“A dead body reminds me a bit of a bottle of whisky. If you drop the bottle and it cracks, what’s inside pours out. It’s only natural.”
“When ten million people come together, they voice not pleasantries but profound frustration with this great city. Youngsters of the night wriggle in their multitudes like swathes of plankton. The insignificance of human life. Passion extinguished. The flavor of pleasure and anticipation lost, like gum when you chew it to death. What else can you do in the end but spit it onto the roadside?”
When one starts “Life for Sale” by Mishima Yukio, it is entirely understandable to be taken aback by its seemingly incongruent plot and style (perhaps less so if you have seen photos of Mishima’s outlandish home with its French renaissance chairs, rococo furnishings, and 60’s modern trappings).
With its seedy overseas gangsters, tawdry sex, drug addicts and vampires(!), it is easy to think you’ve somehow taken a wrong turn into a Raymond Chandler trying his hand at an Ann Rice story, rather than the somewhat rarified air and prose of a Mishima novel.
You would however be mistaken.
For under all the lunacy and dime store detective tropes Mishima trots out here, underneath it all lies many of the same themes that populate all of Mishima stories. Loneliness, meditations on death, and the purpose of one’s existence.
Yes, the story of our narrator taking out an ad in the newspaper to sell his life to somehow who can dispose of it as they choose, is insane and implausible. However Mishima asks, is it any more insane to believe that you have syphilis without ever having had sex, or that you are a vampire, than to live the lives we construct for ourselves?
Marriage, children, unsatisfying jobs, all of these are self constructed prisons in which we sell off pieces of our lives with each new brick in its wall. Taking the agency to sell your life as our narrator does is an acknowledgement that is the only act in which we have some agency. Yes, there is a high probability he will die, but he will die on his terms and is that really any worse than waiting for the slow creeping death of our daily existence?
That our narrator after surviving several near death experiences begins to appreciate life however doesn’t mean he appreciates all life. Rather he, and by extension Mishima, is contemptuous of people who live safe existences where their safety is never threatened. In short, one cannot appreciate life until you have experienced the possibility of death.
This last concept is the quintessential Mishima theme. When our narrator thinks to himself:
“The world he inhabited lacked all sadness or joy, nothing was clearly defined in it. A kind of meaninglessness infused his life both day and night, like the soft glow from indirect light.”
“Until now, it had never occurred to him that his own actions were linked together like a series of interconnected rings. He saw those times that he put his life on sale as a succession of one-off events: like throwing one bunch of flowers after another into the river. The flowers might be carried away in the water, they might sink, they might float all the way down to the sea. He never dreamt they would be gathered up and end up on display together in some vase.”
Mishima is reflecting on having seen Japan unite as a nation with single minded purpose and meaning behind the emperor, and by extensions the nation, during the war. Japan was the vase and his countrymen the flowers. With the end of the war, this sense of higher purpose was lost and as the flowers scattered, Japan began a slow descent into consumerism and aimlessness. Mishima would spend the last 25 years of his life lamenting this, and in an attempt to avert this slide, advocated a return to militarism (even constructing his own private army of teenage boys, a discussion for another day) to fill what he perceived as Japan’s spiritual vacuum.
While Mishima and I differ on the value of death as a motivator of life, particularly in a military context, there is much to be said for the idea that living without purpose is not really living at all. Thinking you are a vampire may be insane, but unlike large segments of the public, you at least have a pretty well defined raison d'être.