Since 1937 I have occasionally written stories that take the form of soliloquies by female characters. To date I’ve published nine or ten such pieces. Reading back over them now, I find myself blushing with embarrassment at certain passages that strike me as mawkish or downright inept. But having heard that many readers are especially fond of these stories, I went ahead and put together this collection of tales with female first-person narrators. I’ve titled the collection JOSEI (Woman). It’s a title utterly lacking in flavor, but being overly particular about titles is not in the best of taste either.
—Osamu Dazai, Spring 1942
SHAME
Kikuko, I’ve shamed myself. I’ve shamed myself terribly. To say it feels like my face is on fire, is not enough. To say I want to roll in a meadow screaming my lungs out, doesn’t do this feeling justice. Listen to this verse from 2 Samuel in the Bible: “And Tamar put ashes on her head, and rent her garment of divers colours that was on her, and laid her hand on her head, and went on crying.” Poor Tamar. When a young woman is shamed beyond all redemption, dumping ashes on her head and crying her eyes out is a proper response. I know just how she felt.
Kikuko. It’s exactly as you said: novelists are human trash. No, they’re worse than that; they’re demons. Horrible people. Oh, the shame I brought on myself! Kikuko. I kept it secret from you, but I’ve been writing letters to Toda-san. Yes, yes, the novelist. And then, eventually, I met him, only to bring this horrible shame upon myself. It’s so insane.
Let me tell you the whole story, from the beginning. In early September, I mailed this letter to Toda-san. You can see how full of myself I was when I wrote it.
Greetings. I’m aware that my writing to you may seem imprudent. You’ve probably never had so much as a single female reader of your stories and novels before. Most women only read books that are heavily advertised. They have no tastes of their own. Their choices are based on a kind of mindless vanity—‘Everyone’s reading this, so I too must read it.’ They have the greatest respect for pseudo-intellectuals, and they get all excited about pointless, tedious theories. You, on the other hand, if you’ll excuse my saying so, wouldn’t know a theory if you accidentally stepped in one. You’re obviously no scholar. I began reading your novels in the summer of last year, and now I’ve read just about everything you’ve written. I don’t need to have met you, therefore, to have a fairly complete picture as to your living conditions, as well as your physical features and general character. The fact that you have no female readers is, I believe, a defining characteristic. In your work you openly confess your poverty and stinginess; your selfish and vulgar marital spats; your unclean diseases; the ugliness of your features; the ragged filthiness of your clothes; the way you guzzle shochu while chewing on boiled octopus tentacles, only to end up in a violent rage; how you sometimes pass out and sleep on the bare ground; and how deep in debt you are. You disclose these and many other disgraceful and disgusting personal matters, all with unvarnished honesty. But let us be clear: on a personal level, none of this is appealing. Women, by nature, prefer cleanliness and purity. While I sympathize with you when I read how you’re balding on top, and how your teeth are falling out, and so on, the overall picture is so distasteful that I can’t suppress a wry smile, and—forgive me—I begin to feel contempt for you. And now you appear to be seeking female companionship in an establishment of a sort I decline to name. That’s crossing a line, as far as I’m concerned, and at times I have to hold my nose as I read. It’s only natural that any woman, without exception, would look down on and disapprove of you. I don’t even let my friends know that I read your work. If they knew, I’m sure they would mock me, begin to doubt my character, and probably stop associating with me altogether. My hope is that you, for your part, will engage in a little self-reflection. While I acknowledge your innumerable faults—your lack of education, your clumsy writing style, your crude personality, your deficient ideology, your innate ignorance, and so on—I discovered, underneath it all, a strand of deep melancholia. Other women don’t see this. Women, as I mentioned above, are motivated by vanity in their reading choices. They prefer idealistic novels, and stories about romance in elite summer resorts and such. But I believe that the melancholia underlying your work is something much more precious. Please do not lose hope on account of your unattractiveness, your past scandals, or your clumsy literary style; but treasure and preserve that uniquely melancholy spirit while taking better care of your health, learning a bit more about philosophy and language, and deepening your understanding of ideology. If your brand of pathos were to be wedded to a philosophical framework, I believe that your future work will no longer be the object of scorn, as it is today, and your own personal character might even be redeemed. When that day of redemption arrives, I will remove my mask, reveal my full name and address, and meet with you, but for now I shall merely cheer you on from the shadows. Allow me to be clear, however: this is not a ‘fan letter.’ Please do not go showing it to your wife or making crude jokes with your friends about having attracted a female fan. I too have my pride.
