In this blog post, we’ll examine the background of the publication, the structure, the style, and the message Osamu Dazai intended to convey in his posthumous work, ‘No Longer Human’.
‘No Longer Human’ is Osamu Dazai’s posthumous work that continues to be read and discussed consistently, even more than 80 years after its publication. This work was serialized in three parts in the magazine ‘Tenbo’ in 1948 and later published alongside the short story collection ‘Goodbye’. However, just one month after the serialization ended, Dazai threw himself into the upper reaches of the Tama River and died, finally ending his life after numerous suicide attempts throughout his lifetime. He was 39 years old.
The work is structured around a preface and afterword by an anonymous narrator, along with three memoirs narrated in the first person by a character named “Yōjō.” In other words, the “I” who first appears and the “I” who serves as the central figure in the memoirs are distinct from one another, creating a structure akin to having two protagonists.
The first memoir depicts his childhood and family background; the second portrays his struggles to adapt to society as an adult, his aimless wandering, and his reliance on drugs; and the third describes his final days, during which he completely collapses into drug addiction following his marriage and a traumatic event. This is followed by an afterword in which the narrator “I,” who opened the book, reappears to objectively describe the protagonist of the memoirs.
If Dazai had intended this work to be a purely autobiographical novel, meant solely to confess his own mental wanderings and anguish, there would have been no need to include two distinct “I”s. Furthermore, if he had been completely unconcerned with how people would judge him after his death, the dialogue between the objective “I” and “Madam” would also have been unnecessary. Dazai had already contemplated suicide on numerous occasions and was mindful of death even while writing this work. Considering this, I cautiously wonder if, even as he confessed to being “disqualified as a human being,” he also sought to record—through a separate voice—the discrepancy between his true self and his public image.
As a translator, the aspects I was particularly careful not to overlook were the structure and style. The sentences that describe the characters, events, and narrative flow in a thoroughly objective manner, free from emotional intervention, stand in stark contrast to the confessions in the diary entries—which convey no sense of reason or self-control—and thus represent the great turmoil and harsh society of the time, as well as the psychology of those swept up in that maelstrom. This technique of contrast is repeatedly applied throughout the novel, shaping its overall tone.
Furthermore, the use of extremely long sentences—a style that was very unfamiliar and difficult to translate into Korean (where five or six sentences run together without a period)—appears to be a device the author uses to indirectly emphasize the characters’ chaotic and disorganized emotions, as well as their lack of understanding of the circumstances and relationships at the time. These sentences can be seen as a brilliant stylistic device that draws readers into the work while immersing them in an atmosphere of instability. Conversely, the passage where he bluntly describes himself as “a human being, disqualified” functions as a strategy to define his current predicament in a single, terse statement—without further explanation—by creating an effect where the sentence abruptly cuts off, like a heart attack, at the end of a ceaseless stream of consciousness. This use of sentences makes the reader’s breath catch and then release.
To understand even a little of the confusion and instability that dominated the protagonist’s life—as well as his eccentric behavior, such as the attempted double suicide with a woman—it is helpful to be familiar with the historical context of the time. Otherwise, there is a risk that his actions will be dismissed as mere lamentations of a weak intellectual or the excuses of a social misfit.
Yōzō was the youngest son raised by a large landowner; although he faced no financial hardship, he was constrained in his actions and had a passive personality. He spent his childhood constantly watching others’ reactions, never once speaking his mind, and later grew up attending school alone in Tokyo. At the time, democracy had not yet taken root; Marxism was circulating among intellectuals; and following Japan’s defeat in World War II, the aristocracy had their property confiscated, an economic depression struck, and widespread chaos ensued.
This social turmoil had a profound impact on individuals as well. Yōzō, who came from a privileged family, had never achieved financial independence and had lived off his father’s support. However, when that support was cut off due to his disappointing behavior—including academic failure, romantic entanglements, and a suicide attempt—his financial pressure intensified. This pressure exacerbated Yōzō’s psychological anxiety, and he sought refuge in the arms of women who pitied him, sinking deeper into alcohol and drugs.
The “I” in the memoir also represents the masses—victims of a prevailing social trend that turned its back on contemporaries and prioritized “ideology” and “the state.” Characters in the work who fail to find a refuge gradually sink deeper into a quagmire and meet a miserable end. Yōjō makes almost no attempt to accept his situation or compromise, which confuses readers who seek to identify the characters with the author himself.
Many readers equate Yōzō with Dazai, and ardent fans even identify themselves with the author. However, as a writer, Osamu Dazai merely sought to denounce and criticize society by incorporating his own experiences and the struggles of anguished young people into his work. If Dazai had been unable to shake off his self-loathing tendencies and had projected himself onto the character, then “Uehara,” a character from one of his other works, might have been a more accurate counterpart.
So what was the author’s intention in writing ‘No Longer Human’? Was it an indictment of a chaotic society, or was it the anguish of a young man who could not adapt to the times and wandered aimlessly? Throughout the work, Yōzō’s cries are expressed through words such as “truth,” “purity,” “faith,” and “nonresistance.”
However, the “human purity” that Yōzō yearned for his entire life is never preserved. Despite his innocent gaze and behavior, he is utterly shattered upon witnessing the horrific ordeal endured by his young wife, whom he had decided to marry. Yojō, who had sought solace and escape in alcohol and drugs, can no longer hold on to his shattered faith and hope.
The anguished cries in his diary remain unchanged: “Is trust a sin?” “Is innocent trust the source of sin?” “ Is nonresistance a sin?” These questions reveal the core of the emotions that led Yōzō to call himself a “wreck.”
Wreck. This word is both comic and tragic. It is a term tinged with the wry laughter of powerless nonresistance. In a world rife with chaos, strife, and lies, Yōzō, who yearned for purity, ultimately defined himself as a wreck—one unfit to be human.
The reason this work is still discussed and reread today is that situations of discord exist regardless of the era, and yet there remains something that humans value and hold onto as hope. I believe that “purity” and “faith,” even as they were shattered, broken, and disregarded, were flames burning deep within the author’s soul.
