“All the literary masters had depression”

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I haven’t been keeping up with my writing (or blogging), but I have been reading. I recently finished a Japanese book called 「 文豪はみんな、うつ」, which translates as “all the literary masters had depression”. It was written by a psychiatrist called Iwanami Akira. The book introduces ten famous Japanese literary figures from the Meiji to Showa periods, and details their struggles with mental illness.

It is rare to find literary criticism written by a psychiatrist. Mental illness is often “glorified” (if that is the right word) in writers and artists. This book doesn’t glorify anything. It shows the struggles the writers faced, and how they wrote “in spite of” and not “because of” their illnesses, while also showing how elements of their illnesses influenced their writings.

The writers featured are Natsume Soseki, Arishima Takeo, Akutagawa Ryunosuke, Shimada Seijiro, Miyazawa Kenji, Nakahara Chuya, Shimazaki Toson, Dazai Osamu, Tanizaki Junichiro and Kawabata Yasunari.

Seven of the writers had a serious mental illness such as depression, bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, and four committed suicide. Many suffered from delusions and hallucinations. Some had troubled personal lives. I’m interested in mental illness and its effects on daily life and creativity for personal reasons. The main character in my first novel In the Shadows of Mountains suffers from mental illness. In her case, it was brought on by her upbringing and life circumstances.

The book only details the lives of ten writers, but as we know, there were many more who struggled (and struggle) with mental illness. If you can read Japanese, the book is well worth a read, if not, you can read about them here on this blog. I’m going to write posts about the writers in the book and others from the perspective of mental health. Hopefully, I can keep up posting regularly (she says, noting it has been about two months since her last post….)

Fleeing

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I feel like fleeing. Like fleeing from what I know, fleeing from what’s mine, fleeing from what I love. I want to depart, not for impossible Indias or for the great islands south of everything, but for any place at all – village or wilderness – that isn’t this place. I want to stop seeing these unchanging faces, this routine, these days. I want to rest, far removed, from my inveterate feigning.

From The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa (translated by Richard Zenith)

Have patience…

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Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet

The lake

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The golden tint that still glows on waters abandoned by the setting sun is hovering on the surface of my weariness. I see myself as I see the lake I’ve imagined, and what I see in that lake is myself. I don’t know how to explain this image, or this symbol, or this that I envision. But I know I see, as if in reality I were seeing, a sun behind the hills that casts its doomed rays on to this lake that dark-goldenly simmers.

One of the perils of thinking is to see while thinking. Those who think with their reason are distracted. Those who think with their emotion are sleeping. Those who think with their desire are dead. I, however, think with my imagination, and all reason, sorrow and impulse in me are reduced to something remote and irrelevant, like this lifeless lake among rocks where the last light of the sun unlastingly hovers.

From The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa (translated by Richard Zenith)

Today my soul is sad….

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Today my soul is sad unto my body. All of me hurts: memory, eyes and arms. It’s like a rheumatism in all that I am. My being isn’t touched by the day’s limpid brightness, by the sheer blue sky, by this unabating high tide of diffuse light. I’m not soothed by the soft cool breeze – autumnal but reminiscent of summer – which gives the air of personality. Nothing touches me. I’m sad, but not with a definite sadness, nor even with an indefinite sadness I’m sad down there, on the street littered with packing crates.

From The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa (Translated by Richard Zenith)

Grieving over time’s passage

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“Time! The past! Something – a voice, a song, a chance fragrance – lifts the curtain on my soul’s memories… That which I was and will never again be! That which I had and will never again have! The dead! The dead who loved me in my childhood. Whenever I remember them, my whole soul shivers and I feel exiled from all hearts, alone in the night of myself, weeping like a beggar before the closed silence of all doors.”

From The Book of Disquiet – Fernando Pessoa (translated by Richard Zenith)

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Whenever anyone asks me what my favourite book is, I answer without hesitation – The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Noonan (pen name Robert Tressell).

Noonan was a house painter, and wrote the book in his spare time. It was written over 100 years ago, but the descriptions and story have a depressing familiarity. It could have been written last week. It tells the story of a house painter and his workmates, as they struggle to find work to stay out of the workhouse. They are the working poor, in some cases, dreadfully poor, and Noonan hides nothing from us. On the original title page, Noonan wrote “Being the story of twelve months in Hell, told by one of the damned, and written down by Robert Tressell.”

