Death of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Sakutaro Hagiwara
1.
The following is a brief introduction to the world of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa and his work. The first time I went to the Ochiairo in Yugashima Onsen on July 25th, a maid casually asked me: "Do you know the novelist Akutagawa?"
"Yes, I know him. What about him?"
"He committed suicide."
"What?"
I was startled and asked. Suicide? Ryūnosuke Akutagawa? It was unthinkable. But strangely enough, there seemed to be an undeniable certainty underlying the news. I even ordered the maid to fetch a newspaper just to be sure. But without even looking at the newspapers, an unusual instinct steeled me to conclude that the act was unquestionable.
An unexplainable, anxious impatience, an honest to God feeling of fear, raged through my entire nervous system like a fire. He, whom I had met and talked to so intimately just a few days before I left on my trip, had in fact committed suicide. What a surprise, what a bolt from the blue. I felt as if I were dreaming a ridiculous dream. But somewhere in the corner of my mind, I had been expecting it, and in the shadows of my unconsciousness, I felt as if I had been exposed to something secret.
"You've done it!"
When I saw the pictures in the newspaper, my heart, filled with grief, sank. I bit my lip and moaned low. I began to feel pain and fear. My brain was suddenly congested and I couldn't think about anything else. I knew something was wrong, something was very wrong. I knew I couldn't stay still. Then, as if sleepwalking, I got up and halfway up the river I visited an inn. At the inn (Yumotokan) was Shiro Ozaki and his wife. Mr Ozaki was startled, stunned, and then stood up, overcome by an extraordinary feeling of emotion. Recently, Ozaki had come to know a lot about Akutagawa's personality through me.
2.
Why did Ryūnosuke Akutagawa commit suicide? What was the true cause of his suicide? There are a number of complicated reasons. Many of the deceased's friends will have their own opinions on the matter, from a variety of different perspectives. As for myself, I was one of his many friends - in fact, he had many friends - and we were the fewest people to know each other. The only privilege I have over him is that I, more than any other of his friends, am the most recent of all his friends.
I mean this "most recent friend" in a particularly profound way. For in his recent style there has been a marked change and leap forward. And because this mental tendency often suggests something that resonates and agrees with me. I have never understood why Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, the great literary master, showed so much affection and friendship - sometimes even excessive respect - for an untalented and unknown poet like myself. It is only now that I have come to understand.
3.
Saisei Murō was the deceased's closest friend in recent times. The friendship between Murō and Akutagawa was really akin to the so-called "friendship of monarchs" as described by Confucius, in that they respected each other's character and were bound together by reverence, courtesy, and praise of virtue. In Murō's eyes, Akutagawa, a civilised gentleman with a good sense of honour, cultivation, and learning, was a hero who truly embodied the supreme concept of humanity. In other words, their friendship is a typical example of the so-called "anti-character" relationship between the two.
My friendship with Mr Akutagawa is even more recent than that with Mr Murō, and dates back only to the last three years. Before I write about the cause of Akutagawa's death, I would like to recall our memorable friendship during these short years.
4.
One day, while I was living in Tabata, a man with beautiful long hair and a barren frame came to visit me.
He said, "My name is Akutagawa. Nice to meet you."
He bowed politely. I had promised to visit him together with Mr Murō, so I was wary to thank him politely for his sudden visit. But to my further horror, when I raised my head, the visitor's head was still on the tatami mat. I rushed to add a bow. Then I thought to myself. I wondered if I would be able to make friends with this person in my own way. I felt somewhat uneasy.
But the intelligent visitor immediately saw through my apprehension. When he saw how frightened and confused I was, he immediately changed his attitude and spoke to me in the manner of a student without hesitation, suddenly adopting a simple, rough and ready tone. From that moment on, I was overwhelmed by Akutagawa-kun. I felt that I was being overpowered by someone who was at least "better" than me, and I felt a kind of defiance. And this sneering rebelliousness has continued in my later relationships, one by one, until the very end. I always put up my shoulders in front of him, deliberately trying not to lose. (How miserable and stupid I was!)
5.
When I visited him, he knew very well that everything I wanted to complain about was already known to him. At the time, I was in a desperate struggle with ideological and artistic matters. I tried to talk about it. But Akutagawa-kun knew it wisely and spoke to me before I could speak to him. He then related his thoughts and concerns to me with his own, and finally, in conclusion, he implicitly inspired, consoled, and steeled me with courage and strength.
