Written by Satō Haruo and published in The Complete Works of Contemporary Japanese Literature, Volume 49, Monthly Report 17, September 5th, 1954. Translated by Laurie Raye.
Original Text: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/cards/001763/files/58566_63546.html
When it is Akutagawa Prize season, I always think of Dazai Osamu. I will never forget how desperately he wanted to win the award. I had written a report of this incident once before. Back then there were people who read it like some kind of sensational exposé or something, so for a long time I had discarded the piece and not even included it in my collected works, but recently it was reprinted in Bungei magazine and for the first time in a while I found myself reading it once more. I confirmed for myself that not one single word held any ill intent, and so with peace of mind I reinstated it in my collected works.
There was no ill will in that article, rather I had intended to give him some advice that came from a place of deep affection, and I think if someone were to read it now with presence of mind they would be able to understand this. However, it covers the reality of the situation with a merciless candour. I believe that if something is true, then one must not hesitate to state it no matter who is listening. In contrast to a worldly person, one who is involved even the slightest in the literary world must, I believe, have some amount of common sense about this sort of thing, though it seems that Dazai didn’t like it when too many hard truths were said about him. To stand in front of a mirror and see his true form clearly reflected was too humiliating for him to face, vain though he was. That kind of self-absorbed shame and affectation made Dazai’s writing both trendy and elegant, and yet also somewhat diminished it.
I sought only the truth and was outspokenly honest with him, so he gradually stopped coming to see me. It seems instead that he was mostly going to visit Ibuse Masuji. While I think that one must take care around seemingly unstable people, because such a person can be difficult to deal with, there is also no need to go to great lengths to invite them back into the fold once they leave. Despite this, I believe that I have always very much recognised his talent from the outset. I believed he had the talent to establish an exemplary new literary school even without receiving an award like the Akutagawa Prize and I wanted to make sure he knew this, which was also the motivation behind why I wrote the short story entitled ‘The Akutagawa Prize’ based on his experiences.
It didn’t matter to me how the general public or ordinary writers and the like interpreted it, but I was extremely disappointed that Dazai himself wasn’t able to read it in the way I had intended. Since then, I had been watching over his career from afar, and feeling rather regretful that he no longer sought me out.
In the autumn of 1943, I was deployed to the southern front, then in the spring of 1944 I was afflicted with dengue fever and lay bedridden in Singapore for about a week. During that time, purely by chance, a person from the hotel brought me a copy of Kaizō magazine which contained, among other things, Dazai’s short story ‘A Beautiful Day’. I read through it and was struck with belated admiration for his literary talent. Truly, I think his skill with a pen cannot be easily found elsewhere, and is on a par with that of his friend Dan Kazuo, both of whom shared a mutual admiration for one another. Mostly however they are total polar opposites, which might be the secret behind the success of their profound friendship. Dan has a southern-style masculinity, and engages in rough and reckless behaviour, whereas in contrast Dazai was an excessively thin-skinned Northerner with an effeminate, gentle nature, and so the list goes on.
During that ennui that accompanies a long illness ‘A Beautiful Day’ was ever at my bedside, and I read it habitually every day. Because there was nothing else to read outside of newspapers, after skimming through them I would always enjoy re-reading it. But eventually simply reading it was not interesting enough, I wondered if somewhere within the prose or other aspects some flaws might exist, so I tried reading it with the intention of giving myself the petty challenge of finding them. And so, aside from any unnecessary pretentiousness, bashfulness, or any deep-seated complaints that are no longer relevant etc. etc.; I re-read the short story three times, combing through the text meticulously for any minute mistake, though I approached it with tenacity rather than with maliciousness. However, ultimately I failed to find any noticeable flaws in regards to literary refinement or composition.
I think I talked to him directly about this matter when he came to visit me after finding out I had returned – if that is the case, then the last time I saw him would have been around June 1944. Or it’s quite possible I didn’t talk to him in person about this, but instead may have written it in order to thank him for the book he gave me. If that’s the case, I’m not sure then if it might have been in the spring of 1946, already my memory of these events is becoming clouded.
I heard about his death in the mountains of Shinshū. I had a feeling that such a death was to be his fate sooner or later. Strangely, I found myself having such heartless and nihilistic thoughts, like that I wanted him to succeed this time after so many numerous failed attempts. Unlike other people I felt relieved, as though a heavy burden had been lifted, and yet still it vexed me. I shall never forget that peculiar feeling.
I didn’t read his book ‘Return to Tsugaru’ when it was first published, but recently – either sometime at the end of last year or the beginning of this year – I borrowed a copy from Nakatani Takao, read it, and was utterly astonished at how good it was. I thought that this work of art was completely devoid of any flaws; it was perfect in every way. Even if every single one of his written works were entirely destroyed, and only ‘Return to Tsugaru’ remained, I believe Dazai would still obtain everlasting fame as a writer. The region illustrated in that work is, outside of his hometown in Kanagi, an area I myself know quite well, and his talent to expertly blend together the natural landscape with the thoughts and feelings of the people who live there was truly quite remarkable.
Even if a thousand years should pass, I shall always sorely regret never being able to present this tribute to him while he was still alive.
Up until now I have for the most part been staying in Shinshū, so have not been able to attend the annual anniversary of Dazai’s life and death for these past seven years, however together with my wife I attended it for the first time this June. At the gathering I saw his orphaned children all grown up, and, as requested, I talked generally about the same topics as in this obituary.
Yobanashi Café 