It was the perceptive power of the Sage.

I learned of Dazai’s death before anyone else. Before it had even appeared in the newspapers, a reporter from Shincho came to inform me. When I heard that, I immediately left a note and disappeared. It was because I had intuited that newspapers and magazines would ambush me over Dazai’s case—and since I had no desire to speak of Dazai for the time being—that I addressed these words to the visiting reporters in a note and left home. This was the root of the misunderstanding.

The newspaper reporters suspected because the date on my note predated the newspaper article. They thought Dazai’s suicide was a farce and that I was hiding the two of them. I, too, at first thought he might still be alive. However, when I heard there were clear marks where they had slid down the riverbank, I concluded he had truly died. Even the slide marks couldn’t be faked. Newspaper reporters should apprentice themselves to me and study detective novels.

If the newspaper reporters’ misunderstanding had been true, it would have been splendid. If I were to hide Dazai for about a year and then abruptly bring him back to life, the newspaper reporters and people of sound judgment in society might fly into a rage—but wouldn’t it be fine for such a thing to happen once in a while? I think that if Dazai had been able to pull off the prank of plotting a staged suicide rather than a real one, his literature would have become something far more remarkable.

★

Unlike Japan’s so-called literary figures, Mr. Branden was a man of discernment. Regarding Dazai’s death—as noted in Jiji Shimpo—it was said that literary figures rarely died from melancholy alone; they were usually driven to it by frailty, and in Dazai’s case, tuberculosis might have been a contributing factor. Akutagawa was the same. The syphilis he had contracted in China made this man of aristocratic tastes tremble uncontrollably—one could well imagine. Even if the pressure from syphilis and tuberculosis had become chronic and unconscious within Akutagawa and Dazai’s suffering, I believe it true that the greatest force that opened their path to suicide was their own frailty.

Dazai called himself M·C, My Comedian, yet he could never fully become a comedian.

As for his late works—they simply won’t do. He was writing a novel called *Bannen*, and got himself all muddled—that won’t do. Among his works from near the time of his death—(my tongue’s getting tangled here)—*The Setting Sun* stands as the most outstanding. However, his *Fish服記* from ten years ago—this one is found within his late period—isn’t it splendid? This is an M·C work. “The Setting Sun” is also mostly M·C, but in the end, it just couldn’t fully become M·C.

“Father” and “Cherries”—how excruciating. You mustn’t show those to people. They belong solely within *Futsukayoi* and must be resolved within its confines. The anguish of self-reproach and regret inherent to *Futsukayoi*—or of *Futsukayoi* nature—must never be treated as either a literary concern or a life issue. In his final days, Dazai became far too mired in *Futsukayoi*. However *Futsukayoi* daily life may be, literature must never be *Futsukayoi*. For an M·C who takes the stage, *Futsukayoi* cannot be permitted. Even if one overdoses on stimulants until their heart bursts, *Futsukayoi* upon that stage must be stopped.

Akutagawa, at any rate, died on the stage. Even in death, he remained something of an actor. Dazai twisted the number thirteen, took time to construct plots like *No Longer Human* and *Goodbye*, and followed their scenarios through—yet ultimately died not on the stage but in a manner steeped in *Futsukayoi*. If *Futsukayoi* were stripped away, Dazai was a sound and orderly man of common sense—in other words, a proper human being. Kobayashi Hideo is the same. Dazai mocked Kobayashi’s common sense, but that was a mistake. If one is not a truly correct and orderly person of common sense, genuine literature cannot be written.

Sometime in January of this year, when we drank at the first anniversary of Oda Sakunosuke’s death, Oda’s wife arrived about two hours late. By that time, the group had gotten thoroughly drunk, but when someone began talking about the several women Oda had kept hidden, “Let’s get this talk over with now.” “We shouldn’t be talking about this once Oda’s wife arrives.” When I said this,

“That’s right, that’s right, exactly true!” It was Dazai who instantly struck a thunderous clap without hesitation. When calling on his seniors, Dazai would wear hakama—such was his character. He remained sound of mind, orderly in conduct—a true human being through and through. Yet he could never fully become M·C, invariably slipping into *Futsukayoi* tendencies. To live as human means being steeped in shame. But within literary M·C lies human shame—never *Futsukayoi* shame.