But this was again unsatisfactory to me, because I was not satisfied with the way things were going. I was unhappy about this, because I felt that Akutagawa's attitude taught me a lesson and showed me pity, just as a senior student shows a junior student. If Akutagawa-kun is truly a sympathiser and a fellow sufferer, then our conversation should be an exchange of handshakes as close friends, deep in the soul. However, Akutagawa's attitude is that he puts himself on a high pedestal and looks at people with a simple intellectual sagacity. Therefore, his sympathy is nothing but pity and insult.
This also always aroused his rebellious spirit. He, as a young man, was conscious of being disrespectful to his elder, and this intentionally made my shoulders stiffen in front of him again. Above all, I didn't like his "intelligence." My dissatisfaction with Akutagawa-kun was that he was simply intelligent, and only intelligent.
Ah! But today, how could I have been anything more than a blind man, a dullard? It was only much later that I began to understand Akutagawa-kun's true character.
6.
Akutagawa also had an intelligent understanding of poetry. He had faithfully read through most of the poetry of Haruo Satō, Saisei Murō, Hakushu Kitahara, Motomaro Senke, Kotaro Takamura, Gennosuke Hinatsu, and Sonosuke Satō, among others. In addition, he had also read widely through the works of so-called up-and-coming poets such as Tatsuo Hori, Shigeharu Nakano, and Kyojiro Hagiwara.
He often discussed the world of poetry and criticised poetry. And his insights almost always hit the nail on the head. In this impartial understanding and insight, he was no less than the highest and purest of the poetical world. Akutagawa often commented on my old poems and pointed out deficiencies in expressive technique. He always said to me in a bold manner: "Your poems are incomplete. Your poetry is an unfinished art." And I agreed with him. I agreed, because my poems seemed to be full of deficiencies, as he pointed out.
7.
One morning, I woke up unusually early and was tidying the floor when Akutagawa unexpectedly jumped in. I use the word "jumped in" here because that is exactly what happened. In fact, that morning he came in like a gust of wind and suddenly climbed the second floor ladder. Akutagawa, who usually greeted the house guests with such courtesy and politeness, suddenly strode into my study without waiting for an intermediary to come and greet him.
I was somewhat suspicious. His attitude was quite different from that of the normally gentlemanly Akutagawa-kun. And it was unusual for Akutagawa to visit someone so early in the morning. I wondered what had happened.
"I've just come from reading your poem on the floor.”
As soon as he saw my face, Akutagawa spoke to me without even saying hello. Then he realised what he was saying and said: "No, I'm sorry, just got out of bed."
He then proceeded to tell me the following in response to my confusion. This morning, he was in bed as usual and looked through the mail piled up at his bedside. As he read through it, he came to a short piece called 'Hometown Watching Poem,' which was a poem about my hometown. It was a poem about the scenery of my hometown, with several emotional passages full of resentment and bitterness, but as he read the poem, he was moved by an uncontrollable feeling of grief and pain, and he could no longer contain his emotional excitement. He kicked the floor in a fit of rage and came flying straight to me. After saying this, he apologised for not having washed his face and changed his clothes, and for having visited me in his nightclothes.
I was very pleased to hear this touching story. It must have been very important for me to know that my own trivial work had caused such a real sensation of excitement in the face of such a demanding and thorough critic as Mr Akutagawa. I was thrilled and delighted. At the same time, however, I had a new question in the depths of my mind, something that didn't quite make sense to me.
I have always admired Mr Akutagawa's intelligent understanding and views on our poetry - on the poetry of the new world of poetry. (In most cases, his criticism of our poetry was correct.) I admired his "criticism." However, his critical attitude was always very objective. Above all, he expressed his opinion on the expressive effect of poetry. Just as criticism of the price of a novel depends on how well it is drawn (expression), he sought the same effectivity of drawing (i.e. expressive technique) in poetry. In other words, his attitude to criticism was purely appreciative, rational, and intelligent, and was based on aesthetic contemplation without any subjective viewpoint.
