Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Why must these so-called literary youths be such uniformly unpleasant creatures?”
“Lazy, arrogant, and utterly clueless about others’ feelings.”
“Self-centered creatures who don’t see others as human—utterly lacking confidence yet brimming with vanity, devoid of sincerity or wisdom… like some rotten woman through and through...”

Just as I was about to heap on even more adjectives of this sort, Horiguchi University—uncharacteristically—cut in from the side,

“That’s precisely how it should be.”
“Literature fundamentally operates that way.”
“Leave them unchanged and observe quietly for ten or twenty years, and those thoroughly disagreeable specimens will each become reasonably agreeable individuals showing promise.”
“That constitutes literature’s true path.”
“A most edifying principle.”
“Take ourselves—were we to reflect on ten or fifteen years past, it appears we too qualified as admirably insufferable literary youths.”

After that, they laughed.
That would have been about ten years prior.
From time to time, we would exchange conversations like this.
I no longer remember when this occurred or who was involved.
What remains in my memory is this: the words spoken by that dignified friend who sought to console my grievances—his mention of “the profound path of literature” and what seemed like an attempt to prompt reflection on my own reckless declaration that “we were all splendidly unpleasant literary youths ten or fifteen years prior”; the dazzling rays of light falling upon the white cloth covering the round table between our conversation seats; the fresh greenery of the eaves I looked up at when averting my gaze; and how my heart softened through my friend’s gracious remark, leading us to laugh together.
I forgot everything beyond those things.
Even now, I do recall my friend’s words from that time.

Another memory would likely require me to trace back yet another decade.
Therefore, this was a certain time when I myself was a splendidly unpleasant literary youth.
My teacher Ikuta Chokyo, who had been utterly unable to repay this debt of gratitude, was saying to his friend Morita Sohei.

“In such matters, you’d do best to pretend ignorance and leave it be, you know.
“If you scorn and laugh it off, it’ll blow over.
“At the very least, I share your displeasure, and Sato-kun here is no different.
“Two understanding souls in all the world would suffice.
“To desire anything more than that would be sheer extravagance.”

Chokyo-sensei gave a metallic laugh.
I also laughed insolently.
But Sohei never laughed.
And he said.

“Well then, getting angry and grumbling over such matters is undoubtedly uncouth. That’s precisely their weak point. That’s why I won’t settle for laughing it off. I will dare to embrace this uncouthness. In such situations, laughing things off out of fear of seeming uncouth might be considered good taste, but I refuse to do so. To remain silent about this out of fear of being called uncouth—that strikes me as downright immoral.”

“Is that so? One would think there are matters of greater concern in the world than this.”

“Exactly. This matter—if you expand it as it stands, it shares the same path as all worldly concerns.”

Mr. Morita expanded upon that matter, linking it to principles underlying all worldly concerns and elaborating at length.
As for what that crucial matter actually was—my memory has utterly escaped me.
Perhaps it simply wasn’t worth remembering.
Yet for morality’s sake, only “Sohei unafraid of seeming uncouth” and “Sohei who does not laugh” remained deeply etched in my memory.
This memory too now suddenly came back to me.

Yamagishi Gaishi visited accompanied by his cousin Terai Kiyoshi.
On a late Sunday night, I had visited an esteemed friend in the neighborhood to discuss the Six Categories of the Shijing in preparation for the next day’s school lecture when I was informed of two visitors’ arrival, so I returned home to meet them.

As for Yamagishi, I had requested the other day that he go to Chiba to observe Dazai Osamu’s recent circumstances.
Dazai had been coming almost every three days during the summer, and on days he didn’t visit, he would invariably send either multi-page postcards or lengthy letters scrawled across sheets of scroll paper—yet after that, all communication abruptly ceased.
No—there had been a couple of postcards, but I couldn’t grasp their meaning in the slightest.
Even more than the unclear wording of those postcards, I couldn’t comprehend the psychology of Dazai, who—instead of simply dropping them off at Surugadai—didn’t even take the step to stand before my front door.
According to the postcard, there were phrases indicating that Dazai couldn’t visit due to awkward shame.
Because there truly existed facts corresponding to those phrases, I had honestly read them exactly as written.
However, my wife had been voicing the speculation that Dazai’s attitudes were likely related to the Akutagawa Prize.
Now that you mention it, there had been something peculiar—when my brother from Nihonbashi visited recently, I heard a rumor that Dazai had been boasting about how he would be receiving the Akutagawa Prize this time around.
However, since I hadn’t the slightest thought that Dazai might harbor some dissatisfaction toward me regarding the Akutagawa Prize, I dismissed my wife’s speculation as a foolishly feminine notion.
If the other party wasn’t coming due to dissatisfaction, that would be one thing, but I also felt it would be inconvenient if they were avoiding visits out of some awkwardness, and since there were suspicious aspects to Dazai’s behavior as well, I ended up sending Yamagishi to Dazai’s place.
Since Dazai was initially the one Yamagishi had brought to his own place, this was intended to be a role that left nothing to be desired for Yamagishi.
My suspicion toward Dazai was the doubt that Dazai had started using pavinal again.
As I had just consulted with my brother—who was a doctor—and had Dazai treated for that addiction this spring, we—my brother and Yamagishi included—felt it was our duty to prevent a relapse of the addiction.