Kikuko. That’s more or less verbatim from my letter. I kept addressing him as “Kika,” which might be overly formal and a little awkward, but calling someone who’s so much older “Anata" just felt too familiar. I didn’t want him forgetting his age and getting any funny ideas, after all. That said, I don’t respect him enough to call him “Sensei”; and, besides, it would feel unnatural to use that form of address for someone with so little education. In any case, I had no misgivings after dropping this letter in the mailbox. I thought I had done a good deed. It lifts you up to lend even a small amount of courage to someone you can’t help feeling sorry for. I didn’t write my name or address on the letter, however. Well, I was afraid to! How shocking would it be for my mother if this man were to show up at our house, all drunk and disorderly. He might issue threats and demand we lend him money or something. After all, there’s no telling what a man of such nasty habits might do, so I wanted to remain anonymous. But, Kikuko, that’s not what happened. What did happen was horrible. And it left me with no choice but to write another letter. And this time, I stated my name and address clearly.
Kikuko, I’m such a pitiful child. When you hear what was in the second letter, you’ll have a good grasp of the situation. Here goes. Please don’t laugh.
Toda-san. I’m flabbergasted. How did you manage to discover my true identity? Yes, my name is Kazuko. I’m twenty-three, and my father is a college professor. You did a brilliant job of unmasking me. I was dumbfounded to read your new story in Literary World. It made me realize that when it comes to novelists, one must never let down one’s guard. How did you discover all this about me? You even saw into my feelings. ‘I’ve become an indecent girl who daydreams about unmentionable things’—that passage alone is a piercing arrow that serves for me as proof of the astonishing progress you’re made, and I’m delighted to know that my anonymous letter inspired this brilliant outburst of creativity. I never would have thought that one woman’s support could rouse an author to such remarkable improvement. I have heard it said that without the protection and comfort certain women offered them, even such literary icons and Hugo and Balzac would never have been able to produce all those masterpieces. Therefore, inadequate though my assistance may be, I have made up my mind to help you. Please remain strong. I will send you a letter from time to time. As for your recent story, while the willingness to explore, to some degree, the psychology of women is a step forward, and while some passages were impressively adroit in this respect, you still haven’t quite ‘got it.’ I can teach you much about what goes on in the heart of a young woman, being one myself. I believe you to be a writer with tremendous potential, and I have no doubt that your work will continue to improve. Please read more books and cultivate your ability to employ logical reasoning. No one who lacks sophistication can become a great author. Should you face any painful difficulties, please feel free to write to me. Now that you’ve seen through my mask, I will wear it no longer. My name and address are as indicated below. I’m not hiding behind a pseudonym. Don’t worry. I look forward to meeting you one day, when you have reformed your character and fully redeemed yourself, but until then let us be content with correspondence. I must admit that what shocked me to the core was the fact that you knew even my name. I imagine that my letter stirred in you such a state of excitement that you showed it to your friends, perhaps asking an acquaintance at a newspaper to help you investigate the postmark and so on to track me down. Is that about right? It’s despicable of men to make such a fuss over receiving letters from a woman. Please write back and explain how you knew my name and age. Let us correspond at length and, from here on, with kinder, gentler sentiments. And please take good care of yourself.
Kikuko, I nearly cry, and feel as if I’m breaking out in a cold sweat, every time I re-read this letter. Imagine this: I was completely mistaken. He wasn’t writing about me. It wasn’t about me at all. Oh, the shame. Kikuko, please feel sorry for me. I’m going to tell you everything.