That is why I have always thought about Akutagawa. In short, he is an intelligent "poetry appreciator." He correctly identifies and criticises which poems are good and which are bad. But that is all. He is not a student of poetry. Therefore, all poems are only "to be criticised" for him, not that he is "to be moved" in any way. He simply criticises the art of theatre, just like a theatre-goer's interest in theatre, and does not truly enjoy it or be moved by it, like the average spectator. He himself is a spectator of the play from outside the play, a so-called "critic." From this point of view, I consider him to be a poet, like Murō and Haruo Satō - who are undoubtedly poets - who are not only appreciators of poetry, but also writers with their own poetry. --I have made a distinction between them and the poets.
This view of mine has been shaken since that morning's appearance. How could a person who has no poetry in his heart be so subjectively moved by the poetry of others? Akutagawa was not an ordinary appreciative aesthete, but a true "poet drowning in poetry" who had forgotten such a critical attitude. I saw in his eyes a poetic passion I had never known. Then a certain unanswerable question arose about this strange man. It was a "mystery of the gods" with a terrible meaning that I could not solve, not until long afterwards, not even just before his suicide.
8.
Since that time, my own views on Akutagawa-kun have undergone a new upheaval and change. What strange passions are ignited in the innermost soul of this man who is known to most as a man of reason, a man of virtue, a man of purity? The flames of this passion seemed to burn like the sulphur of hell, somewhere deep within the earth's shell. My interest in my new friend was aroused by the ADVENTURE of friendship to search for the secret essence of it.
Fate, however, unfortunately separated us. Soon after, our families left Tabata and moved to Kamakura. Because of the distance between us, we naturally lost touch with each other. I still tried to see the true Akutagawa through his works, and to see Akutagawa as a poet. I read the monthly magazines, but the results were unsatisfactory. The Ryūnosuke Akutagawa who appeared in his works was still a quiet "man of reason" and an intellectual rich in common-sense judgement. He saw the reality of all nature with transparent wisdom. But his spectacles were always only transparent. No shadow of anything could obscure his vision. However, he only "sees" it. He does not "feel" it. Therefore, the clearer his vision became, the more the shadows in the plain glass fell short.
Naturally, I was dissatisfied with this kind of literature. My position as a literary contemplativist - and therefore also a romanticist - did not like Akutagawa's "too literary" and "too contemplative" attitude. In my sense of language, "poetry" is an observation of the subjective. Therefore, literature without contemplation is not poetry in my sense of the word, and it must be hostile to the antipodal position of my own artistic position. And Akutagawa's literature is precisely in this respect my enemy - and the most powerful enemy, so great and powerful that I feel the greatest honour in fighting against it. In particular, the aphoristic letters ('Words of Confucianism') that appeared in the monthly Bungeishunju magazine were so ironic in the author's way of playing wit for wit's sake that I could not help but be disgusted, even to the point of hatred.
However, I have strangely enough also always paid the opposite affection to the same author. If anything, there is in him just the kind of "freshness" and special "sensitivity" that our poetry seeks, a certain inexplicable divine sharpness that swims in the midst of a lively language. In fact, in today's old and decaying Japanese literary establishment, there is no writer as "full of youth" as Akutagawa. What else is so full of poetic youthfulness as his literary works? If we think of the word "poetry" as "youth of soul," then at the very least Akutagawa is a poet. (In fact, the poet is the eternal youth of the spirit. Akutagawa himself said the same thing.)
Akutagawa's literature is remarkable for being so literary and artistic, and also for being so boyish. It is for this reason alone that today's new world of Japanese poetry shares the same taste as that of Akutagawa. This is also the reason why established masters other than Akutagawa have no contact with our new poetry. In fact, Akutagawa's literature was the literature of the boyish audience. Just as his appearance suggests, there is something youthful and energetic about him, a yearning for all things new and imported, a sense of freshness and incomparability.
For this reason, Akutagawa-kun has been my enemy and my lover at the same time. If I were to change my definition of "poetry" in my language, he was without doubt a poet - and a poet of the youngest age. But I was stubborn. My most subtle instincts stubbornly insisted that he was not a poet, and therefore unsatisfied with his work.
9.
