by Dazai, Osamu
Table of Contents
Introduction
Prologue
The Stolen Wen
Urashima-san
Click-Clack Mountain
The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue
Acknowledgements
Contributors
Copyright information
Introduction
Joel Cohn
The air raids that devastated most of the large and medium-sized cities of Japan in the final year of World War II form a decidedly unconventional backdrop for Dazai Osamu’s retellings of four well-known Japanese folk tales. As Dazai’s prologue indicates, he composed these stories in the spring and early summer of 1945 as the increasingly frequent air raids, which had begun in November of 1944, were adding an element of more or less constant danger to the already difficult lives of the residents of Tokyo and other Japanese cities, many of whom had nothing more to rely on in the way of protection than hastily dug backyard trenches. After evacuating his wife and two young children to his wife’s hometown of Kofu in late March, Dazai returned alone to his house on the western outskirts of Tokyo, only to see it damaged by bombs in early April. He then rejoined his family in Kofu, where he completed The Fairy Tale Book shortly before losing his home to an air raid for a second time. Despite the chaotic conditions that prevailed in the months preceding and following Japan’s surrender in mid-August, the book was published in October, making it one of the first works of literature to appear after the end of the war.
In the less than three years that remained before the drowned bodies of Dazai and a mistress were discovered, apparently in the aftermath of a double suicide, he burst forth from relative obscurity to become the first great literary sensation of postwar Japan. His best-known works from these years, especially the novels The Setting Sun (1947) and No Longer Human (1948), not only vividly captured the pervasive sense of misery and emptiness that gripped a ruined nation, they also secured him an enduring place in the Japanese literary pantheon and a seemingly unshakable reputation as Japan’s preeminent voice of gloom and suffering, rendered in an unflinchingly honest and unforgettably vivid style.
To many, including some who have never actually read anything by him, Dazai is a virtual poster boy for the stereotype of the modern Japanese novelist as a tormented spirit, a suicide waiting to happen, and the mere mention of the titles of his best-known works is enough to evoke images of all-encompassing despair. But even at its grimmest, his writing is regularly illuminated with flashes of sardonic wit, and in much of it, especially the pieces from the middle years of his relatively brief career, the sense of angst is muted and his penchant for subtle comedy is deftly displayed. The Fairy Tale Book can be seen as a culmination of this brighter (or at least less miserable) strain in Dazai’s fiction. Even as it immediately confronts us with a tension-laden tableau of a family huddling in an air raid shelter, the prologue offers a surprisingly droll depiction of the slightly feckless-sounding narrator’s attempts to deflect his wife’s complaints and placate a child too young to understand the peril they face. The stories themselves offer only occasional hints of having been composed at a time when the lives of the Japanese people were becoming increasingly desperate—not that a more candid portrayal of the looming threat of disaster would have been approved by the censors.
Turning to traditional Japanese materials was an attractive option for writers during the war years, as they afforded a source of relatively safe subject matter and met the government-imposed mandate for writing that conformed to “national policy” as long as they were handled with proper respect. Dazai had already produced a number of pieces in this vein, but he was rarely one for playing along with authority figures of any kind. In The Fairy Tale Book the apparent mood of reverence for national tradition is periodically undercut as the storyteller notes the difficulty of confirming the accuracy of his sources while cowering in a bomb shelter, points out the failure of some of his characters to embody the time-honored spirit of the samurai, or undermines his purported stance of “deference for the sanctity of the Japanese historical record” with long-winded displays of playful pseudo-pedantry. Most revealingly of all, he explains that he was forced to abandon his plan to provide some momentary diversion for “those fighting courageously to help Nippon through her national crisis” by retelling the stirring tale of the demon-conquering hero Momotaro (a favorite figure during the war years) once he realized that “a completely invincible hero just isn’t good story material” and that “An author who has never been number one in Japan–or even number two or three–can hardly be expected to produce an adequate picture of Japan’s foremost young man.”
As some of these comments suggest, Dazai was also a writer with a compulsive urge to reflect, or even project, his real-life experiences and concerns in his work. In other words, he was very much a representative of the predilection for autobiographical or self-referential semi-fiction, known as shishosetsu, which exerted a powerful hold on many Japanese authors and readers for much of the twentieth century. In these stories he often seems to be encouraging us to draw no dividing line between the author and the teller, occasionally even going so far as to refer to himself by his own name. But here the more directly autobiographical elements, which form the main or even the sole story line in so many other works by Dazai, are confined to the storyteller’s intermittent evocations of wartime conditions and his own personal situation in his introductory and concluding comments, along with his periodic interruptions and digressions, creating a kind of parallel narrative to the tales that he is recounting.