Yamagishi’s report on his visit to Dazai in Chiba was almost unclear, unlike his usual clear and lengthy expositions.
It consisted almost entirely of two points: that Dazai seemed to have resumed using pavinal again, and that there were stark discrepancies between his family’s account and his own words in every matter—his uncharacteristically insincere attitude had been infuriating.
That he had relapsed into pavinal addiction was largely evident, but neither side touched upon the matter concerning the Akutagawa Prize.
Since it had never been much of an issue for me to begin with, there was no need to inquire unless Yamagishi brought it up.

However, when the topic of Dazai came up, Terai began discussing Dazai’s new short story *Chronicle of Creation*, which had been published in *Shincho*. Since it had become a topic among monthly critics, he first introduced what was referred to as Nakajo Yuriko’s opinion. However, Terai’s account made no sense to me at all. Even when hearing about Nakajo’s opinions—her displeasure at the existence of such feudalistic apprenticeship systems in literary circles, her argument that if such phenomena were present then the Akutagawa Prize must be harmful, and her use of the term “atrocity”—I couldn’t grasp from start to finish what exactly was so atrocious or how. This was because I had not read *Chronicle of Creation*, which was supposedly the focal point of the discussion.

I hardly looked at magazines lately. This was because I felt there were more things worth reading than magazines. Magazines were ultimately crafted for literary youth, so it stood to reason that they wouldn’t be interesting reading material for someone like me who had been driven out—or perhaps was being driven out—of their sphere. Therefore, I reread Tsurezuregusa and The Tales of Ise, analyzed the preface to the Kokinshu, and struggled with the Japanese translation of the Shijing. However, as long as one lives in the modern age, there seemed to be both a need and an obligation to look at contemporary magazines whether one liked them or not. The fact that I accepted the role of Akutagawa Prize selection committee member and began lecturing at a certain school had this as one of its primary reasons. Because I felt that having opportunities—whether spending a few hours each week interacting with young people to understand them or reviewing works by extremely young writers collectively once or twice a year—was both necessary for myself and a social obligation all for the sake of reading modern magazines. In this manner, I left a small gap in the window of my heart to allow for air circulation. And I had no intention of engaging any more actively with the modern era than this. I wanted to keep things to about this extent and ensure the door remained firmly closed. It was passive but suited my selfishness. If there wasn’t even this level of benefit or a modest intention to honor deceased friends then serving as an Akutagawa Prize judge wasn’t really my style. I believed I knew my place to that extent.

Strictly speaking, even a system like the Akutagawa Prize was not particularly appealing to me. Even so, when a certain person once remarked, “The Akutagawa Prize is ultimately just Mr. Kikuchi’s advertising tool...” I responded: “That’s correct. While that may be true, if today’s general advertising method consists of pursuing one’s own profit even by excluding others, then as a Mahayana-like means of securing one’s own benefit while sharing some profit with others, it cannot be said to be entirely without merit. Of course, were it to be misused, harm would surely follow. However, since there is nothing that, when misused, does not bring harm...”

When I answered thus, I became acutely aware that I had indeed become a fully-fledged Akutagawa Prize committee member.

In any case, since I would have no topics to discuss with the two guests without reading *Chronicle of Creation*, I ordered my family to search for the magazine.
If it was this month’s magazine, they wouldn’t have bundled it away into storage nor sold it off to a scrap dealer.
I had them search every nook and cranny of the bedroom, study, parlor, and everyone’s rooms, but it was nowhere to be found.
In the end, someone had taken it away.
It gradually became clear that someone had taken it away and that it was no longer at hand.
Since it was probably still around ten-thirty or so, I sent the maid hurrying to Shitamachi-dōri to buy a copy of *Shincho*.
Buying a magazine myself was something I hadn’t done in over twenty years.

Leaving the guests to chatter freely among themselves, I hurriedly skimmed through the magazine.
There was nothing particularly eye-catching.

As I skimmed further, I came across the all-too-familiar typeface of my own name. I removed my glasses, put them back on, and peered closely.
My longstanding nearsightedness had recently begun shifting toward farsightedness, making the glasses more hindrance than help.
I wanted to conserve my reading efforts wherever possible.
Proofreading my old works—such trivial tasks—left me acutely aware of life slipping through my fingers.
Yet Chronicle of Creation proved readable enough with its crisp katakana strokes.
That it had switched to hiragana precisely where clarity mattered most struck me as perversely coincidental—malicious design masquerading as chance.