It was while I was in Kamakura that I visited Akutagawa at his Azuma house in Kugenuma, facing the sea, while he was ill. Akutagawa-kun, who was reduced to nothing but skin and bones due to his severe weakening of the mind and body and physical pain, nevertheless spoke with great gusto. Strangely enough, I remember all the stories of that time. The sick man got up on the floor and talked about the tragic end of many geniuses, almost without exception. If a man is really a genius, his life is always tragic. He confirmed this meaning with a tragic story. Then he revealed himself even more heartbreakingly. He said that he wanted to leave everything and everyone behind and emigrate to a faraway place in South America.
Akutagawa's discourse was unusually pathetic. I often felt a kind of lurid spirit about his work - the kind of luridness that the character for "demon" in the Chinese language suggests. In fact, I saw this "demon" aspect everywhere: in his appearance and demeanour, in his uniqueness of writing and calligraphy, and especially in his works and conversations.
Just as I was haunted by a pessimistic view of terrible melancholy, I identified with him in every essential point of his discourse and felt a kind of friendly attraction to him. But I could not tell where the true cause of his pessimism lay. I thought it was probably mainly due to his hopeless illness and the consequent weakening of his creative powers. Another thought was that he happened to be in tune with me because he was intelligent enough to "see into people's hearts," and had his own special kind of compassion. In fact, this one supposition was deeply impressed on my mind from the very first day of our association with him. He spoke to all kinds of people with all kinds of intelligence and was in tune with all kinds of people. But after the guest had gone home, he would unleash a sarcastic tongue. And he would observe, with the ruthlessness characteristic of the novelist, how stupid and stupidly excited they were.
This idea was certainly unpleasant. However, I could not help but have the same illusions about Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, whom I had made the acquaintance of in Ikaho. I had never been acquainted with any literary figures other than Saisei Murō, and novelists, in particular, were a completely unknown world to me. Novelists - all novelists - were to me "humans from the stars." To be with them was for me an observation of a different universe. My fellow poets are all simple passionate people, with little or no objective vision. The poet is always tipsy and speaks only from the perspective of drunkenness. The novelist, on the other hand, is always objective and calm in his observation of everything. Therefore, when you talk to a novelist, you feel a ruthless, frozen air that is completely different from your own sort. The empty air is a nasty observer, staring at your own faults. This is just like a person who has had too much alcohol and is being observed in bad faith by people who sober
Whenever I was confronted with Akutagawa, I felt this discomfort - the discomfort of being observed - in a subtle corner of my instincts. I sometimes thought of him as a "mean-spirited ironic person." However, this was just me, who did not know anything about novelists, and who happened to have an evil interpretation of Mr Tanizaki and Mr Akutagawa, whom I had never met before, based on my general instinct of observing novelists. They are by no means such bad observers. It is just that their attitude, their professionally habitual novelist attitude, impresses a certain ruthless - not alcoholic - instinct of observation on people from a different world.
The last thing I want to say is that when we parted, he repeated the following words in a tone of antonyms that seemed to undo everything he had said.
"But all the things said by pessimists who don't kill themselves are lies." Then he laughed and said, "You and I are both fake pessimists anyway."
10.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa was finally becoming to me an incomprehensible mystery, a rather mysterious figure. He seemed to me at once a lovable, adoring man, full of "sympathy" and friendship, and at the same time a ruthless, mean-spirited person. Most puzzling of all, he seemed on the one hand to be a man of very calm reason, and on the other hand to be a man of mad passion. He is a man of common sense, yet somehow he conceals a surprisingly superconscientious, anarchic instinct. His works are always so common-sense and rational that they are divisible by 22 divided by 4, and yet, in some hidden shadow of language, they mysteriously evoke a mysterious "demon."
Above all, his contradiction was that he was on the one hand a "typical novelist" and on the other hand a "typical poet." And the word "typical novelist" and the word "typical poet" are two irreconcilable opposites in my dictionary. Is he a poet? Is he a poet or a novelist?
While I was away from Akutagawa, I thought about this question again and again. In the end, I came to the following definite conclusion.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa - he is a novelist who is passionate about poetry.
This feeling deepened when I read his serialised impressions in the magazine 'Modification,' entitled 'Literary, Too Literary.' In that article, he is full of references to "poetry." Of course, he does not mean poetry in the formal sense - the poetry of lyric and narrative poetry - but the poetry that should be the essence of general literature, that is, "poetic sentiment." The meaning of "poetry" as I often refer to it in this text is, of course, the same. Those who have read Akutagawa's essay and many of his recent writings will see how he is a pure admirer of poetry, and how desperately he insists that only in the poetic can there be true literature.