In *The Setting Sun*, there were too many peculiar honorifics. They would spread out their lunchbox in the tatami room and drink the whiskey they had brought along, only for Uncle Wada to board a train and merrily chant Noh verses—these thoroughly aristocratic platitudes should have left an author unperturbed, as they held no real literary consequence. Yet it was precisely here that we encountered the most cringe-inducing manifestation of *Futsukayoi*.

Such blushing was utterly meaningless and, for literature, a matter not worth taking up.

However, a man named Shiga Naoya took this up and tore into it. In other words, this made it clear that Shiga Naoya was no literary figure—he was merely a stylist. Yet paradoxically, this very critique precisely targeted the core of *Futsukayoi*, undoubtedly causing Dazai to blush in confusion and fly into a rage. Dazai was fundamentally a man who, when carried away, would slip into *Futsukayoi*—and he himself tore down Shiga Naoya’s honorific usage of “o-koroshi,” declaring it lacked proper form.

Generally speaking, I believe that in such aspects lay the secret Dazai most wished to conceal.

In his novels, starting from his earliest works, the fact that he came from a good family was written about excessively. And yet, when Kamei Katsuichirou once referred to himself as a scion of a prestigious family in some context, he exclaimed, “Ugh, ‘prestigious family’? Don’t make me laugh! ‘Prestigious family’—what a repulsive term!” But why would “prestigious family” be absurd? Because Dazai himself was fixated on it. The absurdity of prestigious families resonated immediately. Shiga Naoya’s *o-koroshi* critique must have carried a meaning that resonated with him.

Freud speaks of something called the "rectification of error." When we inadvertently make verbal mistakes, we unconsciously commit similar errors in an attempt to correct them and rationalize the situation.

In a Futsukayoi-like enfeebled psychology, this condition intensifies particularly severely, giving rise to a frenzied state of error rectification alongside blushing, agitated confusion, and torment. Dazai carried this out in literature. I imagine that even from his youth—when he ran away from home and relied on women for support—Dazai likely affected the airs of a scion from a good family, sometimes even posing as one from the aristocratic class. With those same pretensions, he may well have deceived taverns and amassed debts.

In a heart weakened by Futsukayoi, those numerous shames of a distant lifetime must have tormented him with blush-inducing, frenzied agony. And in that novel, he carried out the rectification of error. Freud’s rectification of error does not mean honestly correcting an error, but rather committing a similar error again in an attempt to make the correction appear consistent. In short, Dazai did not engage in straightforward rectification of error—that is to say, positive efforts toward virtuous construction.

He wanted to do it. That yearning and common sense overflowed in his words and deeds. However, he could not do it. Therein lay, undoubtedly, the influence of frailty as well. Yet it was unjust to lay all blame upon frailty. Certainly, it stemmed from his complacency. To become M·C required the effort to kill off and confront Futsukayoi, whereas drowning in Futsukayoi’s lament demanded far less exertion. But why this complacency? In the end, perhaps it must still be attributed to frailty.

Long ago, Dazai grinned slyly and imparted a lesson to Tanaka Hideomi. "When it comes to fan letters—don't get annoyed; write back. It's good for business." "Literary figures are merchants too." It's said that Tanaka Hideomi diligently wrote back in accordance with this lesson, but as for Dazai—did he ever write back so diligently? He probably didn't write much at all. However, it remained a fact that Dazai provided considerable service to his fans. Last year, a bookstore owner from Kanazawa or somewhere sent me a sketchbook—or something; I wasn't sure what it was, having never opened it to check, though it had considerable heft—asking me to write a note in it. When I left the package unopened and neglected it, follow-ups would occasionally arrive until eventually there came a strange message—that they'd strained themselves to buy extremely expensive paper for it; that so-and-so, so-and-so, so-and-so, and even Dazai had already contributed; that *I place my trust in your character, Mr. Sakaguchi.* At a time when my mood was particularly foul, I too grew angry—*Don't invent bizarre grudges, you fool!*—and upon sending the entire package back received an enraged reply: *You lunatic!* According to the postcard from that time, Dazai had apparently drawn a picture and added some calligraphy to it. This could indeed be called considerable service. This too, I believe stemmed from his frailty.

