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A review by versmonesprit
The Life of a Stupid Man by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
dark
emotional
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
5.0
What a book! “Small but mighty” has possibly never been more apt. This had me rushing to buy a full-sized Akutagawa story collection. Read it, and you too will immediately see why he’s such a lauded writer — you might even, like me, feel he’s not given enough credit.
There are three titles in this tiny book, short but no less impactful for it. They’re all imbued with incredible, lyrical beauty.
The first of these is In a Bamboo Grove, a series of wildly differing witness statements about a dead man, a missing woman, and a captured man. The truth of what happened is elusive, but it’s violent through and through. Akutagawa’s description of such a beautiful setting for such horrible events is the sort of contrast that really strikes you. There is a supernatural element to this that establishes a connection to folktales, but rest assured, this a darkly funny and truly original story.
The other two included in this mini volume are autobiographical pieces, and take a sudden, much more somber turn after the previous story. As I read them, I couldn’t help but think back to Bashō’s haikus, in the way there’s so little text but somehow so much contained within, and just how beautiful the writing is.
Death Register is exactly what it says it is. Written with incredible precision and clarity, it’s highly emotional, but in a strangely tranquil way. The sobriety of tone when dealing with such an emotionally tumultuous matter as the losses of family members is once again deeply striking.
The Life of a Stupid Man is a collection of quietly powerful fragments, of snippets from his life, of brilliant observations of the moments we often overlook. It reminded me heavily of Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet in not just form but even more so in tone. What differs the two is that The Life of a Stupid Man is woven with the inheritance from a great literary tradition: that quality I previously referred to in the precision of haikus. While reading these fragments, time seems to be arrested, leaving you alone with your heartbeat, with your breath cut short in a gasp of admiration; only you and Akutagawa’s words exist. I did cry a few times — that’s what great beauty does to you!
There are three titles in this tiny book, short but no less impactful for it. They’re all imbued with incredible, lyrical beauty.
The first of these is In a Bamboo Grove, a series of wildly differing witness statements about a dead man, a missing woman, and a captured man. The truth of what happened is elusive, but it’s violent through and through. Akutagawa’s description of such a beautiful setting for such horrible events is the sort of contrast that really strikes you. There is a supernatural element to this that establishes a connection to folktales, but rest assured, this a darkly funny and truly original story.
The other two included in this mini volume are autobiographical pieces, and take a sudden, much more somber turn after the previous story. As I read them, I couldn’t help but think back to Bashō’s haikus, in the way there’s so little text but somehow so much contained within, and just how beautiful the writing is.
Death Register is exactly what it says it is. Written with incredible precision and clarity, it’s highly emotional, but in a strangely tranquil way. The sobriety of tone when dealing with such an emotionally tumultuous matter as the losses of family members is once again deeply striking.
The Life of a Stupid Man is a collection of quietly powerful fragments, of snippets from his life, of brilliant observations of the moments we often overlook. It reminded me heavily of Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet in not just form but even more so in tone. What differs the two is that The Life of a Stupid Man is woven with the inheritance from a great literary tradition: that quality I previously referred to in the precision of haikus. While reading these fragments, time seems to be arrested, leaving you alone with your heartbeat, with your breath cut short in a gasp of admiration; only you and Akutagawa’s words exist. I did cry a few times — that’s what great beauty does to you!