The Setting Sun - Osamu Dazai E-Book

Osamu Dazai

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 182

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The Setting Sun  is a poignant exploration of postwar Japanese society, focusing on themes of decline, identity, and the search for meaning in a rapidly changing world. Osamu Dazai critiques the disintegration of the traditional aristocratic class while examining the psychological struggles of individuals caught between the past and an uncertain future. Through the lives of characters such as Kazuko and her brother Naoji, the novel delves into themes of alienation, decay, and the painful reconciliation with social and personal upheaval. Since its publication, The Setting Sun has been acclaimed for its evocative prose and raw emotional intensity. Its exploration of universal themes such as loss, existential despair, and the quest for redemption has secured its status as a classic of modern Japanese literature. The deeply flawed yet compelling characters and their turbulent journeys continue to engage readers, offering profound insights into the human condition. The novel's enduring relevance stems from its ability to capture the complexities of a society in transition and the inner turmoil of those striving to find purpose amid chaos. By portraying the intersection of personal tragedy and cultural transformation, The Setting Sun invites readers to reflect on resilience, the fragility of identity, and the enduring human desire for connection and hope

Leseprobe

Osamu Dazai

THE SETTING SUN

Original Title:

“斜陽 (Shayō)”

Contents

INTRODUCTION

THE SETTING SUN

CHAPTER ONE / SNAKE

CHAPTER TWO / FIRE

CHAPTER THREE / MOONFLOWERS

CHAPTER FOUR / LETTERS

CHAPTER FIVE / THE LADY

CHAPTER SIX / OUTBREAK OF HOSTILITIES

CHAPTER SEVEN / THE TESTAMENT

CHAPTER EIGHT / VICTIMS

INTRODUCTION

Osamu Dazai

1909 – 1948

Osamu Dazaiwas a Japanese novelist, widely regarded as one of the most significant literary figures of 20th-century Japan. Born in Kanagi, Aomori Prefecture, Dazai is best known for his works that explore themes of alienation, self-destruction, and the search for meaning in a rapidly modernizing society. His deeply personal and often semi-autobiographical narratives reflect the turmoil of his own life, marked by repeated suicide attempts and a profound sense of existential despair. Today, his novels No Longer Human (1948) and The Setting Sun (1947) stand as classics of modern Japanese literature.

Early Life and Education

Osamu Dazai, born Shūji Tsushima, was the eighth child of a wealthy landowning family. Despite his privileged background, he felt alienated from his family and community from an early age. His upbringing was strict, and he struggled to connect with his authoritarian father and the expectations of his class. Dazai studied French literature at the University of Tokyo but never graduated, as his life began to spiral into instability due to personal and financial troubles, substance abuse, and his growing obsession with literature. During his youth, he became heavily influenced by Western writers such as Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Anton Chekhov, and Franz Kafka, as well as by the Japanese I-novel tradition, which favored confessional, autobiographical storytelling.

Career and Contributions

Dazai’s work is characterized by its confessional style, blending fiction and autobiography to the point where the boundaries between the two become blurred. His writing often depicts disillusioned and self-destructive protagonists, mirroring his own struggles with depression and addiction. In The Setting Sun, Dazai portrays the decline of the Japanese aristocracy in the aftermath of World War II, capturing a nation in moral and social transition. No Longer Human, considered his masterpiece, is a haunting account of a man incapable of conforming to societal norms, descending into isolation and despair — a reflection of Dazai’s own inner turmoil.

His short stories, such as Run, Melos! and Schoolgirl, reveal his versatility, ranging from allegorical retellings of classical myths to sensitive portrayals of youthful innocence. Through his unique voice, Dazai merged traditional Japanese narrative elements with Western literary influences, creating a body of work that remains distinct in both tone and subject matter.

Impact and Legacy

Dazai’s work resonated deeply with postwar Japan, a society grappling with the collapse of its traditional values and the trauma of defeat. His candid exploration of human weakness, self-doubt, and alienation spoke to a generation struggling to find meaning in a changing world. His style, marked by irony, humor, and pathos, has influenced countless Japanese authors, including Yukio Mishima and Haruki Murakami.

Unlike many of his contemporaries, Dazai’s appeal endures strongly among younger readers, who find in his works an intimate reflection of personal insecurity and existential struggle. Internationally, his novels have gained recognition for their universal themes, and translations have introduced his voice to readers around the world.

On June 13, 1948, Dazai and his lover Tomie Yamazaki committed double suicide by drowning in the Tamagawa Canal in Tokyo. He was only 38 years old. His tragic death cemented his image as a romantic, tormented artist, forever lTheinked to the confessional nature of his works.

Although his career was brief, Osamu Dazai left a lasting mark on Japanese literature. His ability to confront the darkness of the human psyche with honesty and lyricism ensures his place as one of Japan’s most compelling literary voices. His novels continue to be read, studied, and adapted, maintaining their relevance as timeless meditations on the fragility of identity and the struggle to belong.

