Literature written by Yukio Mishima - Ebook Collection - EPUB, MOBI, and AZW3 formats. Read "Yukio Mishima" by Damian Flanagan available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. The most internationally acclaimed. Because of the boyhood trauma of seeing his mother make love to another man in the presence of his dying father, Mizoguchi becomes a hopeless stutterer.
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Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. This revised edition of Stokes' biography of Japanese novelist Mishima, whose obsession with samurai culture . Yukio Mishima () completed his first novel the year he entered the University of Tokyo and his last novel the day of his death. He is the author of. See search results for "Yukio Mishima" in the National Library Board Singapore Showing of 5 results for “Yukio Mishima” Runaway Horses - ebook.
Literary Correspondents; 5. First Love; 6. The War and Its Aftermath; 7. To Be a Bureaucrat or a Writer; 8.
Confessions; 9. Boyfriends, Girlfriends; Going Overseas; The Girlfriend; The Kinkakuji; Overseas Again; Marriage; Kyoko's House; The 2. Assassinations; Contretemps; The Nobel Prize; Shinpuren, Men of the Divine Wind; Death in India. The Anti-Vietnam War Movement Sun and Steel; The Shield Society, Counterrevolution; It was a pretentious house on a corner, with a rather jumbled appearance and a dingy, charred feeling.
It had an imposing iron gate, an entry garden, and a Western-style reception room as large as the interior of a suburban church.
There were two stories on the upper slope and three on the lower, numerous gloomy rooms, and six housemaids. In this house, which creaked like an old chest of drawers, ten persons were getting up and lying down morning and evening—my grandfather and grandmother, father and mother, and the servants. At the root of the family troubles was my grandfather's passion for enterprises and my grandmother's illness and extravagant ways.
My grandfather, tempted by the schemes that dubious cronies came bringing, often went traveling to distant places, dreaming dreams of gold. My grandmother came of an old family; she hated and scorned my grandfather.
Hers was a narrow-minded, indomitable, and rather wildly poetic spirit. A chronic case of cranial neuralgia was indirectly but steadily gnawing away her nerves and at the same time adding an unavailing sharpness to her intellect. Who knows but what those fits of depression she continued having until her death were a memento of vices in which my grandfather had indulged in his prime?
Into this house my father had brought my mother, a frail and beautiful bride. On the morning of January 4, , my mother was attacked by labor pains. At nine that evening she gave birth to a small baby weighing five pounds and six ounces. On the evening of the seventh day the infant was clothed in undergarments of flannel and cream-colored silk and a kimono of silk crepe with a splashed pattern.
In the presence of the assembled household my grandfather drew my name on a strip of ceremonial paper and placed it on an offertory stand in the tokonoma.
My hair was blondish for a long time, but they kept putting olive oil on it until it finally turned black. My parents lived on the second floor of the house.
On the pretext that it was hazardous to raise a child on an upper floor, my grandmother snatched me from my mother's arms on my forty-ninth day. My bed was placed in my grandmother's sickroom, perpetually closed and stifling with odors of sickness and old age, and I was raised there beside her sickbed. When about one year old I fell from the third step of the stairway and injured my forehead.
My grandmother had gone to the theater, and my father's cousins and my mother were noisily enjoying the respite. My mother had had occasion to take something up to the second floor. Following her, I had become entangled in the trailing skirt of her kimono and had fallen. My grandmother was summoned by telephone from the Kabuki Theater. When she arrived, my grandfather went out to meet her. She stood in the entryway without taking her shoes off, leaning on the cane that she carried in her right hand, and stared fixedly at my grandfather.
When she spoke, it was in a strangely calm tone of voice, as though carving out each word: On the New Year's morning just prior to my fourth birthday I vomited something the color of coffee.
The family doctor was called. After examining me, he said he was not sure I would recover. I was given injections of camphor and glucose until I was like a pincushion. The pulses of both my wrist and upper arm became imperceptible. Two hours passed. They stood looking down at my corpse.
