Osamu Dazai (1909-48) is one of Japan’s literary legends: a tormented and embittered man who drowned himself in the Tamagawa Canal, and yet who lived on in his books to inspire generations with his earthy, all-too-honest style and gut-wrenching plots. He is renowned as a prime example of the nihilism and confusion that gripped Japan during its roller coaster transformation from fledgling superpower, to fascist dystopia, to defeated postwar democracy.
He is also a prime example of the 私小説 (shishōsetsu, I-novel) genre, a type of confessional literature that emerged in the 20th century where events in the story correspond to the author’s life. Dazai didn’t shy away from revealing his own deepest and darkest secrets in his writing, one of the big reasons why his work has endured and captivated so many readers. But he was also a spectacular writer in terms of craft. His masterpieces “斜陽” (Shayō, The Setting Sun) and “人間失格” (Ningen Shikkaku, No Longer Human) are some of the most well-known works of Japanese literature in and out of English translation.
In our last edition of this series, where we take deep dives into notable works of Japanese literature, we examined the sophisticated literary techniques of Yukio Mishima. Dazai’s prose, interestingly, is more straightforward than Mishima’s in many ways. This “simplicity” makes him ideal reading practice for intermediate and advanced Japanese learners. However, he still uses complex vocabulary in long, knotty sentences — so let’s try to mine deep into the first few paragraphs of “人間失格” and see what gems we can unearth.
“人間失格” (1948) is one of Dazai’s final completed works before his suicide. The story is told through a series of notebooks left behind by the protagonist, Oba Yozo. Oba describes a childhood and youth in which he is constantly afflicted by an unerasable feeling of alienation and nihilism. He eventually turns to alcoholism and drug abuse. Oba speaks with a flat, empty voice from the first paragraphs: 恥の多い生涯を送ってきました (Haji no ōi shōgai o okutte-kimashita, I have lived a life of much shame).
As we will see, long sentences and difficult vocabulary are two hallmarks of unraveling Dazai, and he starts off with the latter. He uses the intense 恥の多い — literally, “a lot” (多い, ōi) of “shame” (恥, haji). This is distinct from 恥ずかしい (hazukashii, shameful/embarrassing), which has a lighter connotation. And rather than using one of the more typical words for “life” — like 生活 (seikatsu, everyday life/livelihood), 人生 (jinsei, one’s life) or 命 (inochi, life/life force/lifetime) — Dazai uses 生涯 (shōgai, lifetime/lifespan), which refers the entire range of time throughout one’s life. 恥ずかしい人生を送ってきました (Hazukashii jinsei o okutte-kimashita, I have lived a shameful life) gives the impression of casual embarrassment; by comparison, 恥の多い人生を送ってきました is dreadful and all-encompassing.
Dazai continues: 自分には、人間の生活というものが、見当つかないのです (Jibun ni wa, ningen no seikatsu to iu mono ga, kentō tsukanai no desu, As for me, I don’t have any idea of what this thing called human life is). Xということ (X to iu koto, the thing of X) is a common grammar structure that converts a phrase or verb into a noun, such as turning the verb 食べる (taberu, to eat) into 食べるということ (taberu to iu koto, eating). Using というもの (to iu mono) instead of 事/こと (koto) is less common and marks the thing that comes before it more strongly — if 食べるということ is just “eating,” then 食べるというもの is closer to “that thing (called) eating.”
On top of that, というもの has another grammatical function: It is used alongside lengths of time to indicate that what follows took place during that entire length of time. For example, この1週間というもの、彼は非常に頑張っていました (Kono isshūkan to iu mono, kare wa hijyō ni ganbatte-imashita, For this one week, he's been really doing his best). By using というもの here, Dazai is saying that he doesn’t know what 人間生活 (ningen seikatsu, human life) is, but also cleverly inserting the implication that he hasn’t known 人間生活 for his entire life.
Oba goes on to discuss his family eating habits growing up. また、自分は、空腹という事を知りませんでした (Mata, jibun wa, kūhuku to iu koto o shirimasen deshita, Also, as for me, I never knew hunger). He uses the aforementioned ということ here, but there is a more important question about Dazai’s Japanese that lingers: His use of 自分 (jibun) for “I.” Rather than the standard 私 (watashi, I) or the boyish 僕 (boku, I) that can often be found in Japanese novels, Dazai opts for 自分 (learn more: “Which pronoun should I take?”). 自分 is a gender-neutral, first-person pronoun that gives off a rather serious impression. Like 私, it gives Oba a dispassionate neutrality and ambiguity, making him neither masculine nor emotive — it also carries an association with soldiers.
But it’s Dazai’s ensuing description of his family dinner table that makes readers’ heads spin. This is a super-long sentence, so it’s best to try to break it up at commas or easily-recognizable markers that divide clauses, such as ですから (desu kara, because), ですが (desu ga, however), or the connecting verb form て (te). By splitting up the sentence into clauses, we can grasp them one at a time and then push them all together:
自分の田舎の家では、十人くらいの家族全部、めいめいのお膳を二列に向い合せに並べて、(Jibun no inaka no ie de wa, jyūnin kurai no kazoku zenbu, mei-mei no o-zen o niretsu ni mukiawase ni narabete, In my countryside home, my family of around 10 people, faced each other with our food trays laid out in two rows). お膳 (O-zen) are food trays traditionally used to serve meals with their own legs to stand up on the floor or table. めいめい (Mei-mei, Each/individual) is sometimes written in kanji as 銘々 and is similar to 一人一人 (hitori-hitori, each/individually), designating that each person has their own tray.
The sentence continues: 末っ子の自分は、もちろん一ばん下の座でしたが (suekko no jibun wa, mochiron ichiban shita no za deshita ga, I, the youngest child, of course had the last seat, but...) その食事の部屋は薄暗く、昼ごはんの時など、十幾人の家族が、ただ黙々としてめしを食っている有様には、自分はいつも肌寒い思いをしました (sono shokuji no heya wa usuguraku, hirugohan no toki nado, jūikunin no kazoku ga, tada moku-moku to shite meshi o kutte-iru arisama ni wa, jibun wa itsu mo hadasamui omoi o shimashita, the meal room was dim, and at times such as lunch, at the spectacle of our family of 10 and change eating in total silence, I always felt an unpleasant chill). The word 十幾人 (jūikunin) combines “10” (十, jū) with “several people” (幾人, ikunin) to designate Oba’s family of 10. Meanwhile, 肌寒い (hadasamui), which uses the literal kanji for “skin” and “cold,” designates a more fearsome, terrible time of cold — not just chilly air but chills going up your spine.
This maze of a sentence combines sonic onomatopoeia like めいめい (mei-mei) and 黙々(moku-moku) with a disturbing, glum discomfort — 薄暗い (usugurai, dim) and 肌寒い. Dazai even cleverly opts not to include the kanji for めし (meshi, food). Removing the visual image of rice or a hearty meal leaves the word feeling empty and desolate.
Oba’s alienation is so great that food barely resembles food. This is the relentless darkness inherent in Dazai’s writing, that will pursue you if you challenge yourself to read him, from the first page to the very last.