Preface

by Osamu Dazai · 2026-03-31

I have seen three photographs of that man.

The first one was from his childhood, perhaps around ten years old. The child, standing by the garden pond, is surrounded by many women. They are probably his sisters or cousins. He is wearing rough striped hakama, his head tilted about thirty degrees to the left, and he has an ugly smile. Ugly? Only those sensitive to beauty and ugliness would feel that way. Insensitive people would say, "What a cute boy," with a light compliment, and there is a not-entirely-empty "cuteness" in those words. However, a discerning person might, at first glance, immediately murmur, "What a disagreeable child," and throw away the photograph with a gesture as if swatting a caterpillar.

In fact, the child's smile becomes more unsettling the longer you look at it. It's not a smile. This child isn't smiling at all. That's because he's standing with both fists tightly clenched. Humans cannot smile while clenching their fists. It's a monkey-like grin, merely scrunching his face into ugly wrinkles. It was a photograph of an expression so strange and somewhat unpleasant that I wanted to call him "Wrinkly Boy." I had never seen a child with such a peculiar expression before.

The second photograph showed a surprisingly transformed appearance. It was of him as a student, though I couldn't tell if it was from high school or college, possessing an astonishing beauty. However, strangely enough, this too didn't feel like a living human. Dressed in a student uniform, with a white handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, he sat cross-legged on a wicker chair, smiling again. This time, his smile wasn't like a wrinkled monkey's but a considerably refined one, yet somehow different from a human's laugh. It lacked the weight of blood or the depth of life; it was as light as a feather, smiling like a blank sheet of paper. Everything felt artificial. "Pompous" wasn't enough, nor was "frivolous." It wasn't a smirk, nor was it stylish. Upon closer inspection, even this beautiful student exuded a strange, eerie quality. I had never before seen a young man with such mysterious beauty.

The third photograph was the strangest of all, making it impossible to guess his age. Some white hair was mixed in on his head. He was holding both hands over a small brazier in the corner of a terribly dirty room, but this time he wasn't smiling. He had no expression at all. It exuded a truly eerie and ominous atmosphere, as if he had naturally died while sitting and holding his hands over the brazier. That wasn't the only strange thing. His face was largely depicted in the photograph, allowing me to observe its structure closely. His forehead was ordinary, his wrinkles normal, his eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, and chin—oh, this face not only lacked expression but also made no impression. It had no distinguishing features. For example, if I looked at this photo and then closed my eyes, I would immediately forget this face. I could remember the room's walls and the small brazier, but the impression of the room's occupant's face would vanish like a mist, and I couldn't recall it no matter how hard I tried. It was a face that couldn't be painted, nor could it be drawn in a comic. When I opened my eyes and looked at the photo again, there wasn't even the joy of remembering, "Ah, so this was his face." To put it extremely, even if I opened my eyes and looked at the photo, I couldn't recall it. It was just unpleasant, irritating, and made me want to look away.

Even what is called a "death mask" would surely have more expression or impression; perhaps this is what it would look like if a horse's head were attached to a human body. In any case, it somehow chills the viewer and makes them feel unpleasant. I had never seen such a strange man's face before.