Generally speaking—setting aside actresses and actors—the relationship between literary figures and fans was not much discussed in Japan or abroad. Fundamentally, unlike acting’s worldly profession, literature was work of historical significance; thus it stood to reason that literary figures’ concerns would have little intersection with worldly matters. Even Mallarmé—said to have been surrounded by admirers starting with Valéry—or Sōseki of the Thursday Society likely had ties closer to discipleship than fandom: connections predicated first upon qualifications of talent.

In Dazai’s case, however, it was different—he resembled a movie fan, and in this regard, there was something akin to Akutagawa as well. I consider this to stem from their physical frailty. Their literature was inherently solitary, with no connection to worldly or fan-like matters—and yet, I believe they lacked the tenacity to fully embody the M·C on stage, leading them to compensate for that weakness through worldly means.

In the end, that drove them to their deaths. Had they spurned this world, they would not have committed suicide. They might have committed suicide—it’s possible. But regardless, had they become more tenacious M·Cs, they would have written even greater works. Whether Akutagawa or Dazai, their novels were psychologically penetrating works that grasped human nature yet possessed almost no ideological substance. Nihilism is not an ideology. It constitutes physiological mental content inherent to humanity itself—ideology is something far more foolish, something slapdash. Christ was not an ideology; he was humanity itself.

Humanity—with nihilism as its appendage—remained eternal and immutable, belonging to humankind in general. Yet an individual was a being who could only live fifty years; in this regard, they became uniquely special entities, distinct from collective humanity. Ideology belonged to the individual—thus it lived and perished. Therefore, it was inherently half-baked. Ideology was a strategy individuals had painstakingly devised through ingenuity and desperation to value their lives and live better. But precisely because of this, once a human died, that was the end—if you declared "Stop struggling," then that truly marked the conclusion.

Dazai could not bring himself to declare such things with an air of enlightenment. And yet, while he applied ingenuity to live better and did not fear naive ideologies, he still could not become a fool. However, even if he feigned such enlightenment and coldly regarded life with disdain, he would not be saved in the slightest, nor would he become great. Dazai must have known this all too well. This "unredeemed sorrow" of Dazai’s is something that Dazai fans and the like cannot comprehend. Dazai fans were thrilled every time Dazai sneered with cold disdain at naive ideologies and the bratty antics of people, displaying his Futsukayoi-esque self-flagellation.

Dazai did not wish to be Futsukayoi-esque and must have cursed it most vehemently. No matter how naive it might be—even if childish—to live better, he must have wanted to become a good person by desperately contriving worldly good deeds or anything else. What prevented him from doing so was his manifold frailty. And he catered to the fans of this world, becoming not an M·C within history but an M·C solely for his fans.

“No Longer Human,” “Goodbye,” “Thirteen”—how revolting. Ugh! If someone else were to do it, wouldn’t Dazai have surely said that?

If Dazai had failed to die and revived, he would have eventually erupted into Futsukayoi-esque blushing fury, utter chaos, and the agony of torment—*No Longer Human*, *Goodbye*. Suicide—how disgusting—ugh! He was bound to have written such things.

★

Dazai would, at times, become a genuine M·C and write radiant works. “Fish服記,” “The Setting Sun,” and others—there are numerous examples among his older works—but even in his recent ones, such as “Gender Equality” or the lighthearted “Comradeship Between Friends,” they are splendid works. A majestic, admirable M·C—such was his presence as an M·C within history. But he could not sustain it, and would inevitably revert to being a Futsukayoi-esque M·C. From there, he would recover and return to being a genuine M·C. Again, he would revert to being a Futsukayoi-esque M·C. It seems he had been repeating this cycle.