About the work

The Setting Sun is a poignant exploration of postwar Japanese society, focusing on themes of decline, identity, and the search for meaning in a rapidly changing world. Osamu Dazai critiques the disintegration of the traditional aristocratic class while examining the psychological struggles of individuals caught between the past and an uncertain future. Through the lives of characters such as Kazuko and her brother Naoji, the novel delves into themes of alienation, decay, and the painful reconciliation with social and personal upheaval.

Since its publication, The Setting Sun has been acclaimed for its evocative prose and raw emotional intensity. Its exploration of universal themes such as loss, existential despair, and the quest for redemption has secured its status as a classic of modern Japanese literature. The deeply flawed yet compelling characters and their turbulent journeys continue to engage readers, offering profound insights into the human condition.

The novel’s enduring relevance stems from its ability to capture the complexities of a society in transition and the inner turmoil of those striving to find purpose amid chaos. By portraying the intersection of personal tragedy and cultural transformation, The Setting Sun invites readers to reflect on resilience, the fragility of identity, and the enduring human desire for connection and hope.

THE SETTING SUN

CHAPTER One: Snake

Mother uttered a faint cry. She was eating soup in the dining room.

Mother let out a faint cry. She was eating soup in the dining room.

I thought perhaps something had gotten into the soup that disagreed with her. "A hair?" I asked.

"No." Mother poured another spoonful of soup into her mouth as if nothing had happened. Afterwards, she turned her head to one side, directed her gaze at the cherry tree in full bloom outside the kitchen window, and, with her head still averted, brought another spoonful of soup to her lips. My mother eats in a way so unlike the manner prescribed in women's magazines that it's no mere figure of speech to use the word "flutter" in her case.

My younger brother, Naoji, once told me, while drunk, "Just because a person has a title doesn't make him an aristocrat. Some people are great aristocrats with no title other than the one nature bestowed upon them. Others like us, who have nothing but titles, are closer to being pariahs than aristocrats." Iwashima, for example, doesn't he strike you as being more vulgar than any pimp you might meet on the street?" That damned fool wore a tuxedo to his cousin's wedding." Even if there was a reason for him to wear that outfit, the highfalutin language he used in his table speech made me want to puke. That kind of affectation is a cheap facade with nothing to do with refinement." Just as there used to be signs around the university that said "High-Class Lodgings," much of what passes for the aristocracy might better be called "High-Class Beggars." Real aristocrats don't put on silly airs like Iwashima does. Mama is the only one in our family who is. She's the genuine article. There's something about her that none of us can match.

Take the matter of eating soup, for example. We are trained to lean slightly over the plate, take up a little soup with the spoon held sideways, and bring it to our mouths, still holding the spoon sideways. Mama, on the other hand, lightly rests the fingers of her left hand on the edge of the table. She sits perfectly erect with her head held high, scarcely glancing at the plate. She darts the spoon into the soup, and, like a swallow, brings the spoon to her mouth at a right angle and pours the soup between her lips from the point — so gracefully and cleanly that one can really use the simile. Then, with an innocent glance around her, she flutters the spoon like a little wing, never spilling a drop or making a sound. This may not be the way etiquette dictates one should eat soup, but to me, it is most appealing and genuine. In fact, soup tastes much better when you eat it as Mother does, sitting serenely erect, than when you look down into the plate. However, being a high-class beggar, as Naoji says, and unable to eat with Mother's effortless ease, I bend over the plate as proper etiquette prescribes.

Mother's way of eating, not only soup but everything else, is quite different from normal table manners. When meat appears, she cuts it into small pieces with her knife and fork. Then, she transfers the fork to her right hand and happily skewers one piece after another. While we struggle to free the meat from a chicken bone without rattling the plate, she unconcernedly picks up the bone and chews the meat off. Such uncivilized actions seem charming and strangely erotic when Mother performs them. Real things tend to be deviant.

I have sometimes thought that food would taste better if we ate with our fingers. However, I refrain from doing so for fear that if a high-class beggar like myself imitates Mother poorly, I might appear to be a plain beggar.

My brother Naoji says that we are no match for Mother. I have felt despair at times at the difficulty of imitating her. Once, in the back garden of our house on Nishikata Street—it was a beautiful, moonlit evening at the beginning of autumn—Mother and I were sitting in the summerhouse by the pond, admiring the moon. Suddenly, she got up and disappeared into a nearby clump of flowering shrubs. She called to me from among the white blossoms, laughing, "Guess what Mother is doing now, Kazuko."

"Picking flowers."

She raised her voice in a little laugh. "Wee-wee!"

I felt that there was something truly adorable about her that I could never imitate.

