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| Source: Wikimedia Commons (typical of a student like me). Interestingly, when I Googled "Dazai Osamu" all I got were anime images of the character in Bungou Stray Dogs, while "太宰治" returned the real guy. |
The English title of "人間失格" is No Longer Human, which I believe to be a translation that failed to capture the meaning of the title. "失格" literally translates to "loss of privilege", or "loss of qualification". This seems to imply not only a state of change, as intimated by the translation, but also a disqualification, a failure of a certain set of criteria that, somehow, defines what "human" (人間) means.
What, then would this set of criteria, or "test", be? Is it a "test" to being a decent person to each other? As I have mentioned numerous times before, I am a firm believer of an individualistic purpose in life. To live according to what others have defined is a tragedy. Thus, this idea already sounds wrong, and luckily the book is not about this sort of "test". After all, what is a human? Perhaps, a creature that is slightly more rational and developed than your average mammal, but still prone to innate desires of emotions, vices that harm each other, gratuitous acts of malice out of fear, and all kinds of other imperfections. To aspire to be something like this seems quite unattractive, yet it is quite unimaginable how one would "fail" in this sense. After all, to fail would mean being an alien, effectively, in a human shell. It is a stretch to think someone born biologically a human would be deemed not a human, no matter how undesirable he/she would turn out to be. A strong emphasis should be placed on the fact that the title is not "No Longer a Good Person", but No Longer Human. This is indeed what Dazai alludes to when he judges Oba Yozo, the protagonist of the story.
To use the words 失格 to describe Yozo is also quite weird to me, for several reasons. Like Dazai himself, Yozo actually comes from quite an affluent family, having good connections laid out for an easy life. Why, then, would someone who has such a good start forfeit a comfortable and stable life as a "passable" human, but rather forsake humanity and cast himself as an alien? Also, although Yozo uttered the titular quote towards the end, when he completely broke down and was shut into a mental facility, having wasted away his physical body at the age of 27, there was not one point at which I thought was the point where he lost the "privilege to be human". Yozo is quite a static character, in spite of the dramatic life he had, and though he started to reach more cogent conclusions on humanity towards the end, at no point would I consider him a human at all.
From childhood, Yozo fails to understand everything human. Even something so basic as the feeling of hunger and the satisfaction of having a good meal puzzles him to no end [1]. Perhaps it is the nature of children to be inquisitive, but the kind of mystery here stirred up a feeling that could hardly be described as curiosity from Yozo. He describes himself as an actor, putting up a face of cheerfulness and silliness, solely to entertain others to alleviate their suspicion, to avoid detection of his alien nature. To him, humans are not some saints he wish to aspire to become (evidenced by his comments on hypocrisy towards the end of the first chapter) but are simply creatures that speak a totally different language, another species from him entirely, and from this confusion and lack of familiarity stems fear, that one day he would suffer the wrath of those around him. A vivid analogy comes to mind:
"But from the angry faces of people, I find something even more frightening than lions, crocodiles and dragons. Normally they would hide their wrath, but once the chance emerges, in a fury they will reveal their true nature, just like calm, docile cows on the field, suddenly viciously flicking their tail to kill a fly."
Yozo is so good at pretense, that it carries him through almost every social situation, from pretending to befriend Horiki to get alcohol, to joining the leftist underground societies just out of excitement. It even made him popular among women. Yet, never once has he assimilated with the role he plays in front of people. Never once has he perhaps accepted that "that is who I actually am". This is a book of introspection, an attempt of Yozo to reconcile with the concept of "being human", yet among the pages upon pages he reflected, none comes out to him finally reaching some sort of understanding. Why do men lie to each other? Why is committing crimes so exciting? Why do women keep flocking to him? All these he think over again and again, yet nothing comes out of those ruminations.
I suppose that is not technically true, since he did reach a conclusion towards the end: that humans are always selfish. After his first suicide attempt, a lot of people were summoned to help him, and they did somehow, yet not without ulterior motives, either to suck up to Yozo's father, or to be on the moral high ground. When people say "the world will hate you for this!" they really are saying "I will hate you for this," or "I am obligated to hate you for this." I suppose that is some sort of conclusion, but it is hardly satisfying. In fact, this drives Yozo eventually insane. This begs the question of whether being a human is really worth it after all [2]. Misanthropy pervaded through a large part of my life, due to my tendency to avoid others. However, it is the first time I have been brought to wonder whether misanthropy is a choice or a determined fate, that some are determined to be more inclined towards this than others. Or rather, as in the case of Yozo, alienation causes unfamiliarity, which causes fear and translates to hatred, causing further alienation and so forth.
The entire novel lacks life. Yozo has never actually lived as a human, wasting away his life in prostitution, alcoholism, drug addiction and leeching off others. Even his suicide attempts are brushed off deliberately with few sentences in passing. One description sums up this feeling well:
"Just outside the apartment window was a kite caught in the telegraph wires; blown about and ripped by the dusty spring wind, it nevertheless clung tenaciously to the wires, as if in affirmation of something. Every time I looked at the kite I had to smile with embarrassment and blush. It haunted me even in dreams."
The frequency of situations where I would feel intense hatred and disdain has diminished much since my childhood, yet the times at which I do feel joy and excitement has never increased much, always at a low. Reading Yozo's accounts relieves me somehow, seeing I still have tangible goals I wish to pursue: to learn. My life still has a meaning, no matter how weak and lofty it is. But looking back, there were indeed times when I was dangerously close to wishing to tread the path of self-ruination and just give up, and this gives me serious chills.
As this is not an essay in Japanese literature, I won't go into a more in depth analysis, but just throw out a question: For what purpose did Dazai tell this story? For what purpose did Dazai bring Yozo into existence? Perhaps as a case of intellectual curiosity, Yozo is interesting. What even is Yozo, since he is not a human? A popular view is that Yozo is a reflection of Dazai himself, and by portraying him Dazai achieves catharsis. Yet that did not stop Dazai from committing suicide, a barely cathartic ending. Or rather, I should say that telling the story of Yozo did not solve Dazai's problem with life itself.
Abstracting from the author, why is the story so popular among readers? Perhaps much of it has to do with Dazai's literary prowess, but what does the audience gain from this story? In other words, is there a moral to this story? Did Dazai intend to stop readers from following his example and live a "human" life? Apparently not, since Yozo/Dazai did not develop this character intentionally: they think and exist so because they are created like so (or at least, as Dazai seemed to argue).
Speaking personally, there are plenty of times where I felt barely human. This must be true for lots as well, as we must have a desire to "fit in" while we see the world through a very limited lens. The average person's reaction to Yozo might be what the "me" in the prologue and epilogue described: Detachment, disgust and disdain. However, reading through the pleading of Yozo, occasionally relating to his thoughts, I feel the fortune to be able to avoid (mostly) the torture of existing in the human world as a non-human.
"But from the angry faces of people, I find something even more frightening than lions, crocodiles and dragons. Normally they would hide their wrath, but once the chance emerges, in a fury they will reveal their true nature, just like calm, docile cows on the field, suddenly viciously flicking their tail to kill a fly."
Yozo is so good at pretense, that it carries him through almost every social situation, from pretending to befriend Horiki to get alcohol, to joining the leftist underground societies just out of excitement. It even made him popular among women. Yet, never once has he assimilated with the role he plays in front of people. Never once has he perhaps accepted that "that is who I actually am". This is a book of introspection, an attempt of Yozo to reconcile with the concept of "being human", yet among the pages upon pages he reflected, none comes out to him finally reaching some sort of understanding. Why do men lie to each other? Why is committing crimes so exciting? Why do women keep flocking to him? All these he think over again and again, yet nothing comes out of those ruminations.
I suppose that is not technically true, since he did reach a conclusion towards the end: that humans are always selfish. After his first suicide attempt, a lot of people were summoned to help him, and they did somehow, yet not without ulterior motives, either to suck up to Yozo's father, or to be on the moral high ground. When people say "the world will hate you for this!" they really are saying "I will hate you for this," or "I am obligated to hate you for this." I suppose that is some sort of conclusion, but it is hardly satisfying. In fact, this drives Yozo eventually insane. This begs the question of whether being a human is really worth it after all [2]. Misanthropy pervaded through a large part of my life, due to my tendency to avoid others. However, it is the first time I have been brought to wonder whether misanthropy is a choice or a determined fate, that some are determined to be more inclined towards this than others. Or rather, as in the case of Yozo, alienation causes unfamiliarity, which causes fear and translates to hatred, causing further alienation and so forth.
The entire novel lacks life. Yozo has never actually lived as a human, wasting away his life in prostitution, alcoholism, drug addiction and leeching off others. Even his suicide attempts are brushed off deliberately with few sentences in passing. One description sums up this feeling well:
"Just outside the apartment window was a kite caught in the telegraph wires; blown about and ripped by the dusty spring wind, it nevertheless clung tenaciously to the wires, as if in affirmation of something. Every time I looked at the kite I had to smile with embarrassment and blush. It haunted me even in dreams."
The frequency of situations where I would feel intense hatred and disdain has diminished much since my childhood, yet the times at which I do feel joy and excitement has never increased much, always at a low. Reading Yozo's accounts relieves me somehow, seeing I still have tangible goals I wish to pursue: to learn. My life still has a meaning, no matter how weak and lofty it is. But looking back, there were indeed times when I was dangerously close to wishing to tread the path of self-ruination and just give up, and this gives me serious chills.
As this is not an essay in Japanese literature, I won't go into a more in depth analysis, but just throw out a question: For what purpose did Dazai tell this story? For what purpose did Dazai bring Yozo into existence? Perhaps as a case of intellectual curiosity, Yozo is interesting. What even is Yozo, since he is not a human? A popular view is that Yozo is a reflection of Dazai himself, and by portraying him Dazai achieves catharsis. Yet that did not stop Dazai from committing suicide, a barely cathartic ending. Or rather, I should say that telling the story of Yozo did not solve Dazai's problem with life itself.
Abstracting from the author, why is the story so popular among readers? Perhaps much of it has to do with Dazai's literary prowess, but what does the audience gain from this story? In other words, is there a moral to this story? Did Dazai intend to stop readers from following his example and live a "human" life? Apparently not, since Yozo/Dazai did not develop this character intentionally: they think and exist so because they are created like so (or at least, as Dazai seemed to argue).
Speaking personally, there are plenty of times where I felt barely human. This must be true for lots as well, as we must have a desire to "fit in" while we see the world through a very limited lens. The average person's reaction to Yozo might be what the "me" in the prologue and epilogue described: Detachment, disgust and disdain. However, reading through the pleading of Yozo, occasionally relating to his thoughts, I feel the fortune to be able to avoid (mostly) the torture of existing in the human world as a non-human.
[1]: Reading this made me shiver, since I was a kid who never really felt hunger and hated eating too.
[2]: https://byronsmuse.wordpress.com/2017/02/02/book-review-no-longer-human-by-osamu-dazai/. Well worth a read.
ED Discussion 21: Yojouhan Shinwa Taikei [Tatami Galaxy] ED, "Kamisama no Iutoori [As God Dictates]" by Yakushimaru Etsuko. [1]
"I must forgive."
The Tatami Galaxy appears to be complex. It is an eccentric concoction of artistic devices: very fast-paced monologues, unconventional art style, surrealist depictions, overt manifestations of inner thoughts intruding into objective reality... However, upon finishing the final scene, I sighed with satisfaction at how simple the message indeed was. Simple, but very powerful and relatable.
Graduating (hopefully with no accidents) in half a year from now, I can attest to the fact that university is a place of radical change. The amount I learnt in these four years easily doubles what I knew so far, not only about science and engineering but also what it means to exist in a society, how to interact with others and what it means to live, although I do admit I am still a complete novice. As I might have mentioned earlier, I found my life up till senior secondary to be intolerably dull and unfulfilling, and, having a brief glance at true education in my final years in secondary school, I yearned for more. Indeed, I come to university with a greatly optimistic outlook: I will change, and I will make my years worthwhile; I will chase after the rosy college life.
Whether this so-called rosy college life does indeed exist is the central concern of our focus today, The Tatami Galaxy. Looking around me in the first week of my first year, I see plenty of people busy with student union duties, enthusiastically selling their societies and describing how meaningful/fun their society is. Their eyes are filled with the exact thing we call the rosy life. They are the embodiment of this life. Without restraint, I signed up for plenty of clubs and societies, and attempted to get into them. Rather quickly, (apart from the Chinese Orchestra) their calls for activities and socializing turned from warm and welcoming to annoying and irritating, sitting in my inbox as junk mail. I realized that I could never get into these circles, because that's not what I am, and betraying what I am was the last thing I am comfortable doing. True back then, even more true now.
Of course, my life was not so filled to the brim with drama as Watashi, the MC from The Tatami Galaxy, and there were no secret police, elusive gurus, proxy-proxy-(...)-proxy wars that dragged me in. However, glancing at how others have garnered such a wide range of acquaintances, going to so many social events so frequently, while I hid myself in my room reading notes, watching anime and playing games made me wonder, more frequently than I wanted to in my first two years, whether I had made the right choice, whether I had ignored the chances that dangled in front of me, or whether the so-called "chances" were in fact just a flame luring me, the moth, to burn my wings upon.
I concluded two messages from The Tatami Galaxy: The first one I have already alluded to: do not try to be who you are not. Watashi was not a tennis player, neither was he a revolutionary movie artist, an eloquent orator, an enlightened sage, a buff athlete... and every time he chases these goals, he attempts to shake off his true self and assume a persona to fit in the society he wishes to devote himself to, to be someone who he is not to enjoy the rosy coloured campus life. Does he succeed? Apparently not, since every episode ends with him going back on his decision, and try to choose a different route to seek for the optimum again.
Prof. Stephen Boyd, in his convex optimization lectures, alluded to the fact that life itself is an optimization problem. According to him, it is, however, such a trivial tautology that it is not even worth mentioning [2]. Indeed, we constantly question not only why we do things but also whether how we do things is optimal. It is natural to want to backtrace our decisions and improve things, with hindsight. However, in the blind search for the optimal, have we considered enough what really is optimal? Every time Watashi backtracks, he throws away the most obvious opportunity right in front of him, and goes for some imaginary life that he was not even sure existed, or cashing after some other's life and substituting his goals with theirs, in hopes for the revered rosy life.
The second message is about love. In three consecutive episodes, Watashi "chose" between three different love targets: a senior (who happened to not even be attracted to him at all), a "love doll" and a pen pal. Of course, viewing as an outsider, we see the hilarious dramatic irony and wonder why Watashi can be so blind and desperate. Yet, aren't we all the same, inclined to perform stupid and self-harming acts in the name of love? Being incubated for the entirety of one's life as a loner, it is virtually impossible for one to be immune to the poison known as infatuation, and pine for the slightest hint of affection from those we find attractive, even to inanimate, imaginary beings.
What are the solutions to these quandaries? Through a cryptic hint from the fortune teller every episode, the author Yuasa literally dangles the answer right in front of Watashi, and to us. Dangling under the lamp which the moth (symbolizing Watashi) blindly and relentlessly fly towards, was the "Mochiguman" doll Akashi, an underclasswoman of Watashi, lost. All Watashi had to do was to return the doll to her, and a new story would have begun. Much like me trying to find a complex moral message behind the seemingly obfuscating artistry, the answer was always obvious and simple. Yet it took Watashi numerous timelines, breaking apart hundreds of parallel universes to eventually figure out the answer, the key to happiness.
What does this imply for us, the viewers, then? We do not have the fortune to restart our college lives like Watashi did. Likely, we also have no "easy way out", like the Mochiguman dangling under the lamp, or do we? Again, the message of this show is really simple. Perhaps I would even it is overly so. Yet, if we could see the easy way out easily, life would have been solved already, and, most all of us surely know, this is not the case! The magic of this anime comes not only with the message it wishes to convey but also the way it is packaged, an almost metadramatic way of presenting the moral. I suppose the best we could do then is not to cease our search for the optimal, yet not chase someone else's dreams and develop jealousy towards others' lifestyle. Back away from time to time, forgive our own mistakes, and think whether we have missed the obvious.
Graduating (hopefully with no accidents) in half a year from now, I can attest to the fact that university is a place of radical change. The amount I learnt in these four years easily doubles what I knew so far, not only about science and engineering but also what it means to exist in a society, how to interact with others and what it means to live, although I do admit I am still a complete novice. As I might have mentioned earlier, I found my life up till senior secondary to be intolerably dull and unfulfilling, and, having a brief glance at true education in my final years in secondary school, I yearned for more. Indeed, I come to university with a greatly optimistic outlook: I will change, and I will make my years worthwhile; I will chase after the rosy college life.
Whether this so-called rosy college life does indeed exist is the central concern of our focus today, The Tatami Galaxy. Looking around me in the first week of my first year, I see plenty of people busy with student union duties, enthusiastically selling their societies and describing how meaningful/fun their society is. Their eyes are filled with the exact thing we call the rosy life. They are the embodiment of this life. Without restraint, I signed up for plenty of clubs and societies, and attempted to get into them. Rather quickly, (apart from the Chinese Orchestra) their calls for activities and socializing turned from warm and welcoming to annoying and irritating, sitting in my inbox as junk mail. I realized that I could never get into these circles, because that's not what I am, and betraying what I am was the last thing I am comfortable doing. True back then, even more true now.
Of course, my life was not so filled to the brim with drama as Watashi, the MC from The Tatami Galaxy, and there were no secret police, elusive gurus, proxy-proxy-(...)-proxy wars that dragged me in. However, glancing at how others have garnered such a wide range of acquaintances, going to so many social events so frequently, while I hid myself in my room reading notes, watching anime and playing games made me wonder, more frequently than I wanted to in my first two years, whether I had made the right choice, whether I had ignored the chances that dangled in front of me, or whether the so-called "chances" were in fact just a flame luring me, the moth, to burn my wings upon.
I concluded two messages from The Tatami Galaxy: The first one I have already alluded to: do not try to be who you are not. Watashi was not a tennis player, neither was he a revolutionary movie artist, an eloquent orator, an enlightened sage, a buff athlete... and every time he chases these goals, he attempts to shake off his true self and assume a persona to fit in the society he wishes to devote himself to, to be someone who he is not to enjoy the rosy coloured campus life. Does he succeed? Apparently not, since every episode ends with him going back on his decision, and try to choose a different route to seek for the optimum again.
Prof. Stephen Boyd, in his convex optimization lectures, alluded to the fact that life itself is an optimization problem. According to him, it is, however, such a trivial tautology that it is not even worth mentioning [2]. Indeed, we constantly question not only why we do things but also whether how we do things is optimal. It is natural to want to backtrace our decisions and improve things, with hindsight. However, in the blind search for the optimal, have we considered enough what really is optimal? Every time Watashi backtracks, he throws away the most obvious opportunity right in front of him, and goes for some imaginary life that he was not even sure existed, or cashing after some other's life and substituting his goals with theirs, in hopes for the revered rosy life.
The second message is about love. In three consecutive episodes, Watashi "chose" between three different love targets: a senior (who happened to not even be attracted to him at all), a "love doll" and a pen pal. Of course, viewing as an outsider, we see the hilarious dramatic irony and wonder why Watashi can be so blind and desperate. Yet, aren't we all the same, inclined to perform stupid and self-harming acts in the name of love? Being incubated for the entirety of one's life as a loner, it is virtually impossible for one to be immune to the poison known as infatuation, and pine for the slightest hint of affection from those we find attractive, even to inanimate, imaginary beings.
What are the solutions to these quandaries? Through a cryptic hint from the fortune teller every episode, the author Yuasa literally dangles the answer right in front of Watashi, and to us. Dangling under the lamp which the moth (symbolizing Watashi) blindly and relentlessly fly towards, was the "Mochiguman" doll Akashi, an underclasswoman of Watashi, lost. All Watashi had to do was to return the doll to her, and a new story would have begun. Much like me trying to find a complex moral message behind the seemingly obfuscating artistry, the answer was always obvious and simple. Yet it took Watashi numerous timelines, breaking apart hundreds of parallel universes to eventually figure out the answer, the key to happiness.
What does this imply for us, the viewers, then? We do not have the fortune to restart our college lives like Watashi did. Likely, we also have no "easy way out", like the Mochiguman dangling under the lamp, or do we? Again, the message of this show is really simple. Perhaps I would even it is overly so. Yet, if we could see the easy way out easily, life would have been solved already, and, most all of us surely know, this is not the case! The magic of this anime comes not only with the message it wishes to convey but also the way it is packaged, an almost metadramatic way of presenting the moral. I suppose the best we could do then is not to cease our search for the optimal, yet not chase someone else's dreams and develop jealousy towards others' lifestyle. Back away from time to time, forgive our own mistakes, and think whether we have missed the obvious.
[1]: These lyrics would have had a way different effect to me one and a half years ago. Much more curious, to say the least.
[2]: Whether life is convex, though, is a good question, as he claims.
