Osamu Dazai The Setting Sun Quotes

This I want to believe implicitly: Man was born for love and revolution.

Last year nothing happened The year before nothing happened And the year before that nothing happened.

I am afraid because I can so clearly foresee my own life rotting away of itself, like a leaf that rots without falling, while I pursue my round of existence from day to day.

I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.

I want to spend my time with people who don't look to be respected. But such good people won't want to spend their time with me.

In spite of my suffering, at the thought that I was sure to end up by killing myself, I cried aloud and burst into tears.

Anyway, you can be sure of one thing, a man's got to fake just to stay alive.

Victims. Victims of a transitional period of morality. That is what we both certainly are.

To wait. In our lives we know joy, anger, sorrow, and a hundred other emotions, but these emotions all together occupy a bare one percent of our time. The remaining ninety-nine percent is just living in waiting. I wait in momentary expectation, feeling as though my breasts are being crushed, for the sound in the corridor of the footsteps of happiness. Empty. Oh, life is too painful, the reality that confirms the universal belief that it is best not to be born.

When I pretended to be precocious, people started the rumor that I was precocious. When I acted like an idler, rumor had it I was an idler. When I pretended I couldn't write a novel, people said I couldn't write. When I acted like a liar, they called me a liar. When I acted like a rich man, they started the rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when I inadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering. The world is out of joint.

Addiction is perhaps a sickness of the spirit.

As for love . . . no, having once written that word I can write nothing more.

I have no desire for others to take it on themselves to analyze my thoughts. I am without thoughts. I have never, not even once, acted on the basis of any doctrine or philosophy.I am convinced that those people whom the world considers good and respects are all liars and fakes. I do not trust the world.

In our lives we know joy, anger, sorrow, and a hundred other emotions, but these emotions altogether occupy a bare one per cent of our time. The remaining ninety-nine per cent is just living in waiting.

I drink out of desperation. Life is too dreary to endure. The misery, loneliness, crampedness — they're heartbreaking.[...] What feelings do you suppose a man has when he realizes that he will never know happiness or glory as long as he lives? Hard work. All that amounts to is food for the wild beasts of hunger.

At this moment, as I stood on the verge of tears, the words "realism" and "romanticism" welled up within me. I have no sense of realism. And that this very fact might be what permits me to go on living sends cold chills through my whole body.

In the present world, the most beautiful thing is a victim.

Logic, inevitably, is the love of logic. It is not the love for living human beings.

The real things are apt to be deviant.

It is painful for the plant which is myself to live in the atmosphere and light of this world. Somewhere an element is lacking which would permit me to continue.

Humanity? Don't be silly. I know. It is knocking down your fellow-men for the sake of your own happiness.

I would far prefer to be told simply to go and die. It's straightforward. But people almost never say, "Die!" Paltry, prudent hypocrites!

Now even if I die, no one will be so grieved as to do himself bodily harm. No [...] I know just how much sadness my death will cause you. Undoubtedly you will weep when you learn the news--apart, of course, from such ornamental sentimentality as you may indulge in--but if you will please try to think of my joy at being liberated completely from the suffering of living and this hateful life itself, I believe that your sorrow will gradually dissolve.

I am sure that the reason why I wept and stormed as if I had gone off my head was that the combination of physical exhaustion and my unhappiness had made me hate and resent everything.

Oh, life is too painful, the reality that confirms the universal belief that it is best not to be born.

Scoundrels [...] simply don't die. The ones who die are always the gentle, sweet, and beautiful people. [...] Scoundrels live a long time. The beautiful die young.

Mother, recently I have discovered the one way in which human beings differ completely from other animals. Man has, I know, language, knowledge, principles, and social order, but don't all the other animals have them too, granted the difference of degree? Perhaps the animals even have religions. Man boasts of being the lord of all creation, but it would seem as if essentially he does not differ in the least from other animals. But, Mother, there was one way I thought of. Perhaps you won't understand. It's a faculty absolutely unique to man - having secrets. Can you see what I mean?

