Otogizoshi: The Fairy Tale Book of Dazai Osamu

or as the narrator puts it in the conclusion to “The Stolen Wen,” “although not a single instance of wrongdoing occurs in the story, people end up unhappy.” “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue” offers one of the most succinct distillations of Dazai’s outlook to be found anywhere in his work: “The people of this world are all liars… All they do is lie. And the worst part of it is that they don’t even realize they’re doing it.”

While readers familiar with the conventional versions of the tales may appreciate the note of freshness and increased depth created by Dazai’s innovations, those who come to them with a preformed idea of what to anticipate (or dread) from this author are likely to find that the fantasy world settings and characters provide a degree of relief and distancing from real-world predicaments. But unlike what we see in some better-known Dazai works, the outcomes here are not inevitably tragic; the narrator’s conclusion, as he struggles to derive some kind of meaning from the seemingly nonsensical goings-on of “Wen,” that the tale is a “tragicomedy of character,” might well be applied to the collection as a whole. One also notes the presence of some benign themes that are rarely expressed so explicitly in his other writing. One of these is the emphasis on acceptance and desirelessness seen in three of the four stories, most prominently in the princess’s ideal of “divine resignation” in “Urashima-san” and the “gift of oblivion” through which she confers her own state of grace on the hero, which the narrator cites as an example of “the profound compassion that permeates Japanese fairy tales.” The stoic acceptance of loneliness in “The Stolen Wen” and the moments of silent recognition and tacit acknowledgement of gratitude at the end of “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue” also resonate powerfully with the plight of an author and readers struggling to make their way through an ongoing calamity, with an uncertain outcome that they can do nothing to affect.

Another striking theme is the recurring appearance of refuges and utopias-the mountain forest in “The Stolen Wen,” where the old man goes to seek relief from his grim home life and finds a crew of happy-go-lucky ogres carousing; the undersea palace in “Urashima-san,” where you are free to do whatever you want without criticism; and the birds’ lodge in the bamboo grove in “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue,” where another frustrated husband finds the warm companionship that is missing at home. None of these fantasy spaces provides a permanent escape, but in each case the protagonist is able to return home transformed, having found a kind of peace and better able to accept the vicissitudes that real life continues to throw at us. This cautiously reassuring note is all the more powerful for being sounded amidst those days and months of peril and fear. Dazai’s ability to rise to the occasion in this way is a main reason why these uniquely fractured, reassembled, and amplified fairy tales offer us something richly delectable and rare not only in his own writing but in all of modern Japanese literature-or even literature as a whole. We are lucky to have them. Enjoy!

Prologue

“Ah! There they go.”

The father lays down his pen and climbs to his feet. A warning siren won’t budge him, but when the antiaircraft guns start roaring, he secures the padded air-raid hood over his five-year-old daughter’s shoulders, takes her in his arms, and carries her to the bomb shelter in the garden. The mother is already huddled inside this narrow trench, their two-year-old son strapped to her back.

“Sounds pretty close, eh?” the father says to her.

“Yes. It’s awfully cramped in here.”

“You think?” he says in an aggrieved tone. “But this is just the right size, really. Any deeper and you run the risk of being buried alive.”

“It could be a little wider, though, couldn’t it?”

“Mm. Maybe so, but the ground’s frozen right now. It’s not that easy to dig. I’ll get to it,” he promises vaguely, in hopes of ending the discussion so he can hear news of the air raid from a neighbor’s radio.

No sooner have the mother’s complaints subsided, however, than the five-year-old begins demanding they leave the trench. The only way to quiet this one is to open a picture book. Momotaro, Click-Clack Mountain, The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue, The Stolen Wen, Urashima-san… The father reads these old tales to the children.

Though he’s shabbily dressed and looks to be a complete fool, this father is a singular man in his own right. He has an unusual knack for making up stories.

Once upon a time, long, long ago…

Even as he reads the text in a strangely imbecilic voice, another, somewhat more elaborate tale is brewing inside him.

The Stolen Wen

Once upon a time, long, long ago,

there lived an old man

with a great big wen on his cheek.

This old man, this Ojii-san, or “Grandfather,” lived at the foot of Mount Tsurugi in Awa Province, on the island of Shikoku. At least, I believe that’s correct, but I have no reliable source material at hand to back me up. I seem to recall that this story of the stolen wen originated in A Collection of Tales from Uji, but it’s impossible to consult the old texts in a homemade bomb shelter. I face a similar problem with the tale following this one, “Urashima-san,” the facts behind which were first reported in the ancient Chronicles of Japan. A long poem about Urashima and his journey to the Dragon Palace is included in the Manyoshu; and there are what appear to be versions of his tale in the Chronicles of Tango Province and Lives of Japanese Immortals, not to mention, in more recent times, Ogai’s well known play. And didn’t Shoyo or someone devise a dance routine based on the story?

In any case, we all know that our beloved Urashima-san lives on in any number of entertainments, from noh and kabuki plays to geisha hand dances. I’ve never had anything resembling a library of my own, however, because I sell or give away books as soon as I’ve read them. When wanting to get my facts straight, therefore, I have to hit the streets, following my own uncertain memory in an attempt to track down a text I recall once having read, but I can’t even do that now, you see. I’m crouching in a hole in the ground, and the only piece of literature available to me is this picture book balanced on my knees. Consequently I am compelled to forego the careful perusal of original texts and to content myself with whatever might unwind in my own imagination. But perhaps that will only make for a more lively and entertaining story…

So goes the sour-grapes-like justification with which this odd person, the father, reassures himself as he resumes:

Once upon a time, long, long ago…

And as he reads the words aloud, wedged inside the shelter, he inwardly paints a new and altogether different tale.

This Ojii-san of ours loves sake. Most drinkers are lonely men, isolated in their own homes. To ask whether they drink because they’re isolated or isolated because the rest of the family disapprove of their drinking would be like clapping and trying to decide which hand made the sound-it can only lead to a lot of vain quibbling. In any case, although there’s nothing particularly problematic about his family situation, a cloud always hangs over Ojii-san at home. His wife, whom we’ll call Obaa-san, or “Grandmother,” is very much alive and well. She’s closing in on