#confessions of a mask

[hiyutekivigil]

When a boy…discovers that he is more given into introspection and consciousness of self than other boys his age, he easily falls into the error of believing it is because he is more mature than they. This was certainly a mistake in my case. Rather, it was because the other boys had no such need of understanding themselves as I had: they could be their natural selves, whereas I was to play a part, a fact that would require considerable understanding and study. So it was not my maturity but my sense of uneasiness, my uncertainty that was forcing me to gain control over my consciousness. Because such consciousness was simply a steppingstone to aberration and my present thinking was nothing but uncertain and haphazard guesswork.

yukio mishima, confessions of a mask

[tenderperversion-moved]

yukio mishima, confessions of a mask

[polishchuk]

Yukio Mishima as Saint Sebastian (60s)/ Guido Reni - Saint Sebastian, 1615

“I was flipping through one of the last pages of a volume. All of a sudden, from the corner of the next page, there flashed before my eyes an image that I had to assume had lurked there for my benefit alone.

It was a reproduction of Guido Reni’s Saint Sebastian, which figures in the collection of Palazzo Rosso in Genoa.

The trunk of the tree of torment, black and slightly oblique, stood out against the Titianesque background of a gloomy forest and a serene sky, gloomy and distant. A young man of singular loveliness stood bound naked to the trunk of the tree, his arms drawn up, and the straps that clasped his crossed wrists were fastened to the tree itself. No ties of any other kind were discernible, and the only covering of the young man’s nakedness consisted of a rough white cloth that loosely wrapped around his loins.

I imagined that it was a description of a Christian martyrdom. But since it was due to a painter of the eclectic school derived from the Renaissance, even from this painting depicting the death of a Christian saint exuded a strong aroma of paganism. The young man’s body - one could even compare it to that of Antinous, Hadrian’s favorite, whose beauty was so often immortalized in sculpture - bears no trace of the hardships or exhaustion derived from missionary life, which imprint the effigy of other saints: instead, this one uniquely manifests the springtime of youth, uniquely light and pleasure and gracefulness.

That white and incomparable nudity of hers sparkles against a background of twilight. His sinewy arms, the arms of a praetorian accustomed to flex his bow and brandish his sword, are raised in a harmonious curve, and his wrists cross immediately above his head. The face is turned slightly upward and the eyes are wide open, contemplating the glory of heaven with deep tranquility. It is not suffering that hovers over the expanded chest, the taut abdomen, the barely twisted lips, but a flicker of melancholy pleasure like music. Were it not for the arrows with their points stuck in his left armpit and right hip, he would rather look like a Roman athlete relieving fatigue in a garden, leaning against a dark tree.

Arrows have plunged into the heart of the young, pulpy, fragrant flesh, and are about to consume the body from within with flames of heartbreak and supreme ecstasy. But the blood is not gushing out; the swarm of arrows seen in other paintings of St. Sebastian’s martyrdom has not yet raged. Here instead, two lone arrows send their quiet and delicate shadows over the smoothness of the skin, similar to the shadows of a branch falling on a marble staircase.

But all these interpretations and discoveries came later.

That day, the moment I glimpsed the painting, my whole being quivered with pagan joy. My blood roiled in my veins, my loins swelled almost in an emptiness of rage. The monstrous part of me that was close to exploding waited for me to use it with unprecedented ardor, rebuking my ignorance, gasping in outrage. My hands, not at all unconsciously, began a movement I had never learned. I felt something secret, something radiant, launching itself rattily to the assault from within. It erupted suddenly, bringing with it a blinding intoxication....

Some time elapsed and then, in a desolate mood, I looked around at the desk I stood in front of. Outside the window a maple tree was casting a vivid glare everywhere -- on the ink bottle, on school books and notebooks, on the dictionary, on the image of St. Sebastian. Splashes of a dim whiteness appeared here and there - on the title in gold letters of a textbook, on the margin of the inkwell, on an edge of the dictionary. Some objects dripped lazily, others glowed with a dim gleam like the eyes of a dead fish. Fortunately, a reflexive movement of my hand to protect the figure had prevented the volume from soiling.

That was my first ejaculation. And it was also the clumsy and totally unplanned beginning of my “bad habit.”