I am not familiar with Akutagawa's earlier views on literature and art. However, I have never seen him so deeply in touch with poetry, so longing for the real spirit of poetry, and so determined to penetrate the essence of his artistic vision as he has done recently. I am convinced that Akutagawa has recently undergone a change of direction. There was a fundamental shift in all of his past thoughts and feelings, and I sensed a desperately tragic and magnificent spirit of determination to enter into a new revolution of life. In fact, this change is somewhat reflected in his work. For example, in the melancholy and nihilistic 'Kappa,' and especially in the recent heartbreaking masterpiece 'Cogwheels.'
However, I still had doubts about Akutagawa's poetry. In my view, Akutagawa was really just a typical novelist who was passionate about poetry. In other words, he was not a poet himself, but belonged to a different literary category that was striving to become one. In fact, to be called a poet, his works (with the exception of a couple of them) are too objective, rationalistic, unsympathetic, and common-sense-oriented. In particular, his 'Words of Confucianism,' which appeared in Bungeishunju, and my so-called impressionistic prose-like short stories, show how the essence of his literature is of a far different nature from that of a poet. Furthermore, Akutagawa himself calls himself a "poet" and claims, "I create in order to complete the poet in me."
Akutagawa's view of the nature of poetry is certainly erroneous. At the very least, I believe that Akutagawa's view of poetry is different from mine. So I decided to have a debate with Akutagawa on this subject when the time was right. At that time, there was a pipe meeting in Ueno, Tokyo, with the members of the magazine 'Donkey' as the main participants and Murō and Akutagawa as guests of honour. I tried to take advantage of this opportunity. Unfortunately, Akutagawa did not attend, but on my way home I addressed the members of the club and made a great speech to them on the subject. I said: "I don't think poetry is in Akutagawa's art. It sometimes has the most exquisite poetic expression, the most poetic conception. But it is inorganic. It has no spirit as life." I said what I meant quite boldly.
11.
A short time later, Akutagawa-kun suddenly came to visit me one night. I could hardly speak to him because there was a meeting of many people at my place that night. Akutagawa was accompanied by many young people, including Ryūichi Ōana and Tatsuo Hori. He returned home with a bottle of fine champagne as a souvenir. (In hindsight, this champagne wine was a memento of his life.)
But when Akutagawa-kun came to visit me, he shouted as soon as he saw my face: "You say I am not a poet. Why is that? Why don't you ask me?"
His tone was harsh. Akutagawa's sword was very fierce when he came at me saying this, even though it was in a dark entrance with a light on. Indeed, his blood had changed at that moment. His tone of voice was warlike, as if he was trying to hide his rage.
"One moment!"
It was only a moment, but I was horrified without reason. I felt the fear of something like a knife being thrust into my chest. Behind him stood a large number of young men and women. I thought they were all going to grab me when the time came.
"Revenge! They are here for revenge," I thought to myself for a moment.
12.
A few days later, I went to visit Akutagawa. He was in the middle of a conversation with a client and looked very tired. His eyes lacked a certain liveliness, and he looked sad and gaunt. However, I continued to talk freely and openly without regard to the other person's feelings, as I always do. Gradually, his countenance began to take on a more normal, cheerful vitality. I have never seen such a boyish look in Akutagawa's eyes, or such a calligraphy student in his appearance, as I saw on this day. In fact, in his sickly frame, he possessed the courage of a young man with boundless energy.
After the previous guest had departed, he repeated his sharp question of the previous day: "You say I'm not a poet. How is that possible? Explain again."
But today he was very calm, his voice rather somber. He did not carry a sword. I then spoke up and explained my previous thoughts.
"In short, you are a model novelist."
When I came to this conclusion, he shook his head sadly.
"You don't understand me, you don't understand me thoroughly. I'm too much of a poet. I'm not the epitome of a novelist at all."
We then spent some time discussing the difference between the essential observations of poetry and the novel. Finally, I said to myself. When I proceeded to discuss literature from my own standpoint, Akutagawa-kun would be standing in the enemy's north pole. In the literary argument, we are, regrettably, enemies.
"Are you an enemy? I am your enemy."
