Published October 1st 1935 in Bungei Tsushin Volume 3, Issue 10 in an article entitled ‘Two peculiar follow-up statements to the Akutagawa Prize’. The other follow-up statement was by Yazaki Dan, a literary critic. Translated by Laurie Raye.
Original Text: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/000035/files/1607_13766.html
In the September issue of Bungei Shunjū you slandered me by writing: “…Indeed, ‘The Flowers of Buffoonery’ fully embodied the author’s lifestyle and views on literature, however, in my humble opinion, there is currently an unpleasant cloud hanging over the writer’s personal life that regretfully prevents his talent from being fully realised.”
Come now, let us not get into the habit of telling pathetic lies. I read your article while browsing the magazine stand at a bookshop and was absolutely dismayed. Judging by the way it was written, it seems as if you alone decide who wins the Akutagawa Prize. You couldn’t have written this. It must have been written by someone else. Not only that, you are even attempting to openly flaunt that fact. I wrote ‘The Flowers of Buffoonery’ three years ago, in my 24th summer. Its title at the time was ‘The Sea’. I had my friends Kon Kanichi and Ima Uhei read it, though compared to the present version the style was terribly unsophisticated, and there was none of the narrator’s first-person monologues in it whatsoever. It was a narrative that neatly summarised the story, nothing more.
That autumn, I read Gide’s critical study of Dostoevsky which I had borrowed from my esteemed neighbour Mr Akamatsu Gessen, and I found it very inspiring. Even though I had achieved a sort of primitive elegance, I ripped ‘The Sea’ into shreds and called forth the face of that first person narrator all throughout the story. I went around boasting to my friends that this was the kind of novel never before seen in Japan. I got my friends Nakamura Chihei, Kubo Ryūichirō, and of course my neighbour Mr Ibuse to read it, and each gave me excellent feedback. Enthused, I revised it still further, adding and removing parts, rewriting it as many as five times until I had a final draft. After that I placed it carefully in a paper bag in the closet.
Around New Year’s Day this year, my friend Dan Kazuo read the manuscript: “Listen old chap, this is a masterpiece! You must send it to a publisher. I will try taking it to Kawabata Yasunari. Mr Kawabata will most certainly appreciate a work like this.”
Before long I developed a terrible writer’s block and, with a weather-worn heart, so to speak, I departed on one final journey. This caused quite the stir.
It didn’t matter to me how much my older brother berated me, I just needed to borrow five hundred yen. So I decided to give it one more shot, and returned to Tokyo. Thanks to my friends’ efforts, it was arranged so that I would receive the sum of 50 yen every month for the next two to three years from my older brother. I immediately looked around for a house to let, but while doing so I contracted appendicitis and was admitted to Shinohara Hospital in Asagaya. My appendix had burst and developed into peritonitis, so it was too little too late at that point. I was hospitalised on the fourth of April this year. Nakatani Takao came to visit to express his sympathies. “You must join the Japanese Romantics, and as a gift to you we would publish ‘The Flowers of Buffoonery’.” He said, and we chatted about these sorts of matters. At the time, ‘Flowers of Buffoonery’ was being held by Dan Kazuo. I explained my predicament and insisted that it would be best if Dan Kazuo took the manuscript to Mr Kawabata. Due to the pain from the incision in my abdomen, I was barely able to move. On top of that, I began to get respiratory complications. I spent many days unconscious. My wife told me afterwards that the physician said he could not be held responsible for whatever happened to me. After lying in that hospital ward for an entire month, I barely even had the strength to raise my head.
In May I was transferred to the department of internal medicine at Kyōdō Hospital in Setagaya ward. I stayed there for two months. On the first day of July, the hospital structure underwent a review and every single member of staff was replaced, which resulted in all of the patients also being asked to leave. After that my brother and his friend, a tailor named Kita Hōshirō, discussed the issue and decided between them to transfer me to a place in Funabashi, Chiba prefecture. I spent all day sprawled in a rattan chair, only getting up to take a light stroll in the morning and in the evening. Once a week, a doctor came from Tokyo. That was my life for around two months, until at the end of August I picked up a copy of Bungei Shunjū while browsing the magazine stand at a bookshop and saw your article. To be frank, when I read “…there is currently an unpleasant cloud hanging over the writer’s personal life…” I burned with rage. I spent many a sleepless night agonising over those words.
Is keeping fancy little birds and going to watch the dance really such an admirable use of one’s life? I’ll stab him! I thought. What an absolute scoundrel! It didn’t take long however before I suddenly felt the hot and twisted love you bore towards me, an intense love which reminded me of Nellie from Dostoyevsky’s Humiliated and Insulted, a love that I felt deep within my heart. No. No, how could this be? I couldn’t believe it, I shook my head but that love of yours, concealed behind that cold exterior, felt Dostoyevskian in its deranged passion and made my body burn feverishly at the thought. And of course, you were completely unaware of any of this.
I am not trying to engage in a battle of wits with you at this time. I sensed ‘societal expectations’ and the reek of wretched ‘financial concerns’ throughout your article. I just wanted to convey my opinion to two or three devoted readers. It was necessary to make these matters known. We are already gradually beginning to doubt that there is beauty left in the virtue of subservience.
When I imagine Kikuchi Kan, smiling broadly and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, saying “Well, nevermind, it’s all well and good. It’s enough to be inoffensive.” I smile innocently. It really is better this way, I think to myself. I did feel a little sorry for Akutagawa Ryunosuke, but oh – I suppose these are also ‘societal expectations’! The prize winner, Mr Ishikawa, is a fine example to us all, and in that regard he is deeply sincere in his endeavours.
Nevertheless, I just feel very disappointed with it all. Kawabata Yasunari couldn’t cut it as a liar, even though he tried carelessly to disguise it, and I can’t help feeling disappointed. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It really wasn’t supposed to be this way. You of all people should be clearly aware that being a writer exists within a perpetual state of ‘foolishness’.
I’ll stab him! I thought. What an absolute scoundrel!
Dazai
Yobanashi Café 