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3.63 AVERAGE
3.63 AVERAGE
Wow, I feel sorry for whoever had to translate this very odd piece of work. Also: craaaazy cover!
emotional
inspiring
reflective
slow-paced
A somewhat interesting autobiographical, philosophical essay.
Ultimately, however, it ended up feeling like an erratic assortment of ramblings fashioned only by a filigree of metaphors and flowery words - though, perhaps it is only right in being that, as it touches on the idea of death and oneself, which I do not believe to be topics that can be easily put on paper.
Perhaps a bit regrettably, the message of the book seemed to escape me as I kept reading on and on - I felt as though I was able to grasp only some of the ideas that Yukio Mishima tried to depict, and, frankly speaking, it often felt as if he was simply rambling, the text disguised by metaphors and eloquence, a facade which felt like it was covering up nothing at all. Texts made to look insightful, and nothing else.
Yet there was a certain weaving line throughout the entire essay - the ideas of a man disturbed, yet fascinated by death. Through physical suffering and his forging of the body he began to "feel" death, to throw words and imagination away and to live in the moment of approaching death, of flowing blood and of stinging aching of the muscles. The physical exercise and routine he built for himself was the line through which he managed to touch death and existence itself.
Perhaps trying to speak of existence with words on paper is ultimately a Sisyphean task; perhaps Mishima tried to subtly depict that difficulty at length, with him often talking about how words were disconnected from death and existence. Yet those words of his escaped me - it felt as though I was understanding what was written yet not grasping it whole, not grasping what he wants to say. To say that I wasn't in thought during reading would not be right, but to say that I could completely comprehend what the author tried to depict would be far from the truth.
As I kept reading, it almost felt as if I was reading a hastily connected assortment of philosophical ramblings of a man deep in thought. That notion never managed to leave me, even though I seemingly began to grasp more and more of his ideas by the end.
Ultimately, however, it ended up feeling like an erratic assortment of ramblings fashioned only by a filigree of metaphors and flowery words - though, perhaps it is only right in being that, as it touches on the idea of death and oneself, which I do not believe to be topics that can be easily put on paper.
Perhaps a bit regrettably, the message of the book seemed to escape me as I kept reading on and on - I felt as though I was able to grasp only some of the ideas that Yukio Mishima tried to depict, and, frankly speaking, it often felt as if he was simply rambling, the text disguised by metaphors and eloquence, a facade which felt like it was covering up nothing at all. Texts made to look insightful, and nothing else.
Yet there was a certain weaving line throughout the entire essay - the ideas of a man disturbed, yet fascinated by death. Through physical suffering and his forging of the body he began to "feel" death, to throw words and imagination away and to live in the moment of approaching death, of flowing blood and of stinging aching of the muscles. The physical exercise and routine he built for himself was the line through which he managed to touch death and existence itself.
Perhaps trying to speak of existence with words on paper is ultimately a Sisyphean task; perhaps Mishima tried to subtly depict that difficulty at length, with him often talking about how words were disconnected from death and existence. Yet those words of his escaped me - it felt as though I was understanding what was written yet not grasping it whole, not grasping what he wants to say. To say that I wasn't in thought during reading would not be right, but to say that I could completely comprehend what the author tried to depict would be far from the truth.
As I kept reading, it almost felt as if I was reading a hastily connected assortment of philosophical ramblings of a man deep in thought. That notion never managed to leave me, even though I seemingly began to grasp more and more of his ideas by the end.
challenging
informative
reflective
fast-paced
challenging
dark
informative
reflective
slow-paced
challenging
informative
inspiring
reflective
medium-paced
challenging
dark
reflective
medium-paced
fast-paced
slow-paced
The best thing Mishima did was off himself before he could live long enough to start a podcast. This essay is nothing but the crazed fascist ramblings of a gymbro.