Did you read Toda-san’s story “The Seven Flowers of Spring” in this month’s Literary World? A girl of twenty-three, who is afraid of love and thinks ecstasy detestable, ends up marrying a rich old man of sixty but soon becomes sick of this life and commits suicide. That’s the story. It’s a stark tale, very dark, with that distinctive Toda atmosphere. When I read it, I was convinced that the main character was modeled after me. I had read a mere two or three lines before it hit me, and I felt the blood drain from my face. After all, the character’s name is the same as mine, and she’s the same age. And her father is a college professor, just like mine. Aside from that, her life story is completely different from mine, but for some reason I was able to convince myself that things I had written had served as hints for even these embellishments. It’s that naive credulity of mine that’s the true source of my shame.
Four or five days later I received a postcard from Toda-san, and here’s what he wrote:
Dear Madam, I’m in receipt of your recent letter. Thank you for your support. I read your previous letter as well. I am not so lacking in common courtesy as ever to have shared a letter with my wife in order to ridicule anyone. Nor have I ever done so with friends. Please rest assured on that score. In reference to your offer to meet with me once my character is perfected, I can only respond by saying that I wonder if it’s possible for any human being to perfect himself. Very sincerely yours, etc.
That’s a novelist for you, I thought: the man definitely has a way with words. It was a little annoying, but I had to admit he’d won that round. I thought it over for a day, and the next morning I woke up knowing that I had to go meet him. It was essential that I meet him. He was obviously suffering. If I didn’t go to meet him right away, he might just fall completely apart. He was waiting for me to come. I would not let him down. I began getting ready immediately.
Kikuko, should a girl wear her finest clothes when calling on an impoverished author who lives in the tenements? Of course not. Remember the scandal that erupted when the head of a women’s organization toured the slums sporting a fox-fur stole? One has to be mindful in these matters. According to his own writing, Toda-san hasn’t even a proper kimono to wear, just an old padded robe that’s leaking its cotton stuffing. The tatami mats in his house are worn to shreds, so the entire floor is covered with sheets of newspaper. I thought it would be unconscionable to show up at such an indigent household wearing, for example, the pretty pink dress I recently finished making, because to do so would only bring shame and sadness to the family. I put on an old, oft-patched skirt from my school days, and a yellow jacket I had worn skiing many years ago. This jacket was much too small now, and with its tattered sleeves reaching only halfway down my forearms, it fit the bill perfectly. I also knew from reading his stories that Toda-san suffers each year from the effects of beriberi, so I removed a blanket from my bed, folded it up, and wrapped it in a silk furoshiki to take to him. I planned to advise him to wrap his legs in the blanket when working. Not wanting Mother to notice and quiz me on where I was going, I slipped outside through the rear door. Kikuko, I think you know that one of my front teeth is removable; well, on the train I surreptitiously took it out, to make myself as ugly as possible. Toda-san, I knew, was missing many teeth; and so, in order to put him at ease and not shame him, I wanted to show him that my teeth were also a mess. I mussed up my hair as well, transforming myself into a homely, destitute woman. One needs to consider every detail when attempting to bring comfort to a weak, benighted, poverty-stricken individual.
Toda-san’s house is outside the city. After transferring trains a couple of times I got off at the correct station, stopped at a police box to ask directions, and found the house easily enough. Kikuko. He doesn’t live in a tenement building. He has a small but tidy little house of his own. The garden was beautifully manicured, with lots of autumn roses in full bloom. This was all totally unexpected. I slid the front door open to announce myself and saw chrysanthemums arranged artistically in a shallow bowl atop the shoe rack. A serene and very refined lady, who turned out to be Toda-san’s wife, came to the entrance and greeted me, bowing politely. I wondered if I was at the wrong house.
“Excuse me, but would this happen to be the residence of the author Toda-san?”
“It is, yes.”
“Is Sensei here?“ I said, surprising myself by calling him that.
