There’s Not A Single Person Back Home Who Reads My Works. Or, If They Do Read Them, No Doubt They Merely

There’s not a single person back home who reads my works. Or, if they do read them, no doubt they merely focus with a pitying smile on the vile nature of the main character, recounting his flaws to others with exasperated shakes of the head, scornfully deriding me for bringing shame upon our homeland. Once, four years ago, when I briefly met my eldest brother in Tokyo, he told me to stop sending my books to the relatives. ‘Not even I want to read them,’ he said. 'When the relatives read what you write, how do you think they…’ He didn’t finish, but bowed his head, as if the words had caught in his throat, but he’d said enough to make things perfectly clear to me. I didn’t intend to send another one of my books back home as long as I live.

Dazai Osamu, “Thinking of Zenzo” from Self Portraits