There was something I came to notice as I continued reading.
To be more specific, it was that I had gone back to the beginning.
These novels certainly did feel similar to me. They even made me think that they were close to my true nature, or perhaps, my disposition that could very well be called malignant.
However, that wasn’t it.
A different book after the other, I continued searching, without growing weary, unable to give in. Over and over again, I went through “No Longer Human” and “Run, Melos!”
However, even so, there was something decisively different.
No matter the literary master, no matter the masterpiece, they weren’t close at all.
For the other party to have addressed you, to have sympathized with you, be something entirely different was nothing more than despair itself.
Similarities and commonalities were exactly why discrepancies became apparent. They became distinct. Being so identical meant those differences wouldn’t be forgiven.
I couldn’t forgive myself for having expectations, for thinking I had understood, for thinking I was understood.
Compared to the existence as described in “No Longer Human”, I was much more diminutive, cowardly, and vulgar. Dazai didn’t realize that he was plagued with a much paltrier problem.
Then, didn’t that make me less than something human? Didn’t that make me far more lonely and apprehensive than the tyrant king?
Further. To think I utilized influential literature for the sake of attaining answers to my own problems and for the sake of something so extremely selfish and personal made me disgusted with myself. Just how shallow, just how foolish, and just how unsightly I was. The reason why I picked out these books weren’t for purification or for my own growth.
All I wanted was to blame myself by way of the truth. I wanted the farce of altruistic self-interest to be seen through.
With the eyes that looked this way from outside.
That’s why I had expectations.
That maybe if it was this book or that maybe if it was that person who was unusually more sensitive to the evils of people, I thought, perhaps, they might find me. Perhaps they might see right through me.
Yet, despite looking at the things that were so close to me, despite seeing right through everything else, I was the only one who wasn’t looked at.
It was so much more painful than being admonished and being looked down on.
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