However, each time, his storytelling improved, and he became a better narrator. The content of literature did not change. This was because his literature understood human nature and dealt solely with humanity’s fundamental problems; thus, no ideological transformation could be observed. This time too, had he not committed suicide but instead recovered and reverted to being an M·C within history, he would have become an even more skillful storyteller and served up a beautiful tale. Generally speaking, Futsukayoi-esque self-flagellation is easily understandable—it naturally wins the fervor of earnest youths—but I believe that a soul as lofty and solitary as Dazai’s tended to be dragged into the Futsukayoi-esque M·C due to frailty and also, in part, due to alcohol.

Mr. Branden saw through the frailty, but I added another factor: alcohol—this utterly vulgar sorcery. Dazai’s later years were Futsukayoi-esque; moreover, I think that this utterly vulgar thing called *Futsukayoi* was actually corroding his lofty, solitary soul.

Alcohol hardly ever causes addiction. According to a certain psychiatrist I had spoken with the other day, there were almost no cases of true alcoholism in Japan especially. However, if you think alcohol isn’t a drug but rather a type of cuisine, that’s a grave mistake. Alcohol isn’t something delicious. No matter what whiskey or cognac it was, I held my breath to stifle the burn and finally managed to gulp it down. I drank to get drunk. When I got drunk, I could sleep. This too was one of its benefits.

However, when I drink alcohol—no, when I get drunk—I forget. No, I am reborn as a different person. If there had been no need to forget myself, I would not have wanted to drink such a thing at all. You want to forget yourself? Don’t lie. If you want to forget, then drink alcohol year-round and stay perpetually drunk. This is called decadence. Don’t spout sophistries.

I am alive, I tell you! As I had said earlier—a fifty-year lifespan being all too predictable—I refuse to spout such platitudes precisely because they come too easily. Childish though it may be, naive or crude, I strive to leave proof that I’m somehow alive. If staying perpetually drunk year-round was what it took, I’d rather die. The allure lies in temporarily forgetting oneself—this much I’ll grant. Indeed, it amounts to practical sorcery of the highest order. Back then, fifty sen—a single serrated coin clutched tight—let you down five cups of sake at Shinbashi Station’s entrance and work that magic. These days, wielding such sorcery doesn’t come easy. Dazai wasn’t disqualified as a sorcerer—he was disqualified as a human being. Or so he convinced himself through sheer force of delusion.

Of course, Dazai had not been disqualified as a human. Even blushing and raging in Futsukayoi alone—compared to those who never blushed or raged—who could say how much more authentically human he was? It wasn’t that he’d become unable to write novels. It was merely that his power to fully become M·C had temporarily waned. Dazai was certainly likely a difficult man for certain people to endure. For instance: When Dazai said to me, “I’ve gone and joined that literary coterie—what should I do about it?” I replied, “Leave it be. That’s fine as it is.” “Ah! Yes! Exactly!” he cried out cheerfully.

Afterward, when he [Dazai] deliberately feigned dejection in front of others and showed it to Sakaguchi Ango, sure enough, the man [Sakaguchi] would act the part of the venerable senior, slapping his chest as if to declare, “It’s fine! Just leave it be!”—precisely the sort of mockingly amusing remark he was prone to make. Many old friends grew disgusted with Dazai over these antics and distanced themselves from him; though these ploys undoubtedly wounded his friends, in truth, Dazai himself must have been even more profoundly wounded in private by his own actions, blushing crimson with mortification.

Of course, these were, as he himself stated in his works, merely things he would blurt out as performative gestures for whoever happened to be before him. That much, his friends who were likewise writers could not have been unaware of; yet even knowing that, those who found it unpleasant must have distanced themselves from him. However, Dazai’s inward blushing and raging, his self-abasement, and that agony must have been excruciating. In this regard, he was a man of sincere integrity worthy of trust—a sound and whole human being.