For Japanese readers this addition of a new angle to long-familiar stories is likely to provide a large part of the fun. But for many of them, the pleasure of reading Dazai is as much about getting a feeling of being in touch with the author as it is about being drawn into the world of a story, and in these tales Dazai’s distinctive voice is very much in evidence, reaching out and taking us into his confidence in a warm, intimate tone. Far more often than a conventional storyteller might, he persistently provides his own running commentary on the main events of the tales—sometimes trying to extract a meaning, sometimes wandering off on a tangent that relates more to his own preoccupations than it does to any events in the story. We may not know, or care, whether the “real Dazai” indeed lived through moments like those he describes here, or whether he actually believed everything the storyteller claims to believe, but as in the tales that were told to us as children, the voice and presence of the teller, by turns reassuring, fearsome, and clownish, and occasionally wise, is as much a part of the experience as the incidents and characters themselves.
This is not the only way in which Dazai transforms the traditional tales. He fleshes out the bare bones characterizations and situations of the children’s storybook versions (shown in the translation in bold type), giving each of the sketchily described stock figures of the originals a context and a distinctive personality. Most of these have little or no relation to the traditional story line, and some, such as the garrulous, wisecracking tortoise of “Urashima-san” and the disastrously gendered tanuki and rabbit of “Click-Clack Mountain,” are truly memorable. Many of them are endowed with a degree of psychological complexity and ambiguity that owes more to the techniques of modern fiction than to the simplistic good or evil characterizations of conventional folk tales; this is particularly apparent in the final story, “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue,” where the strengths and flaws of the husband and wife are depicted with deep sensitivity and understanding.
Dazai’s retellings also introduce a number of themes that play little or no par
t in the originals. Some of these will be familiar to readers who know other works of his: the quandary of the outsider who is taken seriously by nobody and misunderstood by everybody, including himself; the family and male-female ties, including marriage, that become emotional dead ends rather than sources of comfort or fulfillment; and the suspicion that things are all too likely to go wrong when people are left to their devices, or as the narrator puts it in the conclusion to “The Stolen Wen,” “although not a single instance of wrongdoing occurs in the story, people end up unhappy.” “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue” offers one of the most succinct distillations of Dazai’s outlook to be found anywhere in his work: “The people of this world are all liars.... All they do is lie. And the worst part of it is that they don’t even realize they’re doing it.”
While readers familiar with the conventional versions of the tales may appreciate the note of freshness and increased depth created by Dazai’s innovations, those who come to them with a preformed idea of what to anticipate (or dread) from this author are likely to find that the fantasy world settings and characters provide a degree of relief and distancing from real-world predicaments. But unlike what we see in some better-known Dazai works, the outcomes here are not inevitably tragic; the narrator’s conclusion, as he struggles to derive some kind of meaning from the seemingly nonsensical goings-on of “Wen,” that the tale is a “tragicomedy of character,” might well be applied to the collection as a whole. One also notes the presence of some benign themes that are rarely expressed so explicitly in his other writing. One of these is the emphasis on acceptance and desirelessness seen in three of the four stories, most prominently in the princess’s ideal of “divine resignation” in “Urashima-san” and the “gift of oblivion” through which she confers her own state of grace on the hero, which the narrator cites as an example of “the profound compassion that permeates Japanese fairy tales.” The stoic acceptance of loneliness in “The Stolen Wen” and the moments of silent recognition and tacit acknowledgement of gratitude at the end of “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue” also resonate powerfully with the plight of an author and readers struggling to make their way through an ongoing calamity, with an uncertain outcome that they can do nothing to affect.
Another striking theme is the recurring appearance of refuges and utopias—the mountain forest in “The Stolen Wen,” where the old man goes to seek relief from his grim home life and finds a crew of happy-go-lucky ogres carousing; the undersea palace in “Urashima-san,” where you are free to do whatever you want without criticism; and the birds’ lodge in the bamboo grove in “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue,” where another frustrated husband finds the warm companionship that is missing at home. None of these fantasy spaces provides a permanent escape, but in each case the protagonist is able to return home transformed, having found a kind of peace and better able to accept the vicissitudes that real life continues to throw at us. This cautiously reassuring note is all the more powerful for being sounded amidst those days and months of peril and fear. Dazai’s ability to rise to the occasion in this way is a main reason why these uniquely fractured, reassembled, and amplified fairy tales offer us something richly delectable and rare not only in his own writing but in all of modern Japanese literature—or even literature as a whole. We are lucky to have them. Enjoy!
Prologue
“Ah! There they go.”
The father lays down his pen and climbs to his feet. A warning siren won’t budge him, but when the antiaircraft guns start roaring, he secures the padded air-raid hood over his five-year-old daughter’s shoulders, takes her in his arms, and carries her to the bomb shelter in the garden. The mother is already huddled inside this narrow trench, their two-year-old son strapped to her back.
“Sounds pretty close, eh?” the father says to her.
“Yes. It’s awfully cramped in here.”
“You think?” he says in an aggrieved tone. “But this is just the right size, really. Any deeper and you run the risk of being buried alive.”
“It could be a little wider, though, couldn’t it?”
“Mm. Maybe so, but the ground’s frozen right now. It’s not that easy to dig. I’ll get to it,” he promises vaguely, in hopes of ending the discussion so he can hear news of the air raid from a neighbor’s radio.