“You—this is unacceptable.”
“That won’t do.”
“To have such selfish, nonsensical things written about you—”
“He reports delusions as if they were facts.”
“This technique is always troublesome.”
“That it’s being used so mercenarily...”
“If it’s being exploited like this...”
“More than the author’s common sense—”
“It’s their conscience that must be doubted.”
“First and foremost, it must be doubted—don’t you think?”

I spoke each phrase haltingly while reading through a twenty- or thirty-line passage that stretched from halfway down one page to midway through the next—

“Unpleasant, isn’t it.”
“He’s a troublesome individual.”

At first he had spoken as if addressing his subject directly, but by the end his tone shifted into something more measured:

“Indeed—even someone other than Nakajo Yuriko would resent this apprenticeship system if they took it as fact. To see people thirsting for the Akutagawa Prize while resigning themselves to such conditions would strike them as nothing short of atrocity.”

“Is that so?”
Terauchi let out a protracted sigh and looked thoroughly defeated, as if he himself had been scolded.

When I handed the portion I had finished reading to Yamagishi, he—

“Yes, yes. Regarding that section—Dazai did present it while voicing concern it might inconvenience you, Sensei.”

“So he himself noticed and did it, then?—Though to what degree remains unclear.”
“Reversing black and white with these facts might not cause any particular trouble.”
“Is he playing dumb?”

“Though toward the end, his attitude toward you, Sensei, has been somewhat salvaged,” Yamagishi said euphemistically, suggesting he might as well give it a read-through once.

“But even if you were to read it through to the end, there’s no way something like a retraction of the lies he wrote would exist.”

I found the arguments of the two men before me both insensitive and infuriating, but I no longer wished to voice my thoughts. Moreover, since I hadn’t thoroughly read through it in full, I resolved to give it a proper reading first and foremost.

Yamagishi and Terauchi were debating Dazai’s other works and critiquing the reception of *Chronicle of Creation*, but since I refrained from joining their discussion, even these two typically eloquent men—now prone to uncharacteristic silences—departed earlier than usual.

After they had left, I carried the magazine into the bedroom and spared no effort in scrutinizing *Chronicle of Creation* down to the smallest detail, even at the cost of my precious eyesight. This was because I wanted my discomfort reduced as much as possible through the work itself.

Without needing to scrutinize it in detail, this work contained not a trace of the sense of atrocity as Nakajo Yuriko describes (though this too was merely hearsay, as I hadn't read it directly). The reason was that the parts Nakajo Yuriko seemed to have taken seriously and read as facts were nothing but the author's delusions. Dazai's works—not limited to *Chronicle of Creation*—were constructed not so much as fantastical but rather as delusional. They were all a single dream. They were all a nightmare. Just as there were fixed laws for reducing and calculating truth within dreams, so too did reading Dazai's works require requisite preparation. To regard everything written as fact was a childishly idiotic delusion akin to believing an entire dream to be real. Admittedly, Dazai had written it in a structure that seized this opportunity to make delusions be believed as facts. Or perhaps Dazai himself had convinced himself that his own delusions were the truth. The reason I called him a troublesome individual lay chiefly in this point. I, who knew the facts as facts, was fully aware of how extensively those facts had been distorted into delusions within Dazai's writing (or perhaps in his mind). However, in that climate where personal essays—novels presenting facts as they were (this clumsy work of mine being a prime example)—were being written, readers who knew none of the actual facts were likely to mistakenly conflate delusional novels with factual ones through such misapprehensions. It seemed Dazai had likely anticipated this adverse effect. This trick achieved an infuriatingly effective result in this work—no, it was engineered so that readers willingly fell into this trap. That Dazai was an eerie genius endowed with an uncanny talent for grasping others' psychology became evident even in this single work. However, misusing that skill, this man unflinchingly carried out utterly morally corrupt deeds under the beautiful guise of creative freedom.—My indignation was directed solely at that.

If one were to temporarily set aside the work's ethical considerations, it might indeed be called compellingly well-constructed. Should this piece be reputed to have succeeded as a work of pure aesthetic merit beyond mere gossip value, I would not oppose such a view. This remains undeniably a work that showcases its author's talent. What I must emphasize is how—while displaying this talent—the author simultaneously reveals his duplicitous nature through multilayered complexities, making me witness this spectacle with unbearable moral repugnance. This writer strikes one as a man bearing profound karmic burdens. I find myself marveling at the karmic depth within his artistry. For privileged young ladies—whose school compositions gain societal approval through family prestige alone, yet who later curse their privilege to kneel before leftist ideologies—their very virtue renders it inevitable that they become ensnared by such literary trickery, shuddering at superficial horrors while never plumbing true depravity.

