Confessions of a Mask: Yukio Mishima (Penguin Modern Classics)

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All of this has been important for sketching a brief psychological portrait of the sort of character Kochan believes himself to be. The action of the plot doesn’t begin until well into his school years, and then, for the most part, a chapter later, with the introduction of Sonoko. At the heart of Confessions of a Mask is, as far as Kochan believes, the tension between how he thinks he is supposed to act as a burgeoning young man entering into the prime of his virility, and the erotic fixation he has with strength and death. The nature of our protagonist’s angst over the feeling in his chest should, by this point in the book, come across as amusing to the average reader. This is the point at which the book begins to read like parody, not just in the emotional immaturity of its protagonist, but even in his use of melodrama to describe this parting scene. It might as well have been ripped from the celluloid of a classic Hollywood film: the brooding protagonist interiorly aware of his doomed relationship fleeing the warmth of a loving maiden. One can practically see how it would be shot. It is interior presumption, then, to presume, outside of the mode of theatrical performance, that only the chosen few who seek to guard dangerous taboos are those who wear social masks. This is the error of the simplistic attempt to interpret Confessions of a Mask as the dull memoir of a closeted homosexual. Everyone wears some sort of a social mask, as all social interaction bears with it an element of the theatrical. Mishima knows this. What makes Kochan’s mask noteworthy enough to become the subject of a novel is this: he subsumed his entire identity into the mask, such that he refused to turn any of his attention whatsoever to whatever part of himself was wearing it. It wasn’t so much that his mask was Janus-lined, though the analogy could be appropriate. Rather, he made every effort to adhere to the surface of social interaction that he lost sight entirely of his own self awareness. This is especially ironic given how self-absorbed the novel was by its very genre. Even though still young, I did not know what it was to experience the clear-cut feeling of platonic love. Was this a misfortune? But what meaning could ordinary misfortune have for me? The vague uneasiness surrounding my sexual feelings had practically made the carnal world an obsession with me. my curiosity was actually purely intellectual, but I became skillful at convincing myself that it was carnal desire incarnate. What is more, I mastered the art of delusion until I could regard myself as a truly lewd-minded person. As a result I assumed the stylish airs of an adult, of a man of the world. I affected the attitude of being completely tired of women.

When I arrived at the house in the suburbs that night I seriously contemplated suicide for the first time in my life. But as I thought about it, the idea became exceedingly tiresome, and I finally decided it would be a ludicrous business. I had an inherent dislike of admitting defeat. Moreover, I told myself, there's no need for me to take such decisive action myself, not when I'm surrounded by such a bountiful harvest of death—death in an air raid, death at one's post of duty, death in the military service, death on the battlefield, death from being run over, death from disease—surely my name has already been entered in the list for one of these: a criminal who has been sentenced to death does not commit suicide. No—no matter how I considered, the season was not auspicious for suicide. Instead I was waiting for something to do me the favor of killing me. And this, in the final analysis, is the same as to say that I was waiting for something to do me the favor of keeping me alive.” Mishima’s novel is probably one of the most difficult books I’ve ever thought to review. Not only does it defy categorization, but reading it I wonder whether we could even call it “a novel”. In that regard, it’s very similar to Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino. Confessions of a Mask is a fine example of our struggle to balance between being part of society and understanding it can’t offer us what we crave. If this duality sounds familiar, take a look at my post on the meaning of Jinjer’s “Pisces”– talking about a multi-layered metaphor, huh? Review of Confessions of a Mask: Genre, Plot, NarrativeOn account of the book’s more infamous content, it speaks totally past whatever frame of social confinement that is placed upon it by its gay rights defenders. The extent to which same-sex attraction is explored in Confessions of a Mask remains limited to the indulgences of an onanistic self-abuser, and one just as disposed to occupying his fantasies with the shredded musculature of soldiers carrying out athletic exercises as he is with those same soldiers cast in the roles of samurai slicing open their own abdomens. Kochan’s fascination with flesh and death need not be confined to the ‘novel’ part of this I-novel, either, as one is hard pressed to ignore Mishima’s own fascination with the two. But let not his fascination, even romanticism, imply a sense of cluelessness: anyone who has stomached to read his short story “Patriotism” will recognize the penetrating extent to which he understood exactly what the samurai’s ritual suicide entailed.