Any man who criticizes my suicide and passes judgment on me with an expression of superiority, declaring (without offering the least help) that I should have gone on living my full complement of days, is assuredly a prodigy among men quite capable of tranquilly urging the Emperor to open a fruit shop.

I am convinced that those people whom the world considers good and respects are all liars and fakes. I do not trust the world. My only ally is the tagged dissolute. The tagged dissolute. That is the only cross on which I wish to be crucified. Though ten thousand people criticize me, I can throw in their teeth my challenge: Are you not all the more dangerous for being without tags?

I must go on living. And, though it may be childish of me, I can't go on in simple compliance. From now on I must struggle with the world. I thought that Mother might well be the last of those who can end their lives beautifully and sadly, struggling with no one, neither hating nor betraying anyone. In the world to come there will be no room for such people. The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive – those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.

When you've got the devil's own luck, you're immune from the usual run of disasters. Such people must be utilized.

It isn't that I dislike artists, but I can't stand anyone who puts on those ponderous airs of a man of character.

If he wears a tag, doesn't that make him harmless? It sounds rather sweet, like a kitten with a bell around its neck. A dissolute character without a tag is what frightens me.

For the first time in my life I realized what a horrible, miserable, salvationless hell it is to be without money.

Even if Mary gives birth to a child who is not her husband's, if she has a shining pride, they become a holy mother and child.

I wonder if there is anyone who is not depraved. A wearisome thought. I want money. Unless I have it.... In my sleep, a natural death!

The courageous testimony of Dr. Faust that a maiden's smile is more precious than history, philosophy, education, religion, law, politics,economics, and all the other branches of learning. Learning is another name for vanity. It is the effort of human beings not to be human beings.

[...] Just because a person has a title doesn't make him an aristocrat. Some people are great aristocrats who have no other title than the one that nature has bestowed on them, and others like us, who have nothing but titles, are closer to being pariahs than aristocrats.

I have never derived the least joy out of amusements. Perhaps that is a sign of the impotence of pleasure. I ran riot and threw myself into wild diversions out of the simple desire to escape from my own shadow.

There was something wrong about thse people. But perhaps, just as it is true of my love, they could not go on living except in the way they do. If it is true that man, once born into the world, must somehow live out his life, perhaps the appearance that people make in order to go through with it, even if it is as ugly as their appearance, should not be despised. To be alive. To be alive. An intolerably immense undertaking before which one can only gasp in apprehension.

My heart had melted into something akin to a sensation of happiness, peace of mind one might even say, at the realization that I had now reached the very bottom of agony.

At times everything grows misty and dark before my eyes, and I feel that the strength of my whole body is oozing away through my finger tips.

To be alive. To be alive. An intolerably immense undertaking before which one can only gasp in apprehension.

God killed me, and only after He had made me into someone entirely different from the person I had been, did he call me back to life.

It was not so much shame that I experienced as the feeling that the actual world was an unfamiliar organism utterly unlike the world of my imagination. I was assailed by a sensation of desolation more intense than anything I had previously known, as if I had been abandoned at dusk in an autumnal wasteland where no answering sound would ever come, however often I called. Is that, I wonder, what is meant by the pat phrase "disappointed love"?

I have one request to make of you, which embarrasses me very much. You remember the hemp kimono of Mother's which you altered so that I could wear it next summer? Please put it in my coffin. I wanted to wear it.

Why is physical love bad and spiritual love good? I don't understand. I can't help feeling that they are the same. I would like to boast that I am she who could destroy her body and soul in Gehenna for the sake of a love, for the sake of a passion she could not understand, or for the sake of the sorrow they engendered.

But people almost never say, "Die!", Paltry prudent, hypocrites.

I don't understand the world." "I don't either. I wonder if anyone does. We all remain children, no matter how much time goes by. We don't understand anything.

I must go on living. And, though it may be childish of me, I can't go on in simple compliance. From now on I must struggle with the world. I thought that Mother might well be the last of those who can end their lives beautifully and sadly, struggling with no one, neither hating nor betraying anyone. In the world to come there will be no room for such people. The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive--those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.