He smiled sadly as he said this.
"On the contrary," he continued. He went on to say, "I don't think there's anyone in the world more alike than you and I. You can look at ...... or ...... on a person, but our works are completely different."
"Are they different? They are the same."
"No, they're not. No."
We fought. But finally, he grew tired of my stubbornness. Then he said bitterly, "I understand you. And you, you don't understand me one bit. No. You don't want to understand me. You don't want to understand me."
That day he was deeply distressed in every way. The tone of his voice itself had a very somber sound. He complained about many things. How he yearned for anarchic freedom. In essence, he was far more anarchist than I (the author). (Shortly before his death, Akutagawa published a review of me in a magazine called 'Kindaikei' (Modern Landscape) by Hakushu. In that review, he described me as a representative poetic anarchist.) I also wanted to leave my wife, children, family, and everything else behind and join the ranks of the free drifters. I want to be free to act instinctively and freely according to my feelings, like Saisei Murō. How desperately I have worked to achieve this freedom, and how consistently I have worked through the past with such passion. And finally, that he had despaired of anything, of any freedom at all, in sad, depressed tones.
As I listened to all these stories, I became tearful and sentimental. I was astonished to realise that there were certain new discoveries hidden within the brilliance of this literary genius that I had not yet been aware of in our traditional association. I had never realised that Akutagawa was in fact such a true poetic enthusiast. I foolishly made silly suspicions about his "sagacity." I suspected that he deliberately adapted the subject matter of his conversation to talk to me, and that he was making his mindless life sentiments. I even imagined him to be a sarcastic scoundrel - a mean-spirited satirist - who would stick his tongue out after a conversation.
How angry I must have been, and how I must have made a terrible mistake. Where can you find such a simple, pure, and boyish person like Akutagawa? The vague, unexplainable affection I had for this man for some time now was in fact the essence of his character. Looking back, I realise that from the beginning of our relationship, he had confided in me, without any pedantry, with a pure and sincere heart and with a satisfied passion. But what a despicable folly it was on my part. I was making needless hunches, pointless sceptical glances, and foolish precautions. When I heard the news of Akutagawa's death, I felt the shame of biting my tongue and dying of shame before him.
13.
That night, I went out with Saisei Murō and the three of us ate eel at a restaurant in Tabata. At that time, Akutagawa said: "The friendship between Hagiwara-kun and I is far closer in character than the relationship between Murō-kun and I."
Akutagawa-kun's words seemed to have offended Saisei somewhat. When we parted on our way home, Murō turned to me in his usual brusque tone and said sarcastically: "Like you, I am a friend of both of you.
I hate it when people like you visit two friends on two different days," he said.
At that moment, Akutagawa's face lit up with a hint of sadness. Still silent, he held up an umbrella and walked me through the night rain to the Tabata railway station. I turned around and looked behind me and saw him standing alone on the hill with a heavy heart. I felt lonely for no reason and waved at him in the rain to apologise. --And indeed, this was our last goodbye.
14.
After this meeting, I immediately travelled to a hot spring in Izu. One morning, I received the unexpected news of his suicide. My heart was filled with emotion and I still do not know what to say to express my condolences. I think that all friends of the deceased would share this feeling. But my condolences are different among them. For a long time now, I have had no truly good friends with whom I could speak my mind. Having Akutagawa as a friend has been a great source of joy and strength in my lonely, solitary life.
More than anything else, Akutagawa understood me well. And he forgave me all my selfishness and bigotry. (It was because of this bigotry and selfishness that I had no friends, and even when we were on the verge of friendship, we soon became irreconcilable.) In this respect, Akutagawa-kun always tolerated me and comforted me. No matter what I said or did, he always understood my feelings and was never angry with me. In fact, I felt annoyed at his generosity, and sometimes angry that he took pity on me. And in the end, I had had enough of the pleasure of his coddling, pampering, and willful spoiling. In other words, he was my dearest friend. How lonely my life would be without him!
It is less painful for a man to lose one friend out of a hundred. But to lose one friend out of two or three is unbearable. I was taught by him, comforted by him, and gained a good understanding of the art through him. Where can there be a second Akutagawa after his death? When will there be another Akutagawa? Where will there be someone who can criticise my art and my poetry? Thus, I, who have been isolated and unlucky by nature, will from today onwards become more and more isolated and desolate. Fate! I cannot help but cry out, "Curse you!"