This is quite a digression from this morning's soup, but I recently learned from a book that, in the days of the French monarchy, court ladies thought nothing of relieving themselves in the palace gardens or in a corner of the corridors. Such innocence charms me, and I wondered if Mother might be one of the last of that kind of lady.

In any case, this morning, she let out a little cry as she sipped the soup. I asked if she had found a hair in it, but she said no.

"Perhaps it was too salty."

The soup this morning was green pea. I made it from an American can I got on the ration. I don't have much confidence in my cooking abilities, though it's one of the few things a girl should be confident in. I couldn't help but worry about the soup, even after Mother said nothing was wrong.

"You made it very well," Mother said seriously. After she finished the soup, she ate some rice balls wrapped in seaweed.

I have never liked breakfast and am never hungry before ten o'clock. This morning, I managed to finish the soup, but I had to force myself to eat anything else. I put some rice balls on a plate and poked at them with my chopsticks, mashing them down. I picked up a piece, held my chopsticks at right angles to my mouth like Mother holds a spoon while eating soup, and pushed the piece into my mouth as if feeding a little bird. While I dawdled over my food, Mother, who had already finished her meal, quietly rose and stood with her back against a wall warmed by the morning sun. She watched me eat in silence for a while.

"Kazuko, you mustn't eat that way. You should try to make breakfast the meal you enjoy most."

"Do you enjoy it, Mother?"

"It doesn't matter about me. I'm not sick anymore.

"But I'm the one who's not sick."

"No, no." With a sad smile, Mother shook her head.

Five years ago, I was bedridden with what was called lung trouble, although I knew I had willed the sickness on myself. Mother's recent illness, on the other hand, had really been nerve-racking and depressing. And yet, her only concern was for me.

"Ah," I murmured.

"What's the matter?" This time, it was Mother's turn to ask.

We exchanged glances and experienced a moment of absolute understanding. I giggled, and Mother's face lit up with a smile.

Whenever I am assailed by a painfully embarrassing thought, a strange, faint cry comes from my lips. This time, I had suddenly and vividly recalled the events surrounding my divorce six years ago. Before I knew it, my little cry had escaped me. I wondered why Mother had uttered it, too. It couldn't be that she had recalled something embarrassing from her past, like I had. No, and yet there was something.

"What was it you remembered just now, Mother?"

"I've forgotten."

"About me?"

"No."

"Was it about Naoji?"

"Yes." Then, reconsidering, Mother leaned her head to one side and added, "Perhaps."

My brother, Naoji, was called up while he was still in college and sent off to an island in the South Pacific. We haven't heard from him since, and he's still missing even after the war ended. Mother has resigned herself to never seeing Naoji again. At least, that's what she says. I, however, have never once resigned myself to that fate. I am certain that we will see him again.

I thought I had given up all hope. But when I ate your delicious soup, I thought of Naoji, and it was too much for me. I wish I had been better to him."

Around the time Naoji first entered high school, he became fanatically absorbed in literature and started leading a life almost like a delinquent, causing Mother immeasurable grief. Despite his terrible behavior, Mother thought of Naoji as she ate her soup and cried out. I angrily shoved the food into my mouth, and my eyes grew hot.

"He's all right. Naoji's all right. Scoundrels like Naoji simply don't die. It's always the gentle, sweet, and beautiful people who die. Naoji wouldn't die even if you clubbed him with a stick."

Mother smiled. "Then I suppose you'll die an early death."

She was teasing me.

"Why should I? I'm both bad and ugly! I'll live to be eighty!"

"Really? In that case, your mother is good for ninety!"

"Yes," I said, a little perplexed. Scoundrels live a long time. The beautiful die young. Mother is beautiful. But I want her to live a long time. I was at a loss for words. "You're being difficult," I protested. My lower lip began to tremble and my eyes welled with tears.

I wondered if I should tell her about the snake. One afternoon, four or five days ago, the neighborhood children found a dozen or so snake eggs hidden in the fence posts. They insisted that they were viper eggs. I realized that if we had a dozen vipers crawling around in our bamboo thicket, we would never be able to go into the garden without taking special precautions. I told the children, "Let's burn the eggs," and they followed me, dancing with joy.

I made a pile of leaves and brushwood near the thicket, set it on fire, and threw the eggs into the flames one by one. They did not catch fire for a long time. The children added more leaves and twigs to the fire, making it blaze more vigorously. Still, the eggs did not look as if they would ever burn.

A girl from the farmhouse down the road called from the other side of the fence to ask what we were doing.

"We're burning viper eggs. I'm afraid the vipers might hatch."

"How big are the eggs?"

"They're about the size of a quail's egg and pure white."

"Then they're just ordinary, harmless snake eggs and not viper eggs. Raw eggs don't burn very well, you know."

The girl laughed as if it were all very funny.

The fire had been blazing for about half an hour, but the eggs simply would not burn. I had the children retrieve them from the flames and bury them under the plum tree. I gathered some pebbles to use as a gravestone.

