In this blog post, we will examine the reasons why Osamu Dazai’s posthumous work ‘No Longer Human’ has captivated readers for so many years, as well as the structure of the novel.
Regarded as one of the two great novels of modern Japanese literature alongside Natsume Sōseki’s ‘Heart’, Dazai Osamu’s posthumous work ‘No Longer Human’, with its gloomy atmosphere and dark undertones, continues to be read steadily even now, more than 70 years after its publication.
What is it about this work that has captivated readers for so long? Perhaps it is because the true appeal of this novel has not yet been fully revealed. To put it simply, this novel cannot be viewed merely as a typical autobiographical confession in which the author confesses to “words and deeds that fall short of human standards.”
Generally, Dazai scholars highly praise his expressive power and interpret the work with human empathy. This is because Dazai demonstrates astonishingly precise expression when depicting the human psyche. Furthermore, because the author himself used his experiences of wandering and a life of decadence as material for his work, critics sometimes fall into the misconception of viewing this novel as an all-too-human story that speaks for the sentiments of many of his contemporaries.
According to such interpretations, the author’s feelings of being unable to adapt to society permeate the novel, and moved readers come to believe, “I am just like Dazai.” But are readers truly like Dazai? Was Dazai really the wreck we imagine him to be? Could a wreck write such a sublime novel? Setting aside his writing ability, is the anguish over humanity and death revealed in the work something an ordinary person could experience?
In fact, because conflicting thoughts coexist at this point, hasty identification can be poisonous. Simply put, Dazai himself would have loathed those who identify themselves by saying, “I am Dazai.” Before delving into subjective impressions, we must pay attention to the structure of this novel.
This work features a first-person protagonist “I” in the form of a diary, and an unidentified “I” who analyzes that “I” as if from a third-party perspective. The narrative is driven by the first-person protagonist in the memoir format, and traces in Dazai’s manuscript—such as where he crossed out “私” (watashi) and rewrote it as “自分” (jibun)—suggest that he intended these two “I”s to be distinct characters. Ultimately, this novel features two protagonists.
So why did he choose this structure? Which of the two is Dazai? First, most critics view the first-person “I” in the memoir as Dazai himself. The reason is that the life of the “I” in the memoir mirrors the author’s actual experiences—such as drug addiction and suicide attempts—and the expressions also appear to be based on the author’s personal experiences.
Read in this way, the novel is an autobiography depicting a life of anguish that ultimately ends in ruin. This raises the question: was Dazai truly a wreck? If the novel were merely an expression of regret over the author’s fallen life and a plea for the readers’ mercy, that interpretation would be beyond doubt. However, given that the author included a preface and an afterword to provide the reader with a dual perspective, it is difficult to view the work as one that seeks only empathy for the “I” in the memoir.
Rather, might the author have intended to avoid such a simplistic interpretation by dividing the protagonist into two distinct figures? Moreover, not only could a wreck not have written such a novel, but we cannot rule out the possibility that, contrary to popular belief, Dazai was an entirely normal person.
If so, is the unidentified “I” actually Dazai himself?
Viewed this way, the novel becomes a work written out of sympathy for a character reduced to a wreck by drug addiction. However, the description of the “I” in the preface—that is, Yōzō—as “a man who leaves no impression whatsoever, a man whose very appearance is unpleasant,” seems to contradict the description in the afterword, where the madam of the stand-up bar says, “He was an angelically good boy.”
When we combine the photographs and the memoir, we see a conflict between the impression of an utterly ordinary man who leaves no impression—yet is a pitiable figure trapped in drug addiction—and the description of a boy who was actually kind but was unfortunately ruined by misfortune. However, the narrator’s account—which makes up the bulk of the memoir—confesses to having lived a shameful life due to a fate that compelled him to make jokes to please others, reveal his true feelings, and show his true self only to women who sympathized with and accepted him.
Thus, the question remains: Is the “I” in the memoir a shameful person from the start, a character devoid of humanity as the third-party “I” suggests, or a good-hearted child who ruined his life, as the madam claimed? This is because it is possible that both perspectives could represent Dazai.
