#yet he remains a sad self-obsessed clown

[apesoformythoughts]

[yoursecretmuse]

My Perception On No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

🥀 This year has brought me many joys, that have left me with melancholy victories. I have been venturing out of my usual book genres and I've found a selection of well to do books that I simply cannot live without. How I've existed this far without them, I will never know. There are many different types of literature out there and of course I only focus on English and European Literature. Not because I'm bias  in some way. But I've always found American and European culture very interesting. Despite ignoring my very own culture. It had never occurred to me, that until now, I have never heard of Asian Literature. It's like an unknown phenomenon that no one speaks of. When I think back of my studies in school, I've never even heard of my teachers mentioning Asian writers at all. It was like they didn't exist or people found Asian culture not important enough to read about. Which is odd because in Asian countries they have liberties filled with European novel and American novels. Is it safe to say that Asian people find European and American culture interesting, though we do not share the same feelings toward them. Nevertheless, I stumbled upon Osamu Dazai after reading a mutual friends post about Vincent Van Gogh. It was a silly meme that consisted of Van Gogh and Osamu talking over their depression. Which is not something to joke about but I must confess I found it humorous. Through that humor, I decided to research Osamu and the rest is history. So, here is my thoughts on the exceptional book, No Longer Human. I want to give an in-depth review without giving the book away too much (if at all). But I must warn you that spoilers may become a possibility. No Longer Human is broken into three parts, including an introduction in the beginning by Donald Keene, as well as a Prologue & Epilogue by Osamu Dazai himself. So, to make things easier to understand, I'm going to review each part individually.

The Introduction Normally, I would skip this part of the book because at times it can be very boring and bland. But after reading The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johaan Wolfgang Von Goethe, I found it important to read book introductions because they can have valuable information about the writer. In this section, Donald Keene noted how under appreciated Asian writer are in literature. For some odd reason, American & Europeans cultures specifically seem to feel like we cannot learn anything from Asian culture. Perhaps it has something to do with our history with going to battle with certain Asian countries. Yet, that did not stop countries like Japan and China from filling their liberties with American & European literature. Which upsets me. Had it not been for Van Gogh, I would have missed out on an extremely talented writer. I'm not sure who is to blame for this but I find the idea of not representing Asian writers outside of manga is shameful and sad. There is more to their culture than just that. However, as a whole our world only views Asian people in a small and certain light, that barely gives them any kind of positive recognition outside of the obvious stereotypes. In short, I really urge everyone to take time and read the introduction and share your thoughts on Keene's and my views. What do you think and why is Asian literature so lost and underrepresented? Why do Asian writers rather be on the bottom of American top writing lists, than the top of Asian writer lists? It is very interesting.

🥀

The Prologue In this section, you learn of how Ōba Yōzō (aka Dazai himself) feels alienated and very much of a misfit. He tells you how all of his life he has worn a mask to hid his true sensitive and self destructive self. He harshly criticizes himself and informs you of how he feels about the nature of "humans" and how he never felt like one, thus making him believe that he is not. I like this part of the novel because I can relate to it in so many ways. Many things he explained and said is how I felt (and still very much feel) about myself. Not only of my appearance and state of being but also without people. We both share the same reflection on our confidence or lack there of as a child. I shared his thoughts on normality being ugly and being bland and not standing out is worse than being ugly or beautiful. He even goes on to explain that death has more of a soul or an expression than him. The ugly/void he felt as a child (as well as his whole life) has manifested into a visible void, that crept from his inner darkness and it carries a bland look. Which to me speaks volumes. 🥀

The First Notebook Unable to cope with the world around him, Ōba begins to become a jokester and class clown, in order to mask away the alienation that he feels. He engages in planned fails and acts as if he has no clue as to what he does. He tells us of his environment at home. His father always being gone on business and his mother he did not mention much. He speaks of his maids/servants mistreating him, but he never reported them because he sees it as pointless. We also learn he views a "human" as someone who is happy and hopeful. Perhaps, attractive in some way and could possibly have a great deal or comfortable amount of money. Which is strange because his family were quite wealthy and well known. He speaks of how he feels his life is a shame and the life of a "human" was not cut out for him. There is much more to be said here but I do not wish to spoil everything. I still want readers to get a wow factor from this book, without knowing every details and topic. 🥀

