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trying to spend more time reading and less on decadence (eg. mindless reddit scrolling). i finished two short books this week-- yukio mishima's confessions of a mask and clarice lispector's the hour of the star.
confessions of a mask is thought to mirror its author's life. it was written by mishima toward the start of his career in his twenties, and it centres around his entire life until then, illustrating the childhood and early adulthood of a boy named kochan. kochan is born in imperial japan, raised by an overbearing grandmother (like the author himself) and kept away from male peers throughout his earliest years due to his illnesses. the book centres around his failures to assimilate into japanese society, especially as wartime tensions escalate. most of the book is almost mundane, centred around kochan's inner happenings whilst the war becomes a backdrop. kochan battles his own frail constitution, his latent homosexual tendencies and his fetishistic fantasies surrounding death and violence. he develops an obsession with a delinquent classmate, fails to enlist in the military (like the author himself), builds fighter jets in a factory and attempts to court a young woman named sonoko. as the crux of the war draws nearer, kochan comes to the realization that he and sonoko cannot satisfy each other's needs.
mishima's prose was my favourite part of the book. he has a tendency to use lots of long-winded similes, and it's clear from this book alone that he had absorbed many western influences, because confessions is littered with references to wilde and proust. the beach scene was one of my favourite parts of this book, due to the morbid descriptors mishima applied to the sea. an axe, a guillotine, a severed head, a dead man's eyes... you get it. another scene i enjoyed equally much was the morning in the snow with omi, in which i too began to see the appeal of his defiant character-- though not as much as our protagonist. speaking of kochan, i was shocked and ashamed to discover my kinship to him-- his self-awareness and conviction to never show his true face. at times i thought him a coward, yet i related to him nonetheless.
whether the book is autobiographical or not, kochan's obsession with death and belief that he was likely to die young (later thwarted due to his rejection from the military) is incredibly interesting coupled with knowledge of its author's death. mishima did end up dying young-- at age forty-five through ritual suicide after a failed coup in which he advocated for power to the emperor. he was considered to be at his physical and creative peak at the time, so much so that western magazines deemed him a renaissance man. the details of the failed coup are kind of funny. this man and four others overpowered a commandant at a military base and tied him to a chair before he gave a 'rousing speech' to a group of young cadets, which was met with booing. he then apologized to the commandant and committed seppuku by disembowelment, in which his second got cold feet (or was just plain shit with the sword - I dunno) and failed to sever his head three times after he'd stabbed himself in the abdomen, and one of the other militants had to step in and get the job done. it's worth mentioning that only four years earlier he'd told an interviewer that he'd "probably die in bed after a life spent dreaming of a very different end." i believe mishima was obviously aware that the coup wouldn't do anything, wouldn't be any kind of driving force to the reinstatement of the emperor. but he planned it for years and went through with it regardless because he wanted to die in glory - an extravagant fashion like that of the old world, without ever aging past his prime. and he probably got off to it. in the end, his concerns about japan falling into western-style materialism was right - most of its major cities are tourist hubs, massive billboards everywhere. you could ask anyone younger about what they think of japan and there's a good chance they'll say something about anime, vidya and marble sodas and a lesser chance they'll make a pearl harbour joke. it's not much of an identity.
the hour of the star was lispector's last work, completed shortly before her death. it centres around a narrator and an impoverished young woman named macabéa. macabéa lives in the slums of rio de janiero, in a shared roaming house with four other women. she was raised devoid of love by an aunt who did not care for her, and as a child she would kiss the wall for comfort. she was poorly-educated, earns a pittance as a typist, and is severely malnourished due to a diet of coca-cola (her favourite drink) and hot dogs-- all she can afford. throughout the short ninety pages of this book, she meets a number of people; a young steelworker from the northeast who dreams of making it big, a doctor who cares little for his patients and only wants to be rich enough to do nothing, a middle-class coworker who has everything she doesn't, and a fortuneteller who claims jesus helped her set up a brothel. yet the people who claim to love or pity her end up taking from her, or leaving her behind.
many of these characters have a contradictory nature. the fortuneteller, for example, fancies herself god's favourite and tells macabéa that "anyone at her side is also at the side of jesus" but then in the same breath talks about the brothel she owned and berates the prostitutes she'd employed there for "cheating her out of money." you could consider macabéa to be the most contradictory of all, or maybe simply realistic. despite her harsh, impoverished life, she does not have the capacity of self-pity. she is thrilled in borrowing instant coffee and hot water from the landlord and thrilled in taking a day off work and having the roaming house to herself. she is happy because she doesn't, or can't afford to make any demands. both her own hardships and the possibility of a better life are unknown to her. she isn't aware that she lives an unfortunate life until the fortuneteller reveals her own misfortune to her, telling her that she is destined to marry a rich foreigner-- shortly before the end of the story. it's a fascinating depiction of poverty, both materially and of the psyche. for me, macabéa was a deeply sympathetic character. i finished the book through the course of a day, dimly wishing for her to have a better life despite knowing it wouldn't end that way.
