鎏钺

I believe it was Sebastian Haffner, one of the greatest German modern writer, who once said that, the woman a lad fell in love with in his twenties would not only mirror himself, but also determine his outlook on life, love as well as death for the rest of his life. For me, my beloved lover, my life tutor, the person who has been influential in my adolescence and will probably keep on being influential for my remaining years has long entered my heart before my twenties, and the name of that very person is Osamu Dazai, a world famous Japanese writer.

Before my senior high schools, I was ashamed to tell anyone that I had the ability to love anyone, for the rebellion element of protesting against every humane nature was inside of me, nevertheless, more because I was just like a mayfly at that time, floating around the world but never genuinely involved in it. That was a frustrating age, an age when a girl full of wild imaginations had nowhere to shed her thoughts. So I chose to throw myself into endless of books, to justify my ideas. 

I had always confirmed that there were some graceful and restrained factors in Japanese literature that could arouse sympathy with me. Their so called “Motoori No Rinaga” was nothing like those tragedies or comedies in the western world — it was an introverted and grieved passion. Osamu Dazai was that kind of disobeying writer whose work seemed to be just the opposite of traditional Japanese virtue if one merely read that fiction and articles superficially. However, as one picks up his books again in their most depressing gloom, they will exclaim for their new findings of this talented writer, which is that after all , Osamu Dazai had the essence of the Japanese spirit, bitter sweet yet full of hope, injected in his blood. He was not the first one but the greatest one who succeeded in exposing his flesh and heart to all his fellow people, while traditional writers tended to hide themselves behind their words. 

Yes, he wrote about commit-suicide, about death, and about other negative emotions that had already vilified his image when he was still alive. His best known novel was “The Fallen Angle”, or in literal translation, “Lost The Qualifications of Being A Human”, in which the hero, who was very alike Dazai himself, born with silver spoon, was leading a confused and shameless life, later on resulted in several unsuccessful suicides and one double suicide. But this hero was also too gentle and too sensitive to be not afraid of this brutal society. For those who sees purity and kindness all their lives, this hero may be merely a rascal who reaped what he had sown, but for all sensitive souls, me included, this hero, in other words, Dazai himself, wrote out exactly what we was thinking. More than just declaring our minds to the public, he said at the end of this novel that being sensitive was not a guilt, and although we might had terribly disappointed our beloved ones,  that was exactly the outcome of our overflowing love for them. Yes, we love them, yet we are too vulnerable and fragile to keep this love in balance. 

Some say that his novels only expressed negative and scoundrelly thoughts, then let these shallow critics go on speaking. The more pain he showed in his works, the more hope he was trying to get in his own life. Like all other true lovers of life, he must had put in too much energy in life that he cried his heart out every time life disappointed him. People who live simple-minded never get hurt from life, because they never cared for it. 

After I finally understand the core of his life and work, my disease of rebellion was cured. I used to, and will always be in the group of sensitive people, who are at a loss at what to do with human beings and love. Life is a sea area filled with reefs without end, where I am worn out without gaining anything back in most cases. In spite of this, I still swim, for nothing can stop me from binding with the piece of land I was born and raised.  So each time I was forced to the edge of insane, I picked up Dazai’s books, trying to find some sparkles of love and hope in his grieving and fascinating words. 

Not surprisingly, as I read more of his works, I do explored his brighter side. He used to write several fairy tales for his daughter and all Japanese to cheer them up during the end of WW2, when the American troops were destroying Japan’s land. He also wrote some short essays, showing his findings of simple pleasures in daily life. He even sometimes used teasing jokes just to feel closer to his readers and his family.

He died with his teen spirit. He deserved the title of “the immortal youth novel writer”. Yet eventually beaten by a gigantic wave of sorrow and stress, the prominent writer died of suicide at the age of 39. 

His death haunts me in my deepest dreams, where I weep and weep not only for the lose of a shining star in the literature world, but also for the plummeting of a sensitive and gentle man. Then he shows up, as if he is grafted on to me, his blood is injected into mine, so that we become one. Such is his influence. The next morning I wake up with my mourning eyes, but I’m alive and thrive, and I’m able to jump into the deep blue sea, knowing that we all will get nothing in the end, but still cry for it.