The Second Notebook A very key factor in this part is that Ōba is caught by another student named Takeichi who suspects and confronts him on faking his fall during "gym" class. This sends Ōba into a manic behavior and he somewhat becomes obsessed with Takeichi and fears that he will expose him for being a fraud. I found this interesting given Takeichi had no intention on exposing Ōba or telling anyone about his opinions on his stunts. Certain things happens and the two become somewhat of friends and Takeichi began to mention things to Ōba that were predicting and in a way life changing for Ōba. Ōba also finds an strong interest in art, which leads him to start painting. Ōba also becomes apart of a communist group and becomes a respectable member. Though, he does not share their same views and is only there because he views them as misfits. In this section, a young man now, Ōba meets someone by the name of Horiki. Horiki is also a college student but exposes Ōba into an unfortunate and dreadful life cycles, that pleasures and destroys him further. He also tries to commit suicide with a woman named Tsuneko, who dies but he does not. This even tears him apart and causes his family to the verge of disowning him. 🥀

The Third Notebook: Part One Ōba begans to have multiple affairs with different women, from different walks of life. He becomes a heavy drinker and is expelled from college. He becomes too focus on self destruction, he was not able to create or focus on his artwork. He tries to quite smoking and drinking. But struggles terribly. He marries a young girl, who tries to encourage him to stop drinking and for awhile it works. And for a moment Ōba is happy. The two both marry and move in together. 🥀

The Third Notebook: Part Two Working as a cartoon and sober, Ōba feels somber toward marriage life. He thinks of his wife as native and innocent. But he falls into bad habits once he is visited by an old friend named Horiki, who (with Ōba) witnesses Ōba's wife being sexually assaulted by an associate friend. Ōba begins to blame himself, as well as his wife and becomes manic and fills himself with alcohol and is committed into a mental hospital. After leaving his wife for another woman. This parts ends with him being brought to a home that his brother purchased for him and given the money he needed for living and personal interest. Ōba is left feeling empty and recounts his choices and views of hisself. 🥀

Epilogue We are then given the prospective of an outsider, who wanted to meet Ōba but fails. He then meets a friend of Ōba and she gives him the three notebooks. The man is intrigued by the notebooks and decides to publish them. We are left with a reflects of Ōba's friend telling us that he was a kind and gentle soul, who made everyone laugh and smile. 🥀

My Final Thoughts I believe this is one of the greatest books that I have read. I love the rawness of this book and I adore how the events were true. I feel that Osamu Dazai was a great writer and his death is very unfortunate. I find the way he told his life very interesting and beautiful and poetic. I wish I was able to meet him and praise him for being an amazing artist and writer. But the result would probably remain the same. There is so much that we can learn from Osamu and his life. His perception on life and people is very interesting and a very rare viewpoint on life. I highly suggest that everyone checkout this novel and spread the works of Asian Literature. Thanks For Listening. -𝓒

[chandlerwilde]

My Perception On No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai🥀

🥀

This year has brought me many joys, that have left me with melancholy victories. I have been venturing out of my usual book genres and I've found a selection of well to do books that I simply cannot live without. How I've existed this far without them, I will never know.

There are many different types of literature out there and of course I only focus on English and European Literature. Not because I'm bias  in some way. But I've always found American and European culture very interesting. Despite ignoring my very own culture. It had never occurred to me, that until now, I have never heard of Asian Literature. It's like an unknown phenomenon that no one speaks of. When I think back of my studies in school, I've never even heard of my teachers mentioning Asian writers at all. It was like they didn't exist or people found Asian culture not important enough to read about. Which is odd because in Asian countries they have libraries filled with European novels and American novels. Is it safe to say that Asian people find European and American culture interesting, though we do not share the same feelings toward them.