15.
Only now can I draw a definite inference about Akutagawa's suicide. The reasons for this are, of course, multifarious. But I believe that one of the "vague anxieties" in Akutagawa's suicide was an undeniable sense of anxiety over the coming revolution in his own state of mind. In fact, Akutagawa's literary life was a mortal "war against himself." He wanted freedom. Rather, he wanted a Dionysian, free-spirited freedom. And this freedom was sadly not part of his own culture. His own culture was in every respect rational, sensible, respectful, and transparent.
Akutagawa's life. His life can be likened to the human tragedy of Zarathustra, who tried to become an eagle and fell. In his last will and testament, he satirises the philosopher who planned to become a god himself. But who can truly and completely become the master of himself without becoming a god? This is also how we can understand the true meaning of his view of literature and art, that my art is to perfect the poet in me. In fact, from one point of view, he was a superhuman supremacist. By committing suicide, he tried to reach the state of artistic perfection - the Zarathustra of beauty. But his eyes also tell us that he is a human tragedy. How, as a human being, he suffered for the "freedom to be passionate." The arts, indeed the arts, were only a hypnotic drug for him. (And, ironically, the hypnotic drug also led to his death.)
16
Akutagawa himself was unsatisfied with all his art and all his expressions. What he really wanted to write was not literature as a hypnotic drug, but poetry in the truest sense of the word, which would approach the realities of life. Moreover, his culture and the transparency of his reason prevented him from expressing himself as a poet. He rebelled against himself. He was outraged and attempted a superhuman feat of courage. 'Kappa,' 'Man of the West,' 'Cogwheels,' and many of his recent works are like that, showing a dawning vision of a new era.
But here, I could feel his remarkable bankruptcy. The passion with which he tried to write was always like a buried fire, like a glimmering shadow, buried under other not-so-subtle suppressions - ideological and cultural suppressions. He often felt powerful. And for a long time, the war continued to be cruel, heartbreaking, and tragic.
Why did Akutagawa kill himself? I can no longer say more than this. However, I can only confirm one obvious fact. That is, his suicide was a suicide of victory and not a suicide of defeat. In fact, in death he completed his "art" and proved the "poet" in him. In every sense of the word, his life was stoic - that was all Nietzsche wanted. Even in his last will and testament he still maintained the attitude of an artist, nowhere ruffled, never losing the peace of his quiet soul (aesthetic balance of mind). He is a hero, a hero of sublime artistic supremacy.
17.
The deceased usually referred to Kan Kikuchi as "my hero." In reality, however, Akutagawa himself was a hero in a completely different sense. He was a hero for the grievous and unceasing warfare he endured. Who in his lifetime - what close friend of his - saw in him this wounded hero? He died in a lonely grave, alone, without understanding. And yet he took the poison himself, measured it so carefully, and did not lose his stoic calmness of spirit.
In him I see the philosophy of the Greeks, the Stoics, Socrates, the summit of artistic supremacy. And from this philosophy, on the contrary, I first learn the horrifying, hidden spirit of his art theory ('Literary, too Literary'). He is a hero of Nietzsche and a wounded martyr to the supremacy of the arts.
And when I have thought about this, only then did I realise that the tragic and magnificent meeting in Kugenuma, in every nook and cranny of the language. How he complained in a somber voice about the misfortune of all geniuses and the fatal isolation and tragedy of artists at that time. Foolishly, I did not know the true circumstances of his sorrow at the time. I was also too stupid to know the true circumstances of his grief at the time. --I could not understand even the deepest meaning of his words. In fact, at that time, he was already planning his death.
18.
Behold! On this lofty summit stands a new monument. Over several slopes the travellers of the distant "age" will climb it. And in the autumn sunlight, they will read the words on the monument. What is written there?
Those who look will be amazed, nodding their heads, and then they will all go away. Time is changing, wind and snow are flying in the sky. Ah! Who can prevent the corrosion of letters? The air on the mountain tops is thin and the birds are singing in the trees. But a new season will come, the ice will melt and people will pass by its foot again. Who will see the tombstones on the mountain tops then? Beyond the eyes of many perceptions, white as snow, shining in the sun, is a righteous being.