overall i'd recommend both books. maybe pick one up if the premise appeals to you.
confessions of a mask is thought to mirror its author's life. it was written by mishima toward the start of his career in his twenties, and it centres around his entire life until then, illustrating the childhood and early adulthood of a boy named kochan. kochan is born in imperial japan, raised by an overbearing grandmother (like the author himself) and kept away from male peers throughout his earliest years due to his illnesses. the book centres around his failures to assimilate into japanese society, especially as wartime tensions escalate. most of the book is almost mundane, centred around kochan's inner happenings whilst the war becomes a backdrop. kochan battles his own frail constitution, his latent homosexual tendencies and his fetishistic fantasies surrounding death and violence. he develops an obsession with a delinquent classmate, fails to enlist in the military (like the author himself), builds fighter jets in a factory and attempts to court a young woman named sonoko. as the crux of the war draws nearer, kochan comes to the realization that he and sonoko cannot satisfy each other's needs.
mishima's prose was my favourite part of the book. he has a tendency to use lots of long-winded similes, and it's clear from this book alone that he had absorbed many western influences, because confessions is littered with references to wilde and proust. the beach scene was one of my favourite parts of this book, due to the morbid descriptors mishima applied to the sea. an axe, a guillotine, a severed head, a dead man's eyes... you get it. another scene i enjoyed equally much was the morning in the snow with omi, in which i too began to see the appeal of his defiant character-- though not as much as our protagonist. speaking of kochan, i was shocked and ashamed to discover my kinship to him-- his self-awareness and conviction to never show his true face. at times i thought him a coward, yet i related to him nonetheless.
whether the book is autobiographical or not, kochan's obsession with death and belief that he was likely to die young (later thwarted due to his rejection from the military) is incredibly interesting coupled with knowledge of its author's death. mishima did end up dying young-- at age forty-five through ritual suicide after a failed coup in which he advocated for power to the emperor. he was considered to be at his physical and creative peak at the time, so much so that western magazines deemed him a renaissance man. the details of the failed coup are kind of funny. this man and four others overpowered a commandant at a military base and tied him to a chair before he gave a 'rousing speech' to a group of young cadets, which was met with booing. he then apologized to the commandant and committed seppuku by disembowelment, in which his second got cold feet (or was just plain shit with the sword - I dunno) and failed to sever his head three times after he'd stabbed himself in the abdomen, and one of the other militants had to step in and get the job done. it's worth mentioning that only four years earlier he'd told an interviewer that he'd "probably die in bed after a life spent dreaming of a very different end." i believe mishima was obviously aware that the coup wouldn't do anything, wouldn't be any kind of driving force to the reinstatement of the emperor. but he planned it for years and went through with it regardless because he wanted to die in glory - an extravagant fashion like that of the old world, without ever aging past his prime. and he probably got off to it. in the end, his concerns about japan falling into western-style materialism was right - most of its major cities are tourist hubs, massive billboards everywhere. you could ask anyone younger about what they think of japan and there's a good chance they'll say something about anime, vidya and marble sodas and a lesser chance they'll make a pearl harbour joke. it's not much of an identity.
the hour of the star was lispector's last work, completed shortly before her death. it centres around a narrator and an impoverished young woman named macabéa. macabéa lives in the slums of rio de janiero, in a shared roaming house with four other women. she was raised devoid of love by an aunt who did not care for her, and as a child she would kiss the wall for comfort. she was poorly-educated, earns a pittance as a typist, and is severely malnourished due to a diet of coca-cola (her favourite drink) and hot dogs-- all she can afford. throughout the short ninety pages of this book, she meets a number of people; a young steelworker from the northeast who dreams of making it big, a doctor who cares little for his patients and only wants to be rich enough to do nothing, a middle-class coworker who has everything she doesn't, and a fortuneteller who claims jesus helped her set up a brothel. yet the people who claim to love or pity her end up taking from her, or leaving her behind.
many of these characters have a contradictory nature. the fortuneteller, for example, fancies herself god's favourite and tells macabéa that "anyone at her side is also at the side of jesus" but then in the same breath talks about the brothel she owned and berates the prostitutes she'd employed there for "cheating her out of money." you could consider macabéa to be the most contradictory of all, or maybe simply realistic. despite her harsh, impoverished life, she does not have the capacity of self-pity. she is thrilled in borrowing instant coffee and hot water from the landlord and thrilled in taking a day off work and having the roaming house to herself. she is happy because she doesn't, or can't afford to make any demands. both her own hardships and the possibility of a better life are unknown to her. she isn't aware that she lives an unfortunate life until the fortuneteller reveals her own misfortune to her, telling her that she is destined to marry a rich foreigner-- shortly before the end of the story. it's a fascinating depiction of poverty, both materially and of the psyche. for me, macabéa was a deeply sympathetic character. i finished the book through the course of a day, dimly wishing for her to have a better life despite knowing it wouldn't end that way.
overall i'd recommend both books. maybe pick one up if the premise appeals to you.