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Sitting cross-legged on the bench, I took little sips of Calpis, but I knew I wasn't a kid anymore, just a lousy writer, thirty-two years old. And the milky soft drink didn't make me feel the least bit young.

"Stop cooing in my ear. I'm gonna barf. Must feel great sermonizing to a loser like me."

"Tale of Eight Dogs, huh? That's a classic. You sure have . . ." A nose, I almost said, but remembered this was a sore subject. "An eye, you've got an eye for quality literature. Some call that the first Japanese novel."

It's true. Dazai is just a pen name. I was born Takeo Kimura. Growing up, I found the name incredibly embarrassing, so despite being a string bean, I've been publishing as Osamu Dazai, a name that makes me sound like a street fighter who might break your neck.

"Are you Lord Byron?" I asked, doing my best to kill his spirit. His bloated speech was getting harder to endure. "Unless I've missed something, you don't have a bum leg. Besides, a person can't spend their entire life doing the breaststroke."