Nevertheless, I stumbled upon Osamu Dazai after reading a mutual friends post about Vincent Van Gogh. It was a silly meme that consisted of Van Gogh and Osamu talking over their depression. Which is not something to joke about but I must confess I found it humorous. Through that humor, I decided to research Osamu and the rest is history.

So, here is my thoughts on the exceptional book, No Longer Human.

I want to give an in-depth review without giving the book away too much (if at all). But I must warn you that spoilers may become a possibility.

No Longer Human is broken into three parts, including an introduction in the beginning by Donald Keene, as well as a Prologue & Epilogue by Osamu Dazai himself. So, to make things easier to understand, I'm going to review each part individually.

The Introduction

Normally, I would skip this part of the book because at times it can be very boring and bland. But after reading The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johaan Wolfgang Von Goethe, I found it important to read book introductions because they can have valuable information about the writer.

In this section, Donald Keene noted how under appreciated Asian writer are in literature. For some odd reason, American & Europeans cultures specifically seem to feel like we cannot learn anything from Asian culture. Perhaps it has something to do with our history with going to battle with certain Asian countries. Yet, that did not stop countries like Japan and China from filling their liberties with American & European literature. Which upsets me. Had it not been for Van Gogh, I would have missed out on an extremely talented writer. I'm not sure who is to blame for this but I find the idea of not representing Asian writers outside of manga is shameful and sad. There is more to their culture than just that. However, as a whole our world only views Asian people in a small and certain light, that barely gives them any kind of positive recognition outside of the obvious stereotypes.

In short, I really urge everyone to take time and read the introduction and share your thoughts on Keene's and my views. What do you think and why is Asian literature so lost and underrepresented? Why do Asian writers rather be on the bottom of American top writing lists, than the top of Asian writer lists? It is very interesting.

🥀

The Prologue

In this section, you learn of how Ōba Yōzō (aka Dazai himself) feels alienated and very much of a misfit. He tells you how all of his life he has worn a mask to hid his true sensitive and self destructive self. He harshly criticizes himself and informs you of how he feels about the nature of "humans" and how he never felt like one, thus making him believe that he is not.

I like this part of the novel because I can relate to it in so many ways. Many things he explained and said is how I felt (and still very much feel) about myself. Not only of my appearance and state of being but also without people. We both share the same reflection on our confidence or lack there of as a child. I shared his thoughts on normality being ugly and being bland and not standing out is worse than being ugly or beautiful. He even goes on to explain that death has more of a soul or an expression than him.

The ugly/void he felt as a child (as well as his whole life) has manifested into a visible void, that crept from his inner darkness and it carries a bland look.

Which to me speaks volumes.

🥀

The First Notebook

Unable to cope with the world around him, Ōba begins to become a jokester and class clown, in order to mask away the alienation that he feels. He engages in planned fails and acts as if he has no clue as to what he does. He tells us of his environment at home. His father always being gone on business and his mother he did not mention much. He speaks of his maids/servants mistreating him, but he never reported them because he sees it as pointless.

We also learn he views a "human" as someone who is happy and hopeful. Perhaps, attractive in some way and could possibly have a great deal or comfortable amount of money. Which is strange because his family were quite wealthy and well known. He speaks of how he feels his life is a shame and the life of a "human" was not cut out for him.

There is much more to be said here but I do not wish to spoil everything. I still want readers to get a wow factor from this book, without knowing every details and topic.

🥀

The Second Notebook

A very key factor in this part is that Ōba is caught by another student named Takeichi who suspects and confronts him on faking his fall during "gym" class. This sends Ōba into a manic behavior and he somewhat becomes obsessed with Takeichi and fears that he will expose him for being a fraud. I found this interesting given Takeichi had no intention on exposing Ōba or telling anyone about his opinions on his stunts. Certain things happens and the two become somewhat of friends and Takeichi began to mention things to Ōba that were predicting and in a way life changing for Ōba.

Ōba also finds an strong interest in art, which leads him to start painting.