I now harbored an abnormal hatred for Dazai Osamu. But at the same time, I praised his unparalleled talent. This contradiction became the motive for my creating this work. Had it been mere hatred, I would have laughed and spurned him. The matter would have been quite simple.

There had previously been a certain woman who, like Nakajo Yuriko, was led astray by his tricks and, like Sato Haruo, became captivated by the depth of his karma, and who plotted a double suicide with him.
That record—though how much of it was truth versus delusion, or what percentage of truth and sincerity lay within those delusions being a matter for later analysis—was what I regarded as his representative work and *The Flower of Farce*.
The work I had recommended as a candidate for the first Akutagawa Prize was indeed this one.
Through this, an unpleasant connection between me and Dazai had been forged.
Perhaps I myself was also a person of no less profound karmic depth than he, and it may be that I recognized him as Ashura recognizes Ashura.

In any case, there was the section where Dazai, in the preface of *Chronicle of Creation*, discovered and introduced from a women’s magazine roundtable article a diver who finds a woman submerged on the ocean floor—a passage demonstrating his preparation to render the entire work, with its bizarrely fantastical quality, as pure fantasy. (Were we to let Dazai speak, he might have evaded responsibility by arguing that since he had already fully led readers into a fantasy world with that part, there was no need to refute the delusional nature of the later Akutagawa Prize-related sections.) Whether we consider his arbitrary actions or that undersea scene—had one known the fact that Dazai once entered the sea like a sparrow striving to become a clam, resulting in his mistress sinking to the seabed while he alone was found washed up on a desolate rocky shore—it would naturally have made sense why he was so deeply moved by the diver’s account. That diver’s account was indeed none other than a reflection of Dazai’s psychological landscape. As for whether even that diver might have been Dazai himself, I do not know.

Might it not be that instead of following his mistress into the water, Dazai sought solace in pharmaceuticals and ultimately developed that addiction?
(This may be my own delusion and far from the truth.) Even to read a single chapter's preface required this much preparation.
To properly read one of his works would have necessitated a commentary exceeding the work itself.
I resolved to provide commentary solely on the brief section surrounding my own name's appearance.

Despite my recommendation, *The Flower of Farce* was ignored by the then-preliminary judges Mr. Takii and Mr. Kawabata.
It was not ignored without reason.
The two men, grounded in their artistic convictions, likely preferred more direct, unadorned simplicity over the twisted handling of truth—such as seen in *The Flower of Farce*—which could only be conveyed through the mask of decadent fantasy.
They selected as a candidate work a minor piece that seemed utterly unworthy of consideration when compared to *The Flower of Farce*.
The details of these events are thoroughly documented in the chronicle of the first Akutagawa Prize selection; those interested may consult it.
However, though it may not appear in the records, when I stated the inadvisability of discarding substantial works in favor of minor pieces, Mr. Takii explained that he had consulted with Mr. Kawabata; accordingly, Mr. Kawabata also offered a rationale, remarking that while Dazai Osamu was undoubtedly a talented writer, his lifestyle might not be entirely upstanding.
As for Mr. Takii’s side, I have forgotten, but since Mr. Kawabata’s remarks are documented in articles—and I recall Dazai, in a fit of indignation, writing with demonic fervor something to the effect of, “Is doting on terriers and gawking at Odoriko what you call a proper lifestyle?” directed at Mr. Kawabata—there must be records of these mutual claims.

What I wished to convey was simply the well-known fact that in the first Akutagawa Prize selection, Dazai had been nominated as a candidate but ultimately was not selected due to Ishikawa’s selection.
It remained a strange fact that Dazai seemed to feel the circumstance of having become a mere candidate without winning as if he had been publicly shamed—something the general populace would likely not comprehend.
For willful individuals, nothing proves more mortifying than failing to have matters proceed according to their desires regardless of circumstances.
Dazai appeared to have begun fixating on the notion that having once been nominated made it absolutely imperative he win the prize at least once.
That he became a non-selected candidate for the Akutagawa Prize seemed for him not merely devoid of honor but indeed a grave dishonor.
That his manner of perceiving events diverged from ordinary people’s became evident even in such aspects.
This could be inferred as either his extraordinary self-indulgence or vanity.
Though becoming a candidate should bring direct or indirect honor and benefits sufficient for modest satisfaction—this being ordinary people’s reasoning—Dazai appeared incapable of such measured perspective.
He perhaps felt being made a candidate equivalent to being paraded before others for humiliation.
This constituted an extravagantly delusional persecution complex.
Setting aside other matters, I must now confess my submission to Kawabata’s discernment—his decisive judgment at that time that Dazai possessed talent but lacked virtue—has grown daily more profound.

