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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
You wait and wait for happiness, and when finally you can't bear it any longer, you rush out of the house, only to hear later that a marvelous happiness arrived the following day at the home you had abandoned, and now it was too late. Sometimes happiness arrives one night too late.
Dazai Osamu, Schoolgirl
『𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜.
𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕.
𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜.』