naobi

In an interview, Asagiri has said that Dazai is an BLANK character—"I think of Dazai as a donut. What's in the middle? No one knows. That's something that not even director Igarashi knows, or the voice actor for Dazai, Mamoru Miyano. In the middle of that unknown is the question, “Why does Dazai want to die?” That core aspect about him is why everyone gets pulled into the rest of the story. Although, now that I think about it, are you talking about Dazai, the author, or the representations of Dazai in Bungo Stray Dogs? Because I have thoughts on both.

Sure let's hear it. 

Dazai wrote a book called No Longer Human that expresses something that no other author has been able to get down on paper, which is the deep feeling of embarrassment that we can all relate to. Everyone is familiar with the feeling of embarrassment, but no one really expresses what that feeling is like or what kind of feelings it invokes. The image of Dazai is incredibly unique, