Pretense reviewed No Longer Human and the Setting Sun by Osamu Dazai
Review of 'No Longer Human and the Setting Sun' on 'Goodreads'
3 stars
“Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.”
I read the Donald Keene English translation, titled No Longer Human. I had a phase of reading Mishima Yukio a long time ago, and I had heard about this book even back then. Yet this is the first time I have managed to actually pick it up; it’s a short read, but don’t let that fool you—it is a dense and thought-provoking book. The protagonist is a character whose mindset is perhaps incredibly alien to most of us, and at the same time, has remnants of relatable desires, emotions, and thoughts. Who hasn’t felt the loneliness and alienation Yōzo feels in the novel, at least once? That this novel is a thinly veiled retelling of the author’s own only hammers that point further. The …
“Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.”
I read the Donald Keene English translation, titled No Longer Human. I had a phase of reading Mishima Yukio a long time ago, and I had heard about this book even back then. Yet this is the first time I have managed to actually pick it up; it’s a short read, but don’t let that fool you—it is a dense and thought-provoking book. The protagonist is a character whose mindset is perhaps incredibly alien to most of us, and at the same time, has remnants of relatable desires, emotions, and thoughts. Who hasn’t felt the loneliness and alienation Yōzo feels in the novel, at least once? That this novel is a thinly veiled retelling of the author’s own only hammers that point further. The themes are highlighted by the frame of the novel, which is depicted as a kind of ‘found’ manuscript, with commentary seemingly from the author. Much as with other literary Japanese novels I’ve read, much of the themes and ideas in the novel are never stated outright; they are subtly implied or deftly woven into the tapestry of the story without being directly presented to the reader as such. At times, this does make it a bit confusing if one is not paying enough attention, and I had to forcibly push through to get a broader picture of the narrative and fill in some of the blanks for myself. That is a mark on myself as a reader though, and not on Dazai. What this novel truly impresses in is the stark depiction of despair; it doesn’t just permeate the novel, but despair is what enlivens the novel, in a way. Yōzo’s despair at not being a ‘proper human’, at failing his family’s expectations of him, at failing the women he falls in love with… whatever the subject of his despair, it is seemingly endless. Yet this is not limited to his perspective; in a way, even the world itself presents a source of despair, given how Yōzo is often tempted to blunt its effects with alcohol or drugs. He numbs himself not only from other humans but even himself, his existence only an additional barb that provokes his mind. The discussions of suicide and self-reprobation are blunt and unforgiving, and one almost feels like Dazai’s own thoughts come through most strongly at these points.The characters we meet are interesting, especially since we see them through Yōzo’s perspective, which is of course biased in a way. It was interesting to note how often Horiki and Yōzo interact with each other and in what ways, and although they have a kind of nominal friendship, it ranges from being entirely one-sided to a kind of mutual détente to preserve some sense of dignity, perhaps. Some characters are entirely one-dimensional, but it didn’t seem quite as offensive here, since we have an unreliable narrator who openly professes disdain for these same characters; it is oddly fitting here in a way that it wouldn’t be in the writing of a less talented author.Of course, given the themes of suicide, depression, and alienation, among others, the novel is incredibly bleak. I felt weirdly uplifted through reading it, as though somehow the despair of the novel could only stand in contrast to my own lack of it. It is an odd feeling reading this in this particular stage of my life, which has been quite transitional in many respects. I can only wonder how a younger, more misanthropic version of myself would have reacted to the novel. I remembered reading Confessions of a Mask and heavily relating to some of its dark themes and finding comfort at seeing them expressed; here, it’s almost like looking at that past version of myself through the veil of the years and experiences I’ve had with greater compassion and understanding. I can extend that somewhat to Yōzo here, whose pain and struggle I can sense as very real and yet also as something oddly transient. I have a feeling that this is one of those books that changes vastly depending on what season of one’s life it is read; and I ought to really re-read it to give myself time to fully digest the themes and narrative. However, it is definitely a dark and depressing read, with a slightly obsessive pull towards that ever-present despair; it will likely be some time before I get around to reading it again. Even so, it is a seminal work of Japanese literature and indeed world literature, if I can say so, and I would recommend everyone to give it a try at least once, if the thought of reading about the particular subject matter doesn’t deter you. Though it provides very little direct insight on its own questions about humanity, this novel is a centerpiece of that everlasting notion of what it means to be human which has plagued the species since time immemorial.
