Aptly compared to Shirley Jackson and Sherwood Anderson, this bit of New England horror kept me up at night until I finally was so wound with anxiety I had to put the book down, put on a relaxing podcast, and stare at my ceiling. Motifs of fragile masculinity and capitalism dealt with in ways that still resonate today.
Oof. This was a lot. I feel like I've known people like the protagonist of this work, and it functions almost as a cautionary tale even if that wasn't Dazai's intent? It's hard to tell what his intent was here. Perhaps it's about the distortions mental illness and abuse have on our perceptions of our reality? Regardless, as a cultural object it's fascinating because it's the second most bestselling book in Japan of all time, and it's bleak as hell.