A shroud was made ready, my favorite toys collected, and all the relatives gathered. Almost another hour passed, and then suddenly urine appeared.
My mother's brother, who was a doctor, said, "He's alive! A little later urine appeared again. Gradually the vague light of life revived in my cheeks. That illness—autointoxication—became chronic with me. It struck about once a month, now lightly, now seriously. I encountered many crises. By the sound of the disease's footsteps as it drew near I came to be able to sense whether an attack was likely to approach death or not.
My earliest memory, an unquestionable one, haunting me with a strangely vivid image, dates from about that time.
I do not know whether it was my mother, a nurse, a maid, or an aunt who was leading me by the hand. Nor is the season of the year distinct.
Afternoon sunshine was falling dimly on the houses along the slope. Led by the hand of the unremembered woman, I was climbing the slope toward home. Someone was coming down the slope, and the woman jerked my hand.
We got out of the way and stood waiting at one side. There is no doubt that the image of what I saw then has taken on meaning anew each of the countless times it has been reviewed, intensified, focused upon. Because within the hazy perimeter of the scene nothing but the figure of that "someone coming down the slope" stands out with disproportionate clarity.
And not without reason: It was a young man who was coming down toward us, with handsome, ruddy cheeks and shining eyes, wearing a dirty roll of cloth around his head for a sweatband. He came down the slope carrying a yoke of night-soil buckets over one shoulder, balancing their heaviness expertly with his footsteps. He was a night-soil man, a ladler of excrement. He was dressed as a laborer, wearing split-toed shoes with rubber soles and black-canvas tops, and dark-blue cotton trousers of the close-fitting kind called "thigh-pullers.
Although I did not clearly perceive it at the time, for me he represented my first revelation of a certain power, my first summons by a certain strange and secret voice. It is significant that this was first manifested to me in the form of a night-soil man: I had a presentiment then that there is in this world a kind of desire like stinging pain. Looking up at that dirty youth, I was choked by desire, thinking, "I want to change into him," thinking, "I want to be him.
The first was his dark-blue "thigh-pullers," the other his occupation.
The close-fitting jeans plainly outlined the lower half of his body, which moved lithely and seemed to be walking directly toward me.
An inexpressible adoration for those trousers was born in me. I did not understand why. His occupation… At that instant, in the same way that other children, as soon as they attain the faculty of memory, want to become generals, I became possessed with the ambition to become a night-soil man. The origin of this ambition might have been partly in the dark-blue jeans, but certainly not exclusively so.
In time this ambition became still stronger and, expanding within me, saw a strange development. What I mean is that toward his occupation I felt something like a yearning for a piercing sorrow, a body-wrenching sorrow. His occupation gave me the feeling of "tragedy" in the most sensuous meaning of the word. A certain feeling as it were of "self-renunciation," a certain feeling of indifference, a certain feeling of intimacy with danger, a feeling like a remarkable mixture of nothingness and vital power—all these feelings swarmed forth from his calling, bore down upon me, and took me captive, at the age of four.
Probably I had a misconception of the work of a night-soil man.
Probably I had been told of some different occupation and, misled by his costume, was forcibly fitting his job into the pattern of what I had heard. I cannot otherwise explain it. Such must have been the case because presently my ambition was transferred with those same emotions to the operators of hana-densha—those streetcars decorated so gaily with flowers for festival days—or again to subway ticket-punchers. Both occupations gave me a strong impression of "tragic lives" of which I was ignorant and from which it seemed I was forever excluded.
This was particularly true in the case of the ticket-punchers: Existences and events occurring without any relationship to myself, occurring at places that not only appealed to my senses but were moreover denied to me—these, together with the people involved in them, constituted my definition of "tragic things.
If such were the case, the so-called "tragic things" of which I was becoming aware were probably only shadows cast by a flashing presentiment of grief still greater in the future, of a lonelier exclusion still to come.