Tahun lalu tak terjadi apa-apa Tahun sebelumnya pun tak terjadi apa-apa Dan tahun sebelum tahun sebelumnya juga tak terjadi apa-apa.

It’s a faculty absolutely unique to man—having secrets.

I suddenly wondered whether Mother might not actually be happy now, whether the sensation of happiness might not be something like faintly glittering gold sunken at the bottom of the river of sorrow. The feeling of that strange pale light when once on as exceeded all the bounds of unhappiness - if that can be called a sensation of happiness, the Emperor, my mother, and even I myself may be said to be happy now.

I am choking in the suffocating foul air of the harbor. I want to hoist my sails in the open sea, even though a tempest may be blowing. Furled sails are always dirty. Those who would deride me are so many furled sails. They can do nothing.

The older and wiser heads of the world have always described revolution and love to us as the two most foolish and loathsome of human activities. Before the war, even during the war, we were convinced of it. Since the defeat, however, we no longer trust the older and wiser heads and have come to feel that the opposite of whatever they say is the real truth about life. Revolution and love are in fact the best, most pleasurable things in the world, and we realize it is precisely because they are so good that the older and wiser heads have spitefully fobbed off on us their sour grapes of a lie. This I want to believe implicitly: Man was born for love and revolution.

Doesn't that mean in effect that i have no choice but suicide?

Bagaimanapun kau bisa meyakini satu hal: seorang lelaki musti berpura-pura demi meneruskan hidup.

Just as a man has the right to live, he ought also to have the right to die.

I wonder how it would be if I let go and yielded myself to depravity.

Learning is another name for vanity. It is the effort of human beings not to be human beings.

I should have died sooner. But there was one thing: Mama's love. When I thought of that I couldn't die. It's true, as I have said, that just as man has the right to live as he chooses, he has the right to die when he pleases, and yet as long as my mother remained alive, I felt that the right to death would have to be left in abeyance, for to exercise it would have meant killing her too.

I must go on living. And, though it may be childish of me, I can't go on in simple compliance. From now on I must struggle with the world. I thought that Mother might well be the last of those who can end their lives beautifully and sadly, struggling with no one, neither hating nor betraying anyone. In the world to come there will be no room for such people. The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive - those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.

It may be true that in any society defective types with low vitality like myself are doomed to perish, not because of what they think or anything else, but because of themselves. I have, however, some slight excuse to offer. I feel the overwhelming pressure of circumstances which make it extremely difficult for me to live.

When I acted like a liar, they called me a liar. When I acted like a rich man, they started the rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when I inadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering. The world is out of joint.

All men are alike... I believe that all of the so-called "anxiety of the age" — men frightened by one another, every known principle violated, effort mocked, happiness denied, beauty defiled, honor dragged down — originates in this one incredible expression.

Tôi đã sống một cuộc đời đầy hổ thẹn.

Of late a gloomy rain has been falling almost incessantly. Whatever I do depresses me.

Thirty. “Something of the maiden’s fragrance lingers with a woman until she is twenty-nine, but nothing is left about the body of the woman of thirty years.

Mustahil bagi seorang manusia—tidak, seorang lelaki—untuk terus hidup tanpa merenung "Aku ini salah satu orang pilihan", "Aku ini punya kelebihan", dan lain-lain.

The revolution is far from taking place. It needs more, many more valuable, unfortunate victims. In the present world, the most beautiful thing is a victim.

We will live in perpetual struggle with the old morality, like the sun.

This was the first time in my life that I had become aware of the existence of the wall of despair built of all the many things in the world before which human strength is helpless.

Taşıdığı yafta mı? Eğlenceli bir deyiş. Yafta taşıyorsa daha az tehlikeli değil mi ? Boynunda çıngırak taşıyan bir kedi yavrusu gibi tatlı görünüyor. Yaftasız sefahat, daha ürkütücü.