Therefore, in discussions, Dazai would suddenly commit these performative gestures and inwardly blush with mortification—yet he never wrote about this in his works. However, when it came to Dazai’s disciple Tanaka Hideomi, he would indulge in this indiscriminately across both discussions and literature; afterward—far from keeping it private—he would boldly scribble down accounts of blushing, confusion, and raging, and since this made him feel redeemed, he was beyond saving.

Dazai was not like that. He was truly more modest, reverent, and sincere. Precisely because of this, his inward blushing and raging must have been excruciating. For Dazai—who suffered self-abasement more intensely than others—the sorcery of alcohol naturally became an indispensable necessity. Yet sorcery comes with this unsavory appendage called *Futsukayoi*, which only compounds the trouble. Like pouring oil on flames.

In cooking alcohol, there was no *Futsukayoi*; but in sorcerous alcohol, this existed. When one employed sorcery during a period of mental frailty, one became prone to decadence—*Ah, well, fine then*—prone to thinking it’d be alright to die; and as the most acute subjective symptoms, one could no longer work, had grown to detest literature—this felt like one’s true voice. In reality, it was an illusion of *Futsukayoi*—and beyond that pathological illusion, the desperate situation of being unable to work any longer did not actually exist.

Even someone like Dazai—a man who knew human nature inside out, who had thoroughly discerned all its aspects—could succumb to such vulgar delusions. No wonder. For alcohol is sorcery. Vulgar though it may be, shallow though it may seem—when your adversary is sorcery, even knowing this changes nothing. Human intellect cannot prevail. It’s Lorelei.

Dazai is sad. He was done in by Lorelei.

Calling it a double suicide—that’s a damn lie. The sorcerer, within alcohol, does nothing but fall for women. The one within alcohol is not the actual person, but another being. Even if another being falls in love, the actual person doesn’t know a thing. First of all, truly falling in love and dying—that’s utter nonsense. To fall in love is to live. Dazai’s suicide note lacked coherence. He seemed to have been utterly plastered. He might have privately considered dying on the thirteenth. In any case—*No Longer Human*, *Goodbye*, and then suicide—well, he must have subtly laid the groundwork for that narrative. Even if he had privately laid the groundwork, there was no necessity for him to absolutely die. The ideology of absolute desperation—that one must inevitably die—or a situation of absolute desperation: such things do not actually exist.

His *Futsukayoi*-like decline must have gradually rendered the private groundwork something that could no longer be cast aside. However, if Sacchan—in her frantic state—were to say she objected, there would have been no way for it to come to fruition. Dazai was utterly plastered and brought it up, and Sacchan must have made it decisive. Sacchan, too, was said to be a heavy drinker, but her suicide note—a composed statement along the lines of “It is an honor beyond my station to accompany my respected teacher”—showed no trace of drunkenness whatsoever. However, Dazai’s suicide note lacked coherence in both penmanship and prose, undoubtedly born of extreme drunkenness. If this had not been a suicide, he would surely have been blushing crimson with *Futsukayoi*, thinking, “Good grief—did I really do that last night?” But since it was a suicide, there was no waking up the next morning—so it was all over.

Dazai’s suicide note was far too incoherent. Even if the writings from near Dazai’s death were marked by *Futsukayoi*, it remained certain that he had been, after all, the M·C confronting this world. That said, the final installment of *Thus I Heard* (the fourth one, perhaps) was dreadful. Here, too, M·C was almost nonexistent. What existed here was grumbling.

By writing such things, his private blushing and raging only grew worse; his spirit wasted away—how excruciatingly bitter it must have been for him to endure living on alone. Yet as he ceased being M·C, uproar arose from those close to him; aware of their foolishness yet growing exasperated, he seemed to adjust himself precisely toward those clamorous people. In that regard, he remained M·C until the very end. He engaged only with the narrowest circle surrounding him.