One may wonder if this too-clever self-reflexive narrative was intentional. This was, after all, Mishima’s second novel, and he was only twenty-four when it was published. Although it is rich in the imagery that would come to define his literary output, both in its violent and sensual content, as well as the mastery with which it is depicted, it is nonetheless quite undeveloped in comparison to his later work to be found in, for instance The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, much less, Spring Snow.

all this somehow achieved a melancholy harmony with her haughty air of self-importance, characteristic of conjurers and exiled noblemen alike, with her sort of somber charm, with her heroine-like bearing. The delicate grain of the shadow cast by these unharmonious elements produced its own surprising and unique illusion of harmony. 3

After this visit, Sonoko hints heavily at her interest in marriage. Kochan waves this off as cooly as he can. When she asks if he will come again, he says “Hm, perhaps so, if I’m still alive.” 14 The absurdity of his speech is then underwritten in bold by his description of leaving her at the train station:

This practical and insightful reading guide offers a complete summary and analysis of Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima. It provides a thorough exploration of the novel’s plot, characters and main themes, including memory, beauty and the relationship between death and sexuality. The clear and concise style makes for easy understanding, providing the perfect opportunity to improve your literary knowledge in no time. Those familiar with this book, or at the very least, its reputation, will likely find this an odd choice of review for The Pillarist. This was not one that this writer read with the intention of reviewing, in large part due exactly to those reasons. However, as should become clear from the review, the book’s reputation deserves to be a lot more nuanced than what popular opinion has flattened it out to be. Nor should it have ever been championed by certain segments of sexual revolutionaries who have tried to make Mishima one of their own. Sonoko! Sonoko! I repeated the name to myself with each sway of the train. It sounded unutterably mysterious. Sonoko! Sonoko! With each repetition my heart felt heavier, at each throb of her name a cutting, punishing weariness grew deeper within me. The pain I was feeling was crystal clear, but of such a unique and incomprehensible nature that I could not have explained it even if I had tried. It was so far off the beaten path of ordinary human emotions that I even had difficulty in recognizing it as pain. 15 The book is divided into four chapters. In the first, Kochan describes his early life, beginning with the insistence that he remembers the day of his birth despite recognizing that such a thing should be impossible, and it ends with his memory of a manic shrine procession stumbling into his manor’s front yard to ruin their garden. In between, he recounts the distance that was put between himself and his parents on account of an overbearing grandmother, the size of the house he grew up in and its number of maids, as well as episodes of early childhood frivolity. Of the latter, many commentators are drawn to the emphasis with which Kochan proclaimed his fascination with detached, moody feminine figures such as the theater magician Shokyokusai Tenkatsu or Cleopatra. Confessions of a Mask revolves around the protagonist’s basically futile attempts at understanding his own place in the world. Put somewhat crudely, he is gay – at a time where the word “gay” meant “happy”.

It’s utterly sacrilegious to use an excerpt from my own texts to make the point, but the parallel is too good to pass. The quoted paragraph is from my novel The Other Side of Dreams. One might suggest that this is perfectly inline with the sort of pathological confusion that seems to characterize the average homosexual’s interior life. It’s possible, given that their collective behavior could suggest such, though it’s uncharitable to make such sweeping assumptions. However, one might also rebut with the question of how to define an ‘average’ homosexual, and should such a general profile be constructed, it becomes harder to profile Kochan according to it without introducing quite a few suppositions into the narrative that simply aren’t there.To say the least, while at school, particularly during a boring class, I could not take my eyes off Omi's profile. What more could I have done when I did not know that to love is both to seek and to be sought? For me love was nothing but a dialogue of little riddles, with no answers given. As for my spirit of adoration, I never even imagined it to be a thing that required some sort of answer.”