Kurbanlar. gerçek bir ahlak döneminin kurbanları. Aslında her ikimiz de buyuz. Bir yerlerde devrim patlak verecek: Ama eski ahlak ölçüsü yolumuzu tıkayarak yeryüzünde değişmez biçimde duracak. Oysa denizde ne dalgalar patlar. Devrime katılmadan dipteki sular sakin, uyanık ama uyuşmuş gibi durur.

Ada sebuah kisah tentang bagaimana pada suatu pagi musim semi ketika matahari cerah menyinari dedahanan prem di mana dua atau tiga kembang mekar terdapat seorang pelajar Heidelberg bergelantungan di sana, mati.

To wait. In our lives we know joy, anger, sorrow, and a hundred other emotions, but these emotions all together occupy a bare one per cent of our time. The remaining ninety-nine per cent is just living in waiting.

O insanlar kusurluydular. Ama belki de benim aşkım için yaşadığım gibi onlar da bu biçimde yaşayarak ayakta durabiliyorlardı. Şayet insan, hayata geldiğinde şu ya da bu biçimde yaşamaya devam edecekse sona varmak için büründüğü görünüm çirkin bile olsa küçümsenmemelidir. Hayatını yaşamak. Yaşamak. Muazzam bir girişim, insanı endişeye boğacak kadar.

A sensation of helplessness, as if it were utterly impossible to go on living. Painful waves beat relentlessly on my heart, as after a thunderstorm the white clouds frantically scud across the sky. A terrible emotion — shall I call it an apprehension — wrings my heart only to release it, makes my pulse falter, and chokes my breath. At times everything grows misty and dark before my eyes, and I feel that the strength of my whole body is oozing away through my finger tips.

Destruction is tragic and piteous and beautiful. The dream of destroying, building anew, perfecting. Perhaps even, once one has destroyed, the day of perfecting may never come, but in the passion of love I must destroy. I must start a revolution.

When I acted like a rich man, they started a rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when I inadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering.

I was conscripted during the war and even made to do coolie labor. The sneakers I now wear when I work in the fields are the ones the Army issued me. That was the first time in my life I had put such things on my feet, but they were surprisingly comfortable, and when I walked around the garden wearing them I felt as if I could understand the light-heartedness of the bird or animal that walks barefoot on the ground. That is the only pleasant memory I have of the war. What a dreary business the war was.

Oh, life is too painful, the reality that confirms the universal belief that it is best not to be born. Thus everyday, from morning to night, I wait in despair for something. I wish I could be glad that I was born, that I am alive, that there are people and a world.

I am happy now. Even if I were to hear the four walls all shriek in anguish, my feeling of happiness would still be at the saturation point. I am so happy I could sneeze.” Mr. Uehara laughed. “But it’s too late now. It’s dusk already.” “It’s morning!” That morning my brother Naoji committed suicide.

Revolution and love are in fact the best, most pleasurable things in the world, and we realize it is precisely because they are so good that the older and wiser heads have spitefully fobbed off in us their sour grapes of a lie. This I want to believe implicitly: man was born for love and revolution.

He'll be back soon," she said, her face grave. It suddenly occurred to me that what people call "honesty" might well refer to just such an expression. I wondered if what the word originally meant was not something lovable like that expression, rather than the stern virtue smelling of textbooks of morality.

The older and wiser heads of the world have always described revolution and love to us as the two most foolish loathsome of human activities.

What is self-esteem? Self-esteem!

Victims. Victims of a transitional period of morality. This is what we both certainly are. The revolution must be taking place somewhere, but the old morality persists unchanged in the world around us and lies athwart our way. However much the waves on the surface of the sea may rage, the water at the bottom, far from experiencing a revolution, lies motionless, awake but feigning sleep.

The night has dawned. I have made you suffer a long time. Good-bye. My drunkenness from last night has entirely worn off. I shall die sober. Once more, good-bye. Kazuko. I am, after all, an aristocrat.