In his suicide note, there was not even the M·C engaging with that narrow circle. "Even if the children are mediocre, please forgive them," he wrote. To his wife: “It’s not because I hate you that I’m dying,” he wrote. “Mr. Ibuse is a villain,” he wrote. What existed there was nothing but the raucousness of drunkenness; there was not a trace of M·C. But "Even if my children are mediocre..." was heartrending. How he must have longed for a child who was not mediocre. Even if mediocre, one’s own child is pitiable. And so, isn’t that alright? Dazai was such an ordinary human being. His novels must be read with the understanding that he was a sincere human being—a small, good, sound, and well-ordered one.

Yet in the fact that he does not simply say “Pity my children,” but specifically states “*because* they are mediocre,” lies the key to the pathos that permeated Dazai’s entire life. In other words, he was also a show-off of a rare kind—one obsessed with the extraordinary. That very show-off was common and conventional, but even in his grumbling against Shiga Naoya in *Thus I Heard*, this fact is laid bare. Dazai launches into a tirade against Shiga Naoya: “Isn’t it enough that His Highness was moved to cherish it?” But when he forgets the superb technique of his usual M·C persona, he becomes sheer vulgarity itself. That’s exactly how it should be. Without being vulgar and common-sensical, how could one ever write a novel? The fact that Dazai, throughout his life, never noticed this one thing—that he persisted in his self-deprecating *Futsukayoi* acts in tune with strange uproars—is what hindered his great achievement.

I repeat. Unless one becomes vulgarity and common sense itself, there can be no writing of outstanding literature. Though Dazai was the very archetype of genuine vulgarity and common sense, he ultimately failed to attain awareness of this fact.

★

To try to neatly categorize humans is impossible.

Especially terrible are the little bastards known as children. They just pop up and have the nerve to be born.

Strangely, I have no children. There were two times when they nearly popped into existence—either dying upon being born or perishing the moment they came into the world. Thanks to that, I have managed to survive to this day.

Completely unconsciously, their bellies swell in some grotesquely absurd way; they abruptly get the urge, adopt parental airs—and that’s how humans get born and raised. It’s preposterous.

Humans are by no means their parents’ children. Just like Christ, everyone is born in a stable or a toilet or something like that.

Even without parents, children grow up. Lie. Even with parents, children grow up. Parents—those idiots—putting on airs of humanity, masquerading as parents, their bellies swollen, suddenly panicking to become these botched approximations of parenthood, lurking in shadows to raise their young while dispensing some bizarrely warped pity that’s neither animal nor human. If there were no parents, children would grow up far more splendidly.

The man called Dazai was a bizarrely warped delinquent youth tormented by his parents, siblings, and the very concept of family. "What does it matter who your parents are?"—he just kept spouting such nonsense. It was an obsessive compulsion. That bastard—he secretly wished he were truly the child of a kazoku peer or even the Emperor’s offspring; such trashy delusions constituted the wretch’s inner life. When it came to parents, older brothers, seniors, or elders, Dazai could not hold his head up. Therefore, he had to crush it. It was vexing. Yet he harbored such intense love that it made him tremble and want to weep. In this aspect, it was the typical psychology of a delinquent youth.

He was a man who, even at forty, remained a delinquent youth—unable to become a delinquent young man or delinquent old man.

The delinquent youth did not want to lose. He wanted to make himself look great somehow. He wanted to hang himself and, even in death, appear great. Just as he wanted to be a prince or the Emperor’s child, so too did he want to appear great even in death. Even at forty, Dazai’s inner psychology remained that of a mere delinquent youth—and because he actually went and did that rash thing, the bastard was an utter mess.

The death of a literary figure—it’s nothing so grand. Even at forty, that grotesque failure of a delinquent youth—utterly fragmented—finally went and did it. What a laughable bastard. He visits his seniors, calls them “senpai,” and has the nerve to come dressed in hakama. The delinquent youth’s code of honor. He’s so polite. And with the gall to act as if he’s the most polite person in Japan, like the Emperor’s child.

