A review by smoladeryn
No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai

dark sad tense medium-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? Character
  • Strong character development? No
  • Loveable characters? No
  • Diverse cast of characters? No
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

3.0

Just when I was beginning to forget, that bird of ill-Omen came flapping my way, to rip open with its beak the wounds of memory. —p139

This book is so well written, and a classic indeed. And, still, I’ve never both hated a book so intensely and also not been able to stop reading it.

It’s incredibly poetic at times with vignettes that startled me in their simple and quiet beauty. The blurb describes this account of the character’s life (and perhaps Osama Dorias’) as being without sentiment. Cold? No. It’s a dark, depressing, dank telling of a person’s life, but if you pay attention there is so much sentimentality for his depression and deceitful, destructive ways.

Before I go on, I do also need to address- his disgusting abuse of the women in his life. He very clearly knew he was despicable for it but he never truly realized just how awfully abusive and destructive he was. He often wrote about these women as if they deserved it because they were weak, ugly, or “crippled”.   

I found myself thinking about reading this through a modern 2022 lens, how much mental illness and pain is clear in the character. In today’s world, no doubt we could see any number of diagnoses for this character. I wonder if it would have changed things.

The thing I struggled most with was how much this book is one of utter self loathing, but somehow, at the same time he fails to ever take responsibility for a single thing that happens to him. In fact, he describes it all as simply happening to him as if he’s a pacifist in his life. And maybe that’s how he truly experienced it - but oh if he knew all he had to do was simply take responsibility and self reflect! Even in his, clearly later years of life, the self reflection that is this book is actually just self indulgence!

The narcissism and self centred perspective often made me nauseous and gave me vertigo how quickly he’d both dwell in what was surely a very awful life as well somehow believe he was so special as to be the only person in the entire world suffering in the way he did. Not only this, him! A boy from a rich family who lost that connection through his own poor choices! And sure, he lacked a loving family, but my lawd, even many who experience serious child abuse can find a way through life without feeling so utterly sorry for themselves. 

I think this is what kept me most from feeling compassion for him. Although, at times I would start to feel some compassion, it would be ripped away by the next paragraph’s grandiose claims at how hard done by he was. 

It is curious, but the cathedrals of melancholy are not necessarily demolished if one can replace the vulgar “What a messy business it is to be fallen for” by the more literary “What uneasiness lies in being loved” —p47

Somehow he is so poetic in the narcissism I couldn’t shake how haunting it was. It reminds me of Bukowski, a poet I love in a way, but also hate. 

(I am very susceptible to other people’s suggestions. When people say to me, “You really shouldn’t spend this money, but I suppose you will anyway…” I have the strange illusion that I would be going against expectations and somehow doing wrong unless I spent it. I invariably spend all the money immediately.) —p161

Even toward the end, when he should be starting to find clarity on his mistakes he blames everything around him for his terribleness. 

BUT THE POETRY, ugh it kills me. I’m so conflicted. 

But materialism could not free me from my dread of human beings; I could not feel the joy of hope a man experiences when he opens his eyes on young leaves. —p66

Just when I was beginning to forget, that bird of ill-Omen came flapping my way, to rip open with its beak the wounds of memory. —p139

Finally, at times I actually laughed out loud. I often wondered where his (supposedly) magnificent humour was in all of this. His grandiose claims at how funny and charming everyone found him rarely materialized. But there were glimpses. 

Then, just when I had begun to entertain faintly in my breast the sweet notion that perhaps there was a chance I might turn one of these days into a human being and be spared the necessity of a horrible death, Horiki showed up again. —p138
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