I was shown into the study, where I found a serious-looking gentleman sitting bolt upright at his desk. He wasn’t wearing a padded robe. He wore a smart, dark blue kimono of a thick material I couldn’t identify and a stiff black sash with a single white stripe. The study had the feeling of a tea ceremony room. In the alcove hung a scroll with a Chinese poem written in flowing calligraphy, of which I couldn’t decipher a single character. A bamboo basket held a beautiful arrangement of ivy. Tall stacks of books stood next to the desk.
This was all wrong. He wasn’t missing any teeth. He wasn’t balding. He was clean cut and decent looking. Nothing about him hinted at uncleanliness. It was hard to imagine this person guzzling shochu and passing out in the dirt.
“This is different to what I expected from reading your stories,” I said, after collecting myself.
“Is that so?” He didn’t seem to have much interest in my expectations.
“How did you find out about me? That’s what I came here to ask you.” I was hoping to regain my bearings with this question.
No visible reaction. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I was concealing my name and address, but you found out anyway. How did you do it? That was my first question in the letter I sent you the other day.”
“Strange. I don’t know anything about you.” He looked directly at me with clear, untroubled eyes.
“My!” This was confusing. “If that’s true, my letter couldn’t have made any sense to you. Well! You might have at least told me that. You must have thought me a great fool.”
I wanted to cry. How could I have been so deluded? What a horrible mess. Kikuko. To say I feel like my face is on fire, is not enough. To say I want to roll in a meadow screaming my lungs out, doesn’t do this feeling justice.
“In that case,” I said, “please return that letter to me. It’s embarrassing. Give it back, please.”
Toda-san nodded, with a grave look on his face. Maybe I had angered him. He must have thought I was an awful person.
“I’ll look for it. I can’t preserve all the letters I get each day, so it may be gone already, but I’ll have my wife take a look. If we find it, I’ll send it back. Or was it two letters?”
“Two letters, yes.” I felt absolutely wretched.
“You say that something I wrote resembles your life story, but you need to understand that I never use real people as models for my characters. They’re all made up, it’s all fiction. And that first letter of yours …” He stopped himself and bent his head.
“I apologize,” I said. I was a poor beggar girl with missing teeth. The sleeves of my too-small jacket were tattered. My navy-blue skirt was covered with patches. I could feel his contempt, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Novelists are demons! They’re liars! He pretends he’s poor when he isn’t. He has fine features but tries to garner sympathy by saying his face is hideous. He’s actually quite the scholar but feigns ignorance, claiming to have no education. He loves his wife but tells tales of fighting with her on a daily basis. He portrays himself as suffering deeply, and none of it is real. I’d been deceived. I stood up silently and bowed.
“Are you getting better?” I asked, before leaving. “With the beriberi and all?”
“I’m in excellent health.”
I had brought this man a blanket. Now I was returning home with it. Kikuko, I was so ashamed of myself that, out on the street, I buried my face in that bundled blanket and cried my eyes out. A cab driver yelled at me: “Idiot! Look where you’re going!”
Two or three days later I received by registered mail a large envelope. I guess I still had a glimmer of hope. Maybe Toda-sensei had written me some choice words that would relieve my shame. Maybe inside this oversize envelope I would find, in addition to my two letters, a thoughtful and comforting note from him. I pressed the envelope to my breast and said a little prayer, then opened it. It held nothing but my two letters. I carefully inspected the front and back of every sheet of my stationery, but he hadn’t scribbled so much as a single word. The shame. You understand, don’t you? I want to dump ashes on my head. I feel as if I’ve aged ten years. Authors are no good. They’re human garbage. They write nothing but lies, and there’s nothing romantic about people like this. Living comfortably in a normal household and callously looking down on a girl dressed in rags and missing a front tooth, not even seeing her off but acting utterly indifferent to her existence—how horrible can you get? Isn’t this what they call “fraud”?
Copyright © Osamu Dazai, 1942
Translation Copyright © Ralph McCarthy, 2025
Published