The “I” is a person who has experienced social life and possesses a cool analytical mind, while the “I” in the memoir can be seen as the original, innate self. Most readers will likely empathize with the “I” who has not been tainted by society, and from the reader’s detached perspective, choose the interpretation that the two “I”s are ultimately the same author himself. Viewed this way, the work is easily read as “a novel analyzing a pathetic self.”
This line of thought leads to a circular interpretation along the lines of: “I tried to assert my innate self, but since I cannot adapt to society, I must ultimately die; even if I live, I am a wreck; everything passes by.” However, a critical question arises here as well. It is the powerful plea from the “I” in the memoir at the end: “I ask God: Is non-resistance a sin?”
If the dispassionate “I” were to analyze the situation as “I, Disqualified,” the narrative framework would make sense; yet, the fallen “I” immediately defines himself as a “complete wreck.” In other words, it appears as though the dispassionate analyst has usurped the role of the “I” in the memoir and drawn the conclusion himself. The question “Is non-resistance a sin?” is a desperate plea: “I believe I did my best to resist, yet I also followed what others said. How should I interpret the fact that I ended up a wreck? What was wrong with me?” It is a powerful appeal that cannot be reduced to mere self-criticism.
In this way, no matter how one reads it, questions remain; while some sentences are deeply relatable, others can be interpreted differently over time. This very ambiguity is the depth and charm of this work. It is precisely why the work, along with Dazai’s life, remains a mystery that continues to resonate to this day.
In the second essay, the narrator is introduced to Van Gogh’s self-portrait by his friend Takeichi and comes to believe that painters like Van Gogh were wounded by the monster that is humanity and came to believe in illusions. He argues that these artists sought to express what they saw without hiding it as a joke. He, too, had intended to do the same, but because the world demanded only the mundane and easily understandable, he ended up drawing female nudes as comics to make a living, ultimately ruining his health and becoming a wreck.
Observing people of this type, Dazai politely likens them to “the folly of modern man.” Unlike ordinary people who manage to get by—whether working at subway station facilities or just to make ends meet, though in reality they are enslaved by money—those who are socially maladjusted cannot lead any other kind of life. Just as revolutionaries have naturally faded away, Dazai views those who mimic the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the future and live their lives as a farce as not being human.
” “Now I am no longer a criminal but a madman. No, I have never gone mad. I have never been insane for even a moment. But alas, madmen usually claim they are not mad. In other words, this means that those confined to this hospital are mad, and those who have not entered are sane.”
In this sentence, “I” emphasizes that while he is branded and treated as a madman by the world, he is not actually one. Readers might misinterpret this to mean that those who consider themselves sane are the mad ones, but since Dazai considered himself perfectly sane, the former interpretation is likely correct.
What is interesting here is the question of the validity of the dichotomous framework in which society views Dazai as mad while believing themselves to be sane. Even among readers, there exists a tendency to view those who do not fit into society as “strange people.” If so, which side possesses true “humanity”? The novel contains the passage: “When I meet someone who is pointed at by the world as someone who cannot hold their head high, I feel genuine affection for them.” This resonates with the “angelically kind child” described by the madam in the epilogue.
Madame then says, “It was that man’s father who was at fault.” Since the novel contains no direct description of Yōjō’s father having done such a thing, this can be read as a critique of how the previous generation fundamentally altered the world.
In this way, the work serves as a wake-up call regarding the national system that underwent drastic upheaval without any compromise between the privileged class and the working class, or between the ruling class and the general public. The author engages in social criticism not only in ‘No Longer Human’ but also in his other works. Dazai risks his life to criticize the plight of modern people in the emerging industrial society: a way of life unilaterally decided by others condemns their past lives, and lives that deviate from society’s imposed norms are not recognized, forcing them to survive by resorting to farcical antics.
Who, indeed, is a “No Longer Human,” and who decides this? Dazai lived as he pleased and died as he intended. People call this the act of a madman. Yet this novel, which pierced through the problems of modern society—where even mental hospitals are tightly woven into the social system—some 70 years ago, still resonates powerfully today.
Osamu Dazai says: Those who can survive in such a world are the true “disqualified humans.” So, “good-bye”……