Ōba also becomes apart of a communist group and becomes a respectable member. Though, he does not share their same views and is only there because he views them as misfits.

In this section, a young man now, Ōba meets someone by the name of Horiki. Horiki is also a college student but exposes Ōba into an unfortunate and dreadful life cycles, that pleasures and destroys him further.

He also tries to commit suicide with a woman named Tsuneko, who dies but he does not. This even tears him apart and causes his family to the verge of disowning him.

🥀

The Third Notebook: Part One

Ōba begans to have multiple affairs with different women, from different walks of life. He becomes a heavy drinker and is expelled from college. He becomes too focus on self destruction, he was not able to create or focus on his artwork. He tries to quite smoking and drinking. But struggles terribly.

He marries a young girl, who tries to encourage him to stop drinking and for awhile it works. And for a moment Ōba is happy. The two both marry and move in together.

🥀

The Third Notebook: Part Two

Working as a cartoon and sober, Ōba feels somber toward marriage life. He thinks of his wife as native and innocent. But he falls into bad habits once he is visited by an old friend named Horiki, who (with Ōba) witnesses Ōba's wife being sexually assaulted by an associate friend.

Ōba begins to blame himself, as well as his wife and becomes manic and fills himself with alcohol and is committed into a mental hospital. After leaving his wife for another woman.

This parts ends with him being brought to a home that his brother purchased for him and given the money he needed for living and personal interest. Ōba is left feeling empty and recounts his choices and views of hisself.

🥀

Epilogue

We are then given the prospective of an outsider, who wanted to meet Ōba but fails. He then meets a friend of Ōba and she gives him the three notebooks. The man is intrigued by the notebooks and decides to publish them. We are left with a reflects of Ōba's friend telling us that he was a kind and gentle soul, who made everyone laugh and smile.

🥀

My Final Thoughts

I believe this is one of the greatest books that I have read. I love the rawness of this book and I adore how the events were true. I feel that Osamu Dazai was a great writer and his death is very unfortunate. I find the way he told his life very interesting and beautiful and poetic. I wish I was able to meet him and praise him for being an amazing artist and writer. But the result would probably remain the same. There is so much that we can learn from Osamu and his life. His perception on life and people is very interesting and a very rare viewpoint on life.

I highly suggest that everyone checkout this novel and spread the works of Asian Literature.

Thanks For Listening.

-𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓻 𝓦𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓮

Chandler Wilde

[reginaldbelchhuggins-blog]

Mens et Manus

Chapter 1. Starman

Rating: T Warnings for this chapter: Self-harm; reference character death; referenced violence; past violence; mental health issues Chapters: 1, [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], [7] Ao3: [x] Summary:

Stan looks at himself in the mirror; Richie talks to his mom; Mike starts listening; Ben finds a new hobby; Eddie moves out of his mom's house; Beverly starts dating; and Bill writes his first book.

a.k.a a series of short stories based on the prompt "Tell the story of a scar"

A/N: The chapters are as listed above. This is Stan’s chapter:

Stan Uris was exactly 21 days past his 13th birthday as he woke up just after midnight, screaming. For the 12th night in a row, Rabbi Donald Uris would come into his son's room and calm him down by holding him. The first two times Stan had woken in such a startling manner, Andrea had tried, thinking a motherly figure was what he needed. She couldn't have been more wrong. The sight of her in the doorway had brought Stan to hysterical tears.

He knew it hurt her, but he couldn't stand being held in her arms when that woman was so fresh in his mind. Holding him down, latching her rows and rows of teeth into his head, her tongue leaving thick spittle as it explored his face.

He'd tell his friends in college that his first kiss left him shaking, and smile dryly, all the while remembering the feeling of It eating parts of him -- drawing his fear to the surface to slurp it up, and leave holes in his soul.

22 holes, to be precise. In two crooked rows, circling his face.

Though Stan hated lying to them, especially as his lies became more obvious, saying he fell in the bramble was still the most logical explanation for the wounds. So he was going to say it again. He was going to say it until he forgot it wasn't the truth.