"Let's pray, everybody." I knelt down and joined my hands. The children obediently knelt behind me and joined their hands in prayer. Afterwards, I left the children and slowly climbed the stone steps. Mother was standing at the top in the shade of the wisteria trellis.

"You've done a very cruel thing," she said.

"I thought they might be viper eggs, but they were from an ordinary snake." I gave them a proper burial anyway. There's nothing to be upset about." I realized how unfortunate it was that Mother had seen me.

She is not superstitious, but she has had a mortal dread of snakes ever since Father died in our house on Nishikata Street ten years ago. Just before he passed away, she saw what she thought was a thin black cord near his bed and casually went to pick it up, only to discover that it was a snake. It glided off into the corridor and disappeared. Only Mother and my Uncle Wada had noticed it. They looked at each other, but they didn't say anything for fear of disturbing Father's final moments. That is why Naoji and I, who were in the room at the time, knew nothing about the snake.

However, I know for a fact, having seen them, that there were snakes twisted around all the trees by the garden pond on the evening of my father's death. I am twenty-nine now, which means that when my father died ten years ago, I was nineteen and no longer a child. Ten years have passed, yet my memories of what happened are still vivid, and I am not likely to be mistaken. I was walking by the pond, planning to pick flowers for the service. I stopped by a bank of azaleas and suddenly noticed a small snake coiled around the tip of an azalea branch. This startled me a little. Then, when I went to cut a branch of kerria roses from the next bush, I saw a snake there, too. There was a snake on the rose of Sharon, the maple, the broom, the wisteria, and the cherry tree—on every bush and tree. This didn't frighten me much. I felt that the snakes, like me, were mourning my father's death and had come out of their hiding places to pay homage to his spirit. Later, when I whispered to Mother about the snakes in the garden, she took it calmly and merely tilted her head to the side as if thinking of something. She didn't say anything.

Yet, it's true that these two incidents involving snakes made Mother detest them forever. It might be more accurate to say that she feared and revered them, and came to dread them.

When she discovered that I had burned the snake eggs, she must have felt that it was an ill-omened act. This realization made me realize that I had done a terrible thing by burning the eggs. I was so tormented by the fear that I might have cursed Mother that I could not stop thinking about it, not that day or the next or the next. Yet this morning in the dining room, I blurted out that idiotic remark about beautiful people dying young. No matter what I said afterwards, I could not cover it up, and I ended up in tears. Later, while clearing the breakfast dishes, I felt an unbearable sensation as if a horrible little snake that would shorten Mother's life had crawled into my chest.

That same day, I saw a snake in the garden. It was a beautiful, serene morning. After finishing my work in the kitchen, I decided to take a wicker chair out onto the lawn and knit. As I stepped down into the garden with the chair in my arms, I saw the snake by the iris stalks. I felt only mild revulsion. I carried the chair back to the porch, sat down, and began to knit. In the afternoon, I went into the garden to get a volume of Marie Laurencin's paintings from our library, which is in a storehouse at the bottom of the garden. A snake was crawling slowly over the lawn. It was the same snake I had seen that morning—a delicate, graceful snake. It was peacefully crossing the lawn. When it reached the shade of a wild rose, it stopped, lifted its head, and quivered its flame-like tongue. It appeared to be searching for something. After a few moments, it dropped its head and fell to the ground as though overcome with weariness. I said to myself, "It must be a female." The strongest impression I received was of the snake's beauty. I went to the storehouse and took out a book of paintings. On the way back, I stole a glance at where I had seen the snake, but it had already vanished.

In the evening, while drinking tea with Mother, I happened to look out at the garden just as the snake slowly crawled into view by the third step of the stone staircase.

Mother also noticed it. "Is that the snake?" She rushed over to me, clutching my hands, and stood cowering beside me. I knew what she was thinking.

"You mean the mother of the eggs?" I blurted out.

"Yes, yes." Her voice was strained.

We held hands and stood in silence, watching the snake with bated breath. The snake, languidly coiled on the store, began to stir again. With a faltering motion, it traversed the step weakly and slithered off toward the irises.

"It's been wandering around the garden since this morning," I whispered. Mother sighed and sat heavily on a chair.

"That's what it is. I'm sure of it. She's looking for her eggs. The poor thing." Mother spoke in a dejected voice.

I giggled nervously, not knowing what else to do.

The sun striking her face made her eyes shine blue. Her face seemed to wear a faint suggestion of anger, and it was so lovely that I felt like flying to her. Then, it occurred to me that Mother's face resembled that of the unfortunate snake we had just seen. For whatever reason, I had the feeling that the ugly snake in my heart might one day devour this beautiful, grief-stricken mother snake.

I placed my hand on her soft, delicate shoulder and felt a physical agitation I could not explain.