Literature

“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….)

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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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)

The Book of Disquiet – Fernando Pessoa

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Is it possible for a book to be too beautiful, too haunting, too spellbinding, to read? I hadn’t thought about that until I picked up The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa (translated by Richard Zenith).

I started reading it four years ago, and I still haven’t reached the end. Not because it is extremely long, laborious or boring, but because it is just so beautiful and intense.

Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935) was a Portuguese writer, poet and translator. He was prolific, so prolific in fact, that he attributed his writings to heteronyms, not just pseudonyms, but “people” with histories, life stories, and their own authentic voices. He “invented” around 75 such people. Each one had their own writing style. When you read some of “their” poetry, it really is hard to believe the poems were actually written by the same person, i.e. Pessoa.

The Book of Disquiet comprises writings, passages and snippets which were left behind in a trunk when Pessoa died. I read it with a pencil in hand, to underline phrases and passages that resonate with me, or are just so beautiful to let pass by. As such, my copy is covered with pencil markings, as I mark practically everything.

I just opened the book at passage number 92. I’ve marked it. This is how it starts:

“I’ve never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life. My worst sorrows have evaporated when I’ve opened the window on to the street of my dreams and forgotten myself in what I saw there.

I’ve never aspired to be more than a dreamer. I paid no attention to those who spoke to me of living. I’ve always belonged to what isn’t where I am and to what I could never be. Whatever isn’t mine, no matter how base, has always had poetry for me. The only thing I’ve loved is nothing at all. The only thing I’ve desired is what I couldn’t even imagine. All I asked of life is that it go on by without my feeling it. All I demanded of love is that it never stop being a distant dream.

In my own inner landscapes, all of them unreal, I’ve always been attracted to what’s in the distance, and the haze aqueducts – almost out of sight in my dreamed landscapes – had a dreamy sweetness in relation to the rest of the landscape, a sweetness that enabled me to love them.”

It is a book to settle down with, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, and savour.