After 5 minutes, Stan did not hear the bedroom door open down the hall. He did not hear his father's heavy footsteps (8-10 of them from door to door), nor his parents whispering. Asking each other if they should call a psychiatrist. There was only silence.

He burst into tears as it donned on him that his parents weren't coming that night. Or any other night again. They'd had their fill of him. He pulled his blankets up to his chest and rolled over to his side. The moon peering through the window looked far too much like dead lights in the back of a monstrous throat -- the stars resembling rows and rows of sharp little teeth -- so he flipped over and stared at the bedroom closet. Stan cried for 13 minutes exactly, and then, after his face was stinging and his eyes could produce no more tears, he stilled. It took him 11 minutes to fall back to sleep.

The next morning, at 7am sharp, Stan looked in the mirror, and saw what his father must see: not a man, not a boy, but something that could barely be considered human. All the lies he'd told over the years plain as every scar, turning his face ugly.

I ate your candy, not Richie.

I wasn't looking at your magazine.

School was great.

I made a lot of friends today.

I fell.

I'm happy.

I do believe in God.

I'm practicing my reading every day.

It's not real.

I hate you.

I'm not afraid.

I fell in the bramble.

I'm not lying.

I'm okay.

He touched each tooth mark, and recited his lies in a quiet whisper. He went right to left, up to down to up again, and when he was done, he saw his face. Not man, not boy, but teenager. With brown eyes, dirty blonde curls, and a small, pleasant smile. He tried to hold that smile long enough to get to the breakfast table, but it fell away the minute he passed the window in the hall and saw his father's black Oldsmobile sitting in the driveway.

For Donald Uris to not already be on the road to the synagogue, he was either sick or something else was going on. Stan prepared himself, somehow knowing it wasn't going to be a very pleasant breakfast.

The table was quiet, though they were both sitting there with empty plates. Donald in his pants and button up shirt, and Andrea in jeans and a tee. They looked like they'd been up all night. His mother nursed a cup of coffee with bags under her eyes, and his father had aged twenty years in 12 hours. Stan felt a pang of guilt.

You did that. You and your false truths.

There were eggs and toast, so Stan filled his plate (3 scoops of eggs, 2 pieces of toast) and tried to go into the living room to eat. Donald cleared his throat, and Stan hesitated before dutifully sitting down across from his father, his stomach turning flips as he did so. He poked at his eggs, not sure he was hungry anymore.

"So, they found the Bowers boy last night, " Donald said. He and Andrea both looked hard at Stan, so he tried not to react. He wasn't surprised to hear Henry's body had finally popped up. The well led to the sewers, which eventually would carry him to the Barrens, or the canal. It was only a matter of time. "Officer Nell informed me that he confessed to the murders right away. Butch, the Criss boy, the Huggins boy... the others." Stan wasn't hungry at all. He set his fork down, and looked at his parents. He couldn't keep the shock of hearing Henry was alive from his face, nor the thoughts from entering his mind.

How did Henry survive for 2 weeks in the sewers? What did he eat? What did he drink? Stan felt bad for him. Even if he was trying to murder Mike, Stan had seen into the dead lights, and somehow understood that Henry was just a puppet. A tool. A fool. A dancing clown, one could say, if they wanted to be punched in the throat.

"That's sad news," Stan said. It felt like he was speaking through cotton. There was something in their faces that concerned him. Suspicion. Knowledge.

They were seeing his lies unravel, but the truth inside was muddled and muddied. Still, he thrust his fists against the post, and insisted he saw no ghost. Bill be damned.

"You know they say he skinned the Huggins' boy face," Andrea said, her tone pointed. Stan swallowed a sip of water. He knew where she was going. It was wrong. Clever, but wrong. He still thought about caving in and taking the easy out, though; just agreeing with her clever little concoction. It was another lie, but one that would satisfy his parents growing unease that Stan had been accosted by more than foliage. "With that little knife of his."

Her eyes were measuring the scars, mentally comparing them to a switchblade. Stan felt them burning in her gaze, but dared not pick at them. Instead, he went for his cuticles, using his fingernails to press them down and tear them off.