No sooner have the mother’s complaints subsided, however, than the five-year-old begins demanding they leave the trench. The only way to quiet this one is to open a picture book. Momotaro, Click-Clack Mountain, The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue, The Stolen Wen, Urashima-san... The father reads these old tales to the children.
Though he’s shabbily dressed and looks to be a complete fool, this father is a singular man in his own right. He has an unusual knack for making up stories.
Once upon a time, long, long ago...
Even as he reads the text in a strangely imbecilic voice, another, somewhat more elaborate tale is brewing inside him.
The Stolen Wen
Once upon a time, long, long ago,
there lived an old man
with a great big wen on his cheek.
This old man, this Ojii-san, or “Grandfather,” lived at the foot of Mount Tsurugi in Awa Province, on the island of Shikoku. At least, I believe that’s correct, but I have no reliable source material at hand to back me up. I seem to recall that this story of the stolen wen originated in A Collection of Tales from Uji, but it’s impossible to consult the old texts in a homemade bomb shelter. I face a similar problem with the tale following this one, “Urashima-san,” the facts behind which were first reported in the ancient Chronicles of Japan. A long poem about Urashima and his journey to the Dragon Palace is included in the Manyoshu; and there are what appear to be versions of his tale in the Chronicles of Tango Province and Lives of Japanese Immortals, not to mention, in more recent times, Ogai’s well known play. And didn’t Shoyo or someone devise a dance routine based on the story?
In any case, we all know that our beloved Urashima-san lives on in any number of entertainments, from noh and kabuki plays to geisha hand dances. I’ve never had anything resembling a library of my own, however, because I sell or give away books as soon as I’ve read them. When wanting to get my facts straight, therefore, I have to hit the streets, following my own uncertain memory in an attempt to track down a text I recall once having read, but I can’t even do that now, you see. I’m crouching in a hole in the ground, and the only piece of literature available to me is this picture book balanced on my knees. Consequently I am compelled to forego the careful perusal of original texts and to content myself with whatever might unwind in my own imagination. But perhaps that will only make for a more lively and entertaining story....
So goes the sour-grapes-like justification with which this odd person, the father, reassures himself as he resumes:
Once upon a time, long, long ago...
And as he reads the words aloud, wedged inside the shelter, he inwardly paints a new and altogether different tale.
This Ojii-san of ours loves sake. Most drinkers are lonely men, isolated in their own homes. To ask whether they drink because they’re isolated or isolated because the rest of the family disapprove of their drinking would be like clapping and trying to decide which hand made the sound—it can only lead to a lot of vain quibbling. In any case, although there’s nothing particularly problematic about his family situation, a cloud always hangs over Ojii-san at home. His wife, whom we’ll call Obaa-san, or “Grandmother,” is very much alive and well. She’s closing in on seventy, but her back is straight, her eyes clear. It’s said that she was once quite a beauty. A quiet and serious sort from girlhood on, she now goes about her housework each day with grim determination.
“Well, spring has sprung!” Ojii-san burbles. “The cherry trees are in bloom.”
“Is that so,” Obaa-san responds without interest. “Will you get out of the way, please? I’m trying to clean up here.”
Ojii-san slumps in his seat, deflated.
He als
o has a son who is nearly forty and so morally irreproachable as to be a rarity in this world. This son not only neither drinks nor smokes but makes a point of never laughing or getting angry or experiencing pleasure either. All he does each day is silently toil in the fields, and since the people in the village and surrounding areas have little choice but to respect him for that, he’s known far and wide as the Saint of Awa. He has never married or shaved his beard, and one is tempted to wonder if he isn’t made of wood, or stone.
In short, this family of Ojii-san’s is nothing if not respectable and upstanding. And yet the fact remains that he is depressed. He wants to be considerate of his family but feels he cannot help but drink. And if drinking at home only leaves him all the more dispirited, it’s not because either Obaa-san or the Saint of Awa has ever scolded him for it. They sit at the table with him each evening, eating their dinner in silence as he sips his sake.
Growing a bit tipsy, Ojii-san begins to desire conversation and to make inane comments. “By the way, spring is here at last, you know. The swallows are back.” An uncalled-for observation. “‘Spring evening: one moment, a thousand pieces of gold,’ what?” he mutters. Utterly insipid.
“Gochisosama de gozarimashita.” The Saint of Awa, having finished his dinner, stands up and bows deeply as he intones these words of gratitude for the meal.
“Ah,” Ojii-san says, and sadly drains his little sake cup. “Guess I’ll eat something myself.”
So it generally goes when he drinks at home.
One fine morning, Ojii-san went up
the mountain to gather wood.
On sunny days, he likes to wander the forested slopes of Mount Tsurugi with a gourd dangling from his waistband, collecting kindling at his leisure. When he grows a bit tired of picking up sticks, he sits with loosely crossed legs on a large boulder and clears his throat with a great display of self-importance.