Akutagawa, compared to Dazai, had a face that seemed more adult-like and shrewd, was a prodigy, well-behaved, and seemed innocent—but in reality, he was the same delinquent youth. He had a split personality; the other would loiter around festival grounds with a dagger tucked into his robe, threatening young girls and hitting on them. Literary figures? No—philosophers are even worse. Don’t make me laugh. Philosophy. What the hell is philosophy? There’s nothing to any of it! Philosophizing—the nerve!

Hegel, Nishida Kitarō—what the hell, it’s all absurd. Even at sixty, humans are nothing but delinquent youths—that’s all there is to it. They don’t even pretend to be adults. Calling it meditation—the nerve! What were they meditating on? The meditation of delinquent youths and the meditation of philosophers—where’s the difference? They’re just going in circles—aren’t adults the ones pointlessly exerting themselves?

Both Akutagawa and Dazai were suicides of delinquent youths. Even among delinquent youths, they were particularly cowardly crybabies. They couldn’t win through physical strength. They couldn’t win through logic either. So they brought up some example and asserted themselves through that authority. Both Akutagawa and Dazai invoked Christ. It was the way of cowardly, sniveling brats playing at being delinquent youths. When it came to Dostoevsky, even as a delinquent youth, he had the arm strength of a gang leader. When a guy like that attained such arm strength, he didn’t drag out Christ or whatever as examples. They made themselves into Christ. They went and concocted Christ. Honestly, they finally went and concocted it. Alyosha—they finally managed to create him just before death. Up to that point, they had been utterly fragmented. The delinquent youth is utterly fragmented.

Dying, suicide—such nonsense. They die because they lost. If they win, they won’t die. To believe in death’s victory—that idiotic logic—is more ludicrous than trusting Old Man Otasuke’s deworming charms. For humans, living is everything. Die, and you’re gone. Fame, art that endures—it’s all absurd. I hate ghosts. I hate those specters who keep “living” even after death.

That living alone is what matters—that is all there is to it. They don’t grasp even this single truth. In truth, it isn’t about comprehension or its lack. To live or die—only two paths exist. Moreover, those who choose death merely vanish into nothingness. We must demonstrate through living, endure through doing, fight through persisting. You could die anytime. Don’t waste effort on such trifles. There’s no merit in doing what can be done whenever you please.

When one dies, one must remain faithful to this humble yet true obligation of humanity: to simply return to nothingness. I regard this as a human obligation. To be alive is what makes one human; what follows is merely white bones—no, nothingness. And through knowing nothing but living—through this alone—justice and truth are born. In religions and philosophies that debate life and death, there is neither justice nor truth. That is a toy.

But living sure is exhausting, isn't it? Even I, who speak thus, do have times when I think of returning to nothingness. Fighting through—easier said than done. It's exhausting, isn't it? However, my resolve is set. No matter what happens, I will live through my allotted time alive. And I will fight. I will never lose. Not losing means to keep fighting. Outside of that struggle, there exists no such thing as victory or defeat. As long as you keep fighting, you don't lose. There can never be any winning—not ever. Humans never win anything at all. They simply avoid losing.

You mustn’t go thinking about trying to win. There’s no way you can win. Who do you think you’re trying to beat? What adversary?

You must not regard time as infinite. You must not take such grandiose, childish dreams seriously. Time is the span from one’s birth until death.

It was too grandiose. Limits. Scholarship lies in the discovery of limits—that is its essence. Grandiose things are a child’s fantasy—they’re not scholarship. Discovering the atomic bomb is not scholarship. It is child’s play. Controlling this, utilizing it moderately, not engaging in war, conceiving a peaceful order—discovering such limits is what scholarship is.

Suicide is not scholarship. It is child’s play. From the very beginning, first and foremost, knowing one’s limits is essential.

Because of this war, I was taught that atomic bombs are not scholarship, children’s play is not scholarship, war itself is not scholarship. I had been overestimating grandiose things.

Scholarship is the discovery of limits. I fight for that purpose.