"Seems to have had an obsession with faces," Donald said. His eyes bore into Stan, as if trying to see beneath the layers of his flesh and into his thoughts. "I remember when he attacked you that one winter. What was it, when you were 8? Rubbed snow in your face until--"

"Henry didn't attack me this time," Stan said. His voice was steady, even as his head buzzed with panic. "I fell and--"

"Got so scared you're still having nightmares about it? Stanley," he sighed,  rubbing his eyes. "That doesn't make sense."

"Honey, we're just concerned is all," Andrea said, forcing a smile. "Butch wasn't a nice man. He did bad things to Henry. And if Henry, in turn, did bad things to you -- if he hurt you in any way -- you can tell us. You're safe here."

Stan looked away. "I'm sorry, but no. He didn't. Even if you wish he did so you could pretend you're still being persecuted." He stood up after 27 seconds of silence. Were they really letting him finish his outburst? "I remember how much fun it was when I was 8 and getting to listen to you tell people about how you were being tested. I'm sure you'd love that again, but I'm not playing along. I fell, alright? I was doing something stupid, and yes, it frightened me, because it hurt.!" His parents exchanged a glance. If Stan wanted to, he could decipher their silent conversation. But he didn't want to. He'd given them a lot to unpack, and their first thoughts were always going to be defensive, or accusatory. Let them think what they wanted, and say what they wanted. They were going to do that regardless. "I'm going to be late for school."

"Let me drive you," the Rabbi said. But Stan was already leaving. He grabbed his backpack from beside the door, his bike from the porch, and was gone before his father could protest. It took him 25 minutes to get to school, and he passed five florescent lights on the way to the bathroom, where he threw up what little remained of last night's ravioli. There were 8 and a half tiles between the stall and the sink. He counted his scars, and recited his lies, and...

Stan's brow furrowed. He leaned in, tilting his head so he could see the one, specific tooth mark. 22 scars, in 2 crooked rows, and one by itself near his temple. Small, almost unnoticeable. Unmatched. He tilted his head to the other side and confirmed there was no twin.

He leaned away from the mirror. He washed his hands. He turned to leave the bathroom. And then tiltled his head in the mirror, looking at that one scar. How could a creature that changed appearance at will overlook such a detail? How could he, Stan, have missed it all this time? In every examination of them?

Maybe it's new.

That couldn't be. Yet, he had counted them before and after the wrappings were removed. 22 scars. In two crooked rows. Not 23 with one little orphan. Where did it come from?

He ran his finger along it, feeling the rough scab that had formed over it. He scratched that off, not surprised to see puckered scar tissue underneath.

He couldn't just leave it like that for everyone to see. They'd notice it, too. The one that fell out of pattern. They'd notice and stare. He didn't want them staring anymore.

Taking his thumb nail, he tried pressing into the other side of his face, but he couldn't pierce the skin. He wound up with one vividly red scar, and the other, faded and white. Drumming his fingers on the side of the sink, he made a decision. He dug through his backpack until he found his school compass.

This is fucking crazy, he thought. Then, using the sharp point, he began digging in. Making a series of small, connected dots, Stan traced the shape and angle of the rogue tooth above his other temple. Each dot brought a bead of blood, which began leaking down his face, and into the sink. By the time he was done, Stan's hands were shaking. He cleaned the wound and his face, and then checked out his work. He was feeling better, until his realized that those two didn't match the others, who sat with a pair in two crooked rows.

This is fine. They both have one little straggler. Like a captain leading his troops.

Biting his tongue, Stan got back to work. He had just finished the final faux-tooth mark when he heard a scream from behind him. Little Edgar Booth was running out of the bathroom, his shriek loud and shrill. Stan looked at himself, covered in blood, and slowly put his compass to the old scars. He could already hear his parents in his head.

You did that to yourself?  Maybe you did all of them yourself. Maybe you like all this attention.

He began to pick them open, one by one. They might not be able to tell any of them were new if they were all bleeding.