Destruction is tragic and piteous and beautiful. The dream of destroying, building anew, perfecting. Perhaps, even, once one has destroyed, the day of perfecting may never come, but in the passion of love, I must destroy.

Item. A hand in plaster. This was the right hand of Venus. A hand like a dahlia blossom, a pure white hand, mounted on a stand. But if you looked at it carefully you could tell how this pure white, delicate hand, with whorl-less finger tips and unmarked palms, expressed, so pitifully that even the beholder was stabbed with pain, the shame intense enough to make Venus stop her breath; in the gesture was implicit the moment when Venus' full nakedness was seen by a man, when she twisted away her body, flushed all over with the prickling warmth of her shock, the whirlwind of her shame, and the tragedy of her nudity. Unfortunately, this was only a piece of bric-à-brac. The clerk valued it at fifty sen.

But rather than the patronizing "But being decadent is the only way to survive!" of some who criticize me, I would far prefer to be told simply to go and die. It's straightforward. But people almost never say, "Die!" Paltry, prudent hypocrites!

This who wish to go on living can always manage to survive whatever obstacles there may be. That is splendid of them, and I dare say that what people call the glory of mankind is comprised of just such a thing. But I am convinced that dying is not a sin.

When I pretended to be precocious, people started the rumor that I was precocious. When I acted like an idler, rumor had it I was an idler. When I pretended I couldn’t write a novel, people said I couldn’t write. When I acted like a liar, they called me a liar. When I acted like a rich man, they started the rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when I inadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering. The world is out of joint.

Oysa limanın boğucu havasından sıkıldım, yelkenleri fora edip denize açılmak istiyorum. Sarkık yelkenler hep pis olur. Benimle alay edenler, kapalı bir yelkenden başka bir şey değillerdir. Ellerinden bir şey gelmez. Bir kadın ağırlık verir. Oysa bu durumda en çok çeken kişi benim. Çektiklerimin zerresini çekmemiş bir yabancı için, sarkık yelkenlerini kirletirken beni yargılaması saçmadır. Kimsenin, düşüncelerimi yargılama hakkına sahip olmasını istemiyorum. Hiçbir zaman, asla, bir öğretiye ya da bir felsefeye uyarak hareket etmedim.

Ach, życie ludzkie jest zbyt żałosne! Rzeczywistość, w której wszyscy myślą, że lepiej byłoby się nie urodzić. I tak codziennie, od rana do wieczora, jedynie na coś czekam. To zbyt żałosne. Ach, jakże chciałabym się cieszyć, że się urodziłam, cieszyć się z życia, z ludzi, z tego świata!

Mientras que las personas tienen el derecho de vivir con libertad, tienen también el derecho de morir en el momento que lo deseen; pero, cuando la madre está viva, hay que renunciar a este derecho porque, al ejercerlo, al mismo tiempo que quitarse la propia vida se llevarían la de la madre.

I claim I could write were I not ashamed. There's something fundamentally cheap about such awareness of genius. Only a madman would read a novel with deference. In that case it had best be done in formal clothes, like going to a funeral. So long as it does not seem as affected as a good work!

I claim I could write were I not ashamed. There's something fundamentally cheap about such awareness of genius. Only a madman would read a novel with deference. In that case it had best be done in formal clothes, like going to a funeral. So long as it does not seem as affected as a good work!

It's no use. I'm going. I cannot think of the slightest reason why I should have to go on living. Only those who wish to go on living should. Just as a man has the right to live, he ought also to have the right to die. There is nothing new in what I am thinking: it is simply that people have the most inexplicable aversion to this obvious - not to say primitive - idea and refuse to come out with it plainly. Those who wish to go on living can always manage to survive whatever obstacles there may be. That is splendid of them, and I daresay that what people call the glory of mankind is comprised of just such a thing. But I am convinced that dying is not a sin. It is painful for the plant which is myself to live in the atmosphere and light of this world. Somewhere an element is lacking which would permit me to continue. I am wanting. It has been all I could do to stay alive up to now.