I would like to present here an example—albeit secondhand—of just how subjective and self-indulgent a character Dazai Osamu is.
He had once mailed a letter but then recalled there was a phrase in it that displeased him; to retrieve it, he stationed himself before the postbox, waited for the mail carrier to arrive, and after an argument, snatched it back—or so the story goes.
Having heard secondhand from someone who had directly witnessed this scene, I thought it was very much like Dazai.
“I’m just taking back what’s mine.”
“As long as there’s no mistake in my letter, there should be no issue with returning it.”
Ranting and raving, Dazai likely believed this demonstrated his fidelity to his own emotions down to every last word, never once considering how much trouble this caused the mail carrier or how it disrupted public life.
Since he had been doing this constantly in the countryside, he might have thought there was no reason he couldn’t do it there now.
Since his family was one of the most prominent wealthy and influential families in the region, the village mail carriers likely regarded themselves as little more than household servants, and perhaps the carriers themselves humbly complied with their orders.
To begin with, being born into a wealthy family alone is a misfortune in life; yet for a youth to be celebrated for literary fame can hardly be considered a blessing either.
Moreover, there was certainly no lack of conditions that compelled even greater sympathy for him—for some reason, though his biological mother was alive when he was born, he was entirely separated from her care and raised by his grandmother; not only that, but he suffered his father’s sudden death in his youth.
All of these must have been conditions perfectly suited to distorting his nature and amplifying his selfishness.
This young master, upon entering high school, promptly became infected with leftist ideology and endeavored to enlighten his family’s tenant farmers.
Upon graduating high school or thereabouts—when, how, where, and with whom he found a partner to attempt a lovers’ suicide—I know of this only through his novel *The Flower of Farce*, and since I am not writing a biography of Dazai Osamu today, it would be proper to omit such details.

I recall that Dazai, accompanied by Yamagishi, first came to my place some time after the decision for the first Akutagawa Prize had been made.
Yamagishi was worried about Dazai’s addiction, and when Ibuse learned that Dazai had come to his place, he first discussed the addiction and said he wanted to devise a method to make him quit Pavinal.
Though I thought it was meddlesome, out of Ibuse and Yamagishi’s genuine concern and my own affection for Dazai’s talent, I took part in their consultations.
The reason for this was that I fortunately had a younger brother who was a doctor, so consulting him was a simple matter.
If it had involved any more trouble than this, ten to one, I would have likely brushed off that consultation without a second thought.
Through my brother’s consultation, I had him admitted to the hospital.
Though he was admitted as a paying patient under the family category of a hospital staff member—a different department—and though two or three people had been hospitalized before without a single complaint, Dazai sent postcards brimming with grievances daily. When I heard from my brother that the hospital staff, from the attending physician to the nurses and kitchen workers, were struggling far more with him than his complaints suggested, I regretted having meddled in such a trivial matter without even being asked.
Even so, unable to endure it, he sent several postcards that seemed to indicate an imminent escape, but in the end, he remained in the hospital after all, and his addiction had apparently been completely cured.
The abundance of vague terms like “anyway” or “seems” stems from there being a few points that suggest he may have occasionally slipped out of the hospital to inject drugs alone—a conclusion drawn from considering his behavior during hospitalization and how he used his incidental funds at the time.
However, this no longer matters either way.
This is because, despite numerous warnings and his vows, the fact that it has recently begun anew has become clear.
Both his distinctive literature and that vice of his may perhaps be effects of his addiction.
If that is the case, then it can be most simply explained.
Setting aside the issues of his art and conduct, his financial situation had undoubtedly fallen into difficulty due to purchasing pharmaceuticals.

That he—with seasonally appropriate clothing separately procured and provided for him, receiving a monthly stipend of around one hundred yen, living with only his wife in a Tokyo suburb in a house with rent under twenty-five yen—showed no signs of indulging in drink or women, even occasionally had unexpected small earnings of his own, yet constantly complained of hardship and went about borrowing money in a manner verging on impropriety, remained a perplexing phenomenon.
The fact that the sum he claimed to need was invariably set at twenty yen seemed significant, yet I could not fathom its meaning.
Since reporting on his private life was not my purpose, this too posed no issue—leaving what remained unclear as it was.
However, what I wished to note here was that a man who had already established his own household—even if he were the child of a wealthy family—bore corresponding obligations to his clan so long as he received a suitable monthly allowance from his elder brother.
The reason he felt such urgency to acquire the dignity befitting a full-fledged writer as soon as possible must have lain in this point.
A common case, that one.
When it came to prestigious families in regions where people were quick to criticize, one could easily imagine—and sympathize with—how this aspect must have been the most troublesome.
If he had one day won even the Akutagawa Prize, he would have fulfilled this obligation.
I understood this too—unless one had found oneself in the miraculously fortunate circumstances of becoming a genius writer almost immediately after graduating from girls’ school.
And if there was anything in *Chronicle of Creation* that should have evoked a sense of atrocity, it would likely have been this very matter of Dazai’s obligation to his family.
To hell with the prestigious family name!

