Thoughts through first 150 pages— Mishima plays (grapples?) with tradition and class in postwar Japan through the lens of an uncompelling love story. Thank god it’s short. Garbage.
Last 50 pages—woaaaaahhhhhkay dude I’m listening for some reason and it’s cool to see eminent features of literary modernism from primarily an Eastern but also oddly post-axis perspective. Cast of characters finally has depth etc. But and so and holy smokes
Last 15 pages— fastest derailment of where I thought this was going I’ve had in a whiiiiile. Etsuko slowly sinks into mental illness throughout the novel until finally at the bottom of the ocean, frozen solid and in crisis (and us in crisis for her!), she breaks. So does Saburo’s skull, but at that point we’re like hey girl, you do you and brain this dude. But then, in the final paragraphs… she starts to fade, and the last line of the book is like the final wisp of her and her sanity leaving the world, and us leaving the book, left with that
Certainly enough to give him one more go, even though. I enjoyed Confessions of a Mask a little more than this.
Reminds me of Sion Sono’s films honestly. But yeah, the quality of this books elevates exponentially.
Fav nonfiction book in a long time. I’m so glad I had to read all those neuroscience articles for that one class. With that the book achieved a perfect balance of challenging and graspable. Super informative if you’re interested in personality psychology redefined by neuroscience.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
4.5
Third gayest thing I’ve ever read; favorite gay thing I’ve ever read. Mishima can write his ass off. I don’t think I’ve ever wished I could read something in its original language more, especially considering how he supposedly rejects the modernism of his time by using kanji so archaic that printers had to mutilate letters in order to print. So big props to translators as well. Just got two more of his novels.
Want to learn to meditate? Read this book. This is the only book you need. Promise. It's free, too.
It is written by a secular monk who has a tremendous appreciation for and understanding of neuroscience as it relates to the practices. You don't need to be a Buddhist to go deep with the techniques in this book.
One of the other things I like about it is our author incorporates contemplative practices spanning many cultures and timeframes, including medieval Christianity—which, surprisingly, was independently onto something quite in line with the teachings of the Buddha—with practices that have been lost to us over the centuries yet remain (potentially) enormously empowering.
WHAT a strange man, what a strange book. A mysticism of muscle? An obsessive, almost uncanny concern with the union of beauty, eroticism, and death? Dear baby Jesus, this is for me. I will definitely be picking up one of his novels—shit, read this:
If my self was my dwelling, then my body resembled an orchard that surrounded it. I could either cultivate that orchard to its capacity or leave it for the weeds to run riot in. I was free to choose, but the freedom was not as obvious as it might seem. Many people, indeed, go so far as to refer to the orchards of their dwellings as “destiny.”
Maybe it didn’t come at the right time in my life, maybe it’s a slog because of how deeply Catholic it is, but I didn’t get out of this what I was hoping.
That said, there were some parts that just absolutely blew me away. Augustine’s ability to turn a phrase is still potent 1600 years later. The way he describes grieving the death of his friend was the most potent part of this book. That passage is one I know I will revisit because of how beautiful it is.