Noonan was a single father, and was afraid of the things he described in the book – not finding work, poverty, and ending up in the workhouse. It is semi-autobiographical, which makes it even more depressing than if it were true fiction. The horrors described in the book actually happened, and if you have every worked, you will probably recognise your boss, superiors or employer in some of the characters. I did!

The book explores the relationship between the working class and the employers and ruling class, and analyses the way the latter exploit the former. The “philanthropists” are the members of the working class who contribute to their own exploitation by siding with their bosses, accepting their lot and position in life, and helping to perpetuate their misery.

Noonan submitted the manuscript to three publishing houses, but it was rejected by all of them. He became so depressed, he tried to burn it by throwing it in the fire. Luckily, his daughter rescued it, and kept it under her bed.

Noonan died of TB in a Liverpool hospital in 1911 at the age of 40. He was penniless, and was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave in Liverpool. The grave was discovered in 1970 and is now marked. I visited a few years ago, and there were flowers by the gravestone. It’s a kind of pilgrimage site for local socialist and labour activists. Noonan never got to see just how popular and influential the book would become, especially to the labour and socialist movements in the UK. George Orwell called it “a book everyone should read”. It’s free on Kindle!

The Poet

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You, the hour, are deserting me,

wounding me with the beat of your wings.

Alone: now what use my mouth?

What are my days and nights to me?

I have no sweetheart and no house,

nowhere that is my home ground. All things

into which I give myself

grow in riches and give me out.

Rainer Maria Rilke (Translated by Susan Ranson and Marielle Sutherland)

Masaoka Shiki

Matsuo Basho is the most famous haiku poet in Japan, but there is another haiku master who was just as prolific and talented – Masaoka Shiki.

Masaoka Shiki was born into a samurai family in Matsuyama (Ehime Prefecture) in 1867. He is said to have written 20,000 haiku, as well as poetry in other forms, and essays. He started writing haiku when he moved to Tokyo in 1883. He enrolled in the philosophy department of Tokyo Imperial University in 1890, but soon changed to the Japanese literature department. Around this time, he started to write haiku under the name “Shiki”.

“Shiki” is another name for the bird hototogisu, or “Lesser Cuckoo”. He chose this name, because in Japan, this bird is said to sing until it coughs up blood. Suffering from TB, and coughing up blood himself, he thought this name appropriate. He was diagnosed with TB in 1889. He was bedridden during his last years, but continued to write haiku and tanka from his sickbed.

His most famous work is arguably

柿食えば鐘が鳴るなり法隆寺

Eat a persimmon

and the bell tolls

Horyuji Temple.

During a visit to Horyuji Temple, he stopped to eat a persimmon, which is an autumn fruit, and as he took a bite, the bell of the temple rang, and he could sense the season in its echoes.

He developed into a master poet, and has a lasting legacy in Japan. There is a museum dedicated to him in Matsuyama City in Ehime. In 2002, he was inducted into the Japanese Baseball Hall of Fame. He was a keen player of the sport, until his illness took its toll, and in 1889 co-wrote Japan’s first novel about baseball – Yamabuki no Hitoeda. It was serialized over a year, and remained unfinished.

His life was tragically short – he died of TB in 1902 at the age of 34.

Aru Otoko – A Man

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I have just finished reading the novel Aru Otoko (A Man) by Keiichiro Hirano. It has been translated into English, but I read the original Japanese version. I enjoyed it immensely. It made a change from the dark, postwar detective novels which I read in Japanese.

The book is set in the present day, and centers around a lawyer who is asked to investigate a dead man who had been using someone else’s identity. It raised some interesting questions. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to just walk out of one’s life and live the life of someone else. Would your past catch up with you? Would you slip up and get found out? Could you live the life of another person, fool everyone around you, even those you love, and not feel guilty about it?

The book also raises the question of how love relates to the past. Does the past of someone you love matter? Do you love the person in front of you, as they are now, or do you love them as an accumulation of their past experiences?

I won’t go into details (don’t want to spoil it for anyone!) but it is well worth a read.

The book made me cry at the end, something which doesn’t happen with my dark detective novels. Speaking of which, I’m going to start a new one tonight. Can’t wait!