This matter had already shown some signs of troubling me during the second Akutagawa Prize selection process, but when the second round concluded without a winner, I felt as though I had been saved. However, when the time for the third round arrived immediately afterward, I became completely overwhelmed. The daily letters and nightly missives from Dazai took the form of postcards spanning several sheets or a single scroll filled entirely with writing; eventually, even picking them up filled me with repugnance. They were relentless—these supplications devoid of self-respect or prudence—berating me to grant him the Akutagawa Prize. To such an extent that I thought even having my sleeve grabbed by a beggar at a bridge would feel less unpleasant, his addiction—inconvenient, absurd, infuriating—seemed to transmute into my own nervous exhaustion and threaten contagion; yet the letters’ incoherent progression, deluge of subjectivity, chaotic consciousness, and utter loss of dignity defied description. All those letters remain in my document case. I could cite each example individually, but doing so would test the reader’s patience, and I am reluctant to provide them merely to satisfy idle curiosity; thus, I shall refrain from presenting them now. Even so, I feel obligated to present at least some evidence that I have not exaggerated my descriptions, having broached the subject. When I randomly unfolded one of the letters, these words immediately caught my eye: “I prostrate myself and earnestly beseech you to grant me the second Akutagawa Prize... I shall never forget your kindness...” This was from the second round. Though a more fitting example should exist from the third round, since revisiting those lengthy and thoroughly unpleasant letters would prove unbearable, I shall withhold further documentation unless necessity demands it. To have a human implore you as one prays to a god is a painful, unpleasant thing. And no matter what they say, the Akutagawa Prize is not my petty cash.

According to *Chronicle of Creation*, it seems there was an incident where I summoned Dazai via telegram with the message "HANASHIARUSUGUKOI" to ask whether he truly wanted the Akutagawa Prize—as if his desire for the prize had been so vague that requiring such a summons became necessary—though Dazai himself appears to have forgotten this entirely. To be sure, I had indeed summoned him via telegram with "HANASHIARUSUGUKOI." It seems that the moment Dazai saw that telegram, his heart must have raced with the thought that he would finally receive the Akutagawa Prize—and from this, his delusion began to sprout. Even so, my summons was an entirely different matter, and it appeared that Dazai himself had immediately realized what it was about at the time.

ハイスグマイリマスシカツテハナラヌ

And he sent a reply that made his true character vividly apparent.
However, as I had handed this telegram over to those involved in the incident, I no longer had it in my possession.
They were probably still in the possession of Tomizawa Uio or the Toyo Editorial Office.
Why they had ended up in such a place would soon become clear.

Would this be the same Dazai who would take five or six minutes to respond after receiving the long-coveted Akutagawa Prize?
When it came to others, this man settled everything with cartoonish treatment, but once it concerned himself, he immediately resorted to grandiose declarations like “life-or-death sincerity.”
It was the most vulgar disposition.
I advised him to once replace the lens and view others through “life-or-death sincerity,” then scrutinize himself in the manner of Toba Sōjō.
Admittedly, it was an exceedingly difficult practice.
I wondered what it would be like if he at least took down that “life-or-death sincerity” sign he used for self-promotion.

In any case, this Sato Haruo-like figure from Dazai’s delusions—one who supposedly summoned him and hinted at granting the Akutagawa Prize, which I had no power to influence—was an unbearable thing, if only because he shared my very name, even if it was merely a delusion.
I wished to duel this namesake doppelgänger of Poe’s William Wilson.

However, it was a fact that I had explained to Dazai the folly of his obsession with the Akutagawa Prize and declared that he should not expect to receive the third award.
It had been a resolve to gently refuse his entreaties.
If this was what caused him to harbor such delusions, then I felt uneasy that I could no longer converse with that man without a third party present.

As the time for deciding the third Akutagawa Prize drew near and I was being tormented by daily letters and nightly missives, Dazai came knocking at my gate no less than every three days alongside his correspondence.
His perception that I possessed the power to decide the Akutagawa Prize was itself a peculiar thing.
For had he not witnessed more clearly than anyone this very inverse example materializing decisively as the factual outcome in the first iteration, right before his eyes?
This perception was utterly preposterous, but his nerves—believing that more frequent letters and visits might effectively sway me—were, contrary to appearances, extraordinarily obtuse.
That he could imagine such methods proving efficacious even at the risk of provoking my antipathy revealed an egregious failure to comprehend my character.
I am of that breed who blushes when praising my own kin and acquaintances.
Easterners harboring such an antiquated and cumbersome burden within their hearts prove troublesome both to themselves and others.

When he visited and engaged in conversation, even he did not display the pitiable manner seen in his letters.
Having thought visits were still more tolerable than letters, on a certain day in early June—or so I recall—I sank despondently into a chair on my veranda.