–Yukio Mishima “Confessions of a Mask”

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

1959 book ads from the homosexual magazine Mattachine Review.

[mattydemise]

I cried sobbingly until at last those visions reeking with blood came to comfort me. And then I surrendered myself to them, to those deplorably brutal visions, my most intimate friends.

Yukio Mishima, 'Confessions Of A Mask'.

[the-mouse-in-the-library]

'The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstasy.'

Mishima Yukio, Confessions of a Mask

[edenfeather]

“the lily looked exactly like the nape of a swan’s neck”

— confessions of a mask (1949) by yukio mishima

[litandlifequotes]

What I wanted was to die among strangers, untroubled, beneath a cloudless sky. And yet my desire differed from the sentiments of that ancient Greek who wanted to die under the brilliant sun. What I wanted was some natural, spontaneous suicide. I wanted a death like that of a fox, not yet well versed in cunning, that walks carelessly along a mountain path and is shot by a hunter because of its own stupidity…

Confessions of a Mask by Yukoi Mishima

[so-na-gi]

[eternal--returned]

At this instant something inside of me was torn in two with brutal force. It was as though a thunderbolt had fallen and cleaved asunder a living tree. I heard the structure which I had been building piece by piece with all my might up to now collapse miserably to the ground.

Yukio Mishima ֍ Confessions of a Mask (1948) 

[tenderperversion-moved]

yukio mishima, confessions of a mask

[highspeedcollisiongirl]

"Let's play war." As my companions were two girls—Sugiko and another cousin—playing at war was hardly a suitable game. Still less did the opposing Amazons show any signs of enthusiasm. My reason for proposing the game also lay in my inverted sense of social duty: in short, I felt that I must not fawn upon the girls, but must somehow give them a hard time. Although mutually bored, we continued playing our clumsy game of war in and out of the twilit house.From behind a bush Sugiko was imitating the sound of a machine gun: "Bang! bang! bang!" I finally decided it was about time to put an end to the business and led a wild flight into the house. The female soldiers came running after me, giving a continuous fusillade of bang-bang-bang's. I clutched at my heart and collapsed limply in the center of the parlor. "What's the matter, Kochan?" they asked, approaching with worried faces. "I'm being dead on the battlefield," I replied, neither opening my eyes nor moving my hand. I was enraptured with the vision of my own form lying there, twisted and fallen. There was an unspeakable delight in having been shot and being on the point of death. It seemed to me that since it was I, even if actually struck by a bullet, there would surely be no pain. . . .

Yukio Mishima, Confessions of a Mask

[strixessabre]

Flex that you read weird things.

( Strixes’ Sabre )

[aikawa-kazuki]

My review for confessions of a mask:

Damn boy, getting fucked by some twink would fix you.

[goosegonnygetcha]

[edenfeather]

"his white and matchless nudity gleams against a background of dusk. his muscular arms, the arms of a praetorian guard accustomed to bending of bow and wielding of sword, are raised at a graceful angle, and his bound wrists are crossed directly over his head. his face is turned slightly upward and his eyes are open wide, gazing with profound tranquility upon the glory of heaven. it is not pain that hovers about his straining chest, his tense abdomen, his slightly contorted hips but some flicker of melancholy pleasure like music."

"that day, the instant i looked upon the picture, my entire being trembled with some pagan joy. my blood soared up; my loins swelled as though in wrath. the monstrous part of me that was on the point of bursting awaited my use of it with unprecedented ardor, upbraiding me for my ignorance, panting indignantly"

"ever since becoming obsessed with the picture of st. sebastian, i had acquired the uncounscious habit of crossing my hands over my head whenever i happened to be undressed. mine was a frail body, without so much as a pale shadow of sebastian's abundant beauty. but now once more i spontaneously fell into the pose. as i did so my eyes went to my armpits. and a mysterious desire boiled up within me"

"one evening at dusk he had been stripped naked and taken to the grove on the hill. there he had been bound to a tree, both hands tied high over his head. the first arrow had pierced the side of his chest; the second, his armpit. the more i remembered the picture he had made that day, grasping the exercise-bar in preparation for the pull-up, the more i became convinced of his close affinity with st.sebastian".

quotes from "confessions of a mask" (1949) by yukio mishima x depictions of st. sebastian