Though I had prepared a seat near the well-ventilated banana leaves to receive him facing me, he inexplicably retreated alone to a distant corner and huddled there.
He appeared sulky.
Even when I spoke to him, he made no attempt to respond.

To the eyes of my wife, who had brought the tea, Dazai’s demeanor must have appeared peculiar as well.

“Mr. Dazai, is something the matter?”
“You seem a bit out of spirits, don’t you?”

Before she could even finish speaking, Dazai began to weep without a word, his quiet sobs escalating until he collapsed face down onto the table before him.
My wife, flustered as though it were her own fault, found herself unable to even set down the tea she had brought, and overwhelmed, retreated back the way she had come.
She must have been at a loss, unable to comprehend what was happening.

Admittedly, I had almost fully grasped the meaning of it. The reason was that before he avoided the chair before me and retreated to a corner, he had taken out a bundle of manuscripts from his pocket while—

“They rejected my manuscripts.”

I had heard him mutter with false bravado, “They rejected my manuscripts,” and the day before that, he had gone to Bungei Shunju to inquire about the acceptance of the manuscripts he had sent earlier but was unable to get a clear answer; when he said he would go again tomorrow to see, he had stopped by my place—so I was fully aware of the circumstances. However, as I myself had no particular method in this situation either, I let him cry and watched in silence. He buried his face in the elbow of the hand clutching that bundle of manuscripts, leaned against the desk, and wept for a while before stopping after about five minutes. While my wife, who still seemed to be lingering near the shadow of the door, remained flustered with the tea set in her hands, I went over, took the tea from her, and brought it back.

“He says his manuscripts were rejected by Bungei Shunju.”

Having explained this while holding the tray and sweets, I placed one of the teas before Dazai’s desk and brought the sweets over to my side. Then, to him—who appeared to have somewhat regained his composure—

“Bring that tea over here,”
he called out.

He stood up while stuffing the bundle of manuscripts back into his breast pocket, grasped the edge of the saucer, and came over to sit beside me.

“Does having your manuscripts rejected mean they’re calling the work bad?”

“No—it might be bad, but they didn’t say it was bad or anything. They said yesterday’s submission was too gloomy, so I told them I could rewrite something else. But while discussing it, I started crying—maybe they found it bothersome too—today they didn’t even send a reporter out, just had an attendant silently hand it over from reception…”

His tone was exactly like that of an elementary school child tattling to parents or teachers about a playground squabble. It was comical, yet impossible to resent. Naturally, I too adopted a placating tone:

"If they made you cry again or something, they likely saw it as a hassle."
"Just show me the work."
"I’ll read it for you."

Of course, it wasn’t that I wanted to read the manuscript, but given this atmosphere, there was no way to have an engaging conversation anyway—looking over the manuscript would at least be less taxing. After reading it, I wanted to cheer him up, and because I had thought of a connection who might introduce it if the quality was good. Taking what he had pulled out from his pocket, I found the length cumbersome to both read and put away, and yet—

“How many pages is it?”

“Forty-eight pages!”

He returned to his usual energetic tone.
This manuscript titled *The God of Farce* followed a man who had attempted a lovers’ suicide years earlier that claimed only his partner’s life, returning alone to that coastal site years later. Suddenly gripped by a deathly compulsion to complete his delayed double suicide, he wandered seeking a place to die. During his search, he visited a senior colleague living a peaceful domestic life—which weakened his resolve—before ultimately venturing into the woods to hang himself from a tree branch. When the branch snapped, he fell unconscious to the ground, ending the story. One might consider it a sequel to *The Flower of Buffoonery*, yet it demonstrated craftsmanship worthy of praise. I was struck by the earnestness beneath its tragicomic surface and concluded that explaining the circumstances to Tomizawa Uio, editor of *Toyo* magazine, would make him recognize its merit; its length also seemed appropriate.

First, after sharing this assessment to please Dazai, I noted that while the opening—which the author ostensibly agonized over but likely secretly prided himself on—was strong, the final two pages were superfluous and should be cut to preserve emotional resonance. Whereupon Dazai, with boundless guileless delight, entrusted everything to me and departed.

Thus Tomizawa too recognized the work’s value, and the editorial team rejoiced at obtaining such quality writing. However, since *Toyo*—with its early publication schedule—had already finalized its August and September issues, we arranged for delighted acceptance in October. When I personally relayed this news to the author, he sent a postcard exulting: “...Await fair winds on sea routes.”
A thousand paper cranes.
He arrived rejoicing with a postcard bearing phrases like “...a turtle in a straw raincoat.”

I ultimately gave this postcard to Tomizawa, who wished to show it to the delighted editorial colleagues.
The quoted phrases remain etched in my memory.

We were rejoicing at this most auspicious turn of events when, not many days later, an utterly bizarre incident occurred.
One morning, when I opened the inner entrance, Dazai’s business card was wedged in the glass door; written on it was that he had visited late to retrieve the manuscript for *The God of Farce*, but finding the gate already closed and unwilling to cause a disturbance, he had turned back.
However, on that very night, there had been a long-staying guest, and the inner entrance had been left open until eleven-thirty, with the reception room ablaze with light.
Had anyone been paying attention, the sound of conversation would likely have been audible.
Dazai was likely referring to the front gate being closed, but just as I was struggling to comprehend his intent to retrieve *The God of Farce*, a postcard from Dazai arrived in the morning mail—two sheets glued together—and upon reading it, I found he wanted to redirect *The God of Farce* for that purpose, as illness had prevented him from completing a manuscript for what appeared to be Shincho’s September issue.
It meant that if it were for the October issue, he would newly compose and submit a different work to Toyo.
Perhaps he felt some compunction about his selfish request and, finding it more convenient than meeting to talk, deliberately slipped in a business card and sent a postcard merely to inform rather than consult.
Or perhaps—since he came nearly every day—I thought he might come again today or tomorrow to explain in person and waited in anticipation, but that day never arrived.
The next day, he did not come either.
There was just one letter—unusually, it made little mention of the Akutagawa Prize. Instead, it provided detailed descriptions of what seemed to be heatstroke-induced illness and how this had hindered progress on his new work for Shincho.

A week passed without us ever really understanding what ultimately became of the manuscript for *The God of Farce*. During this period, whether due to illness or his writing endeavors, there were neither visits nor beseeching communications from Dazai.

When Tomizawa came for another matter, the conversation turned to Dazai’s manuscript; upon inquiry, it was said that there were parts needing revision, so he had come himself to retrieve it.

I found Dazai’s behavior utterly outrageous. No sooner did he make these exaggerated claims about being too ill to move than he himself had properly taken it back with his own hands. Moreover, either he failed to clearly explain the circumstances or there were parts needing revision—neither of which improved the situation. Toyo had not particularly said they wanted Dazai’s work. *The God of Farce* had found favor [with them], which complicated matters further. Not only did they knowingly purchase a manuscript that had once been rejected by another magazine, but they had even taken a liking to it—which made matters all the worse. I had to at least give a proper reprimand to the diligent Tomizawa.

The next morning, I ordered my wife, “I must summon Dazai by telegram once,” whereupon she—

“Shall I phrase it as ‘Please come’?”

“No—if we send such a telegram, he’ll come trotting over thinking there’s some interesting matter, only to get scolded. Better make him come prepared for that from the outset.”
“Send ‘There’s a story. Come at once.’”

The reason I summoned Dazai by telegram, as described above, was absolutely not due to any feudal master-disciple relationship.
Far from it—it was a manifestation of modern commercial morality.
By the proper procedures of a literary broker, I merely questioned the manuscript dealer’s breach of contract and lack of trust in our transaction.
Incidentally, there is also the fact that I scolded Dazai, but this too is not at all due to any feudal master-disciple relationship.
It was simply an act of following the friendship I wish to establish as the foundation of a new morality.
It was nothing more than not overwhelming him, not yielding myself, and demanding from him the universal rationality and virtue of humankind.
As for the rest—if it is not Dazai’s delusion, then it is the reader’s illusion.

After reading Chronicle of Creation through, I thought to repeat “There’s a story. Come at once,” but since it was midnight, I waited for dawn.
When dawn approached, I reconsidered and changed it to a postcard.
I feared that a private dialogue with Dazai might give him material for delusions, so I resolved to have Yamagishi accompany us as an observer—ideally coming along—and demanded he appear without fail once under this condition: if he refused to come, our association would end there and then. I suppose my message contained some suppressed anger.
Dazai immediately sent a reply postcard.

The text read:

"(We profess) our unchanging respect and affection—believe this.

Sensei.

On October 8th, I shall call accompanied by Yamagishi.
I shall provide a magnificent explanation.
I possess dignified conviction sufficient to dispel all clouds of doubt.
Insincerely."

It read.

I am by no means demanding Dazai’s unchanging respect and affection or anything of the sort. Being despised by Dazai wouldn’t trouble me in the slightest. I merely wish to demand that Dazai awaken his own wisdom and discover his virtue. On October 8th, he sent a postcard explaining his reason for being unable to visit, followed by various intriguing letters. The real story actually begins here, but I’ve run out of paper. I’ll set aside this occasion’s matter for now.

Such lies paired with "sincerity at the risk of one's life"—correspondence packed with phrases like "unchanging respect and affection," and interactions that immediately anoint one a "great benefactor"—were tiresome and unwelcome. Handle such matters poorly, and you risk being pulled into a double suicide.

The ancients have said things that come to mind and left them behind.

The friendships of noble men are as insipid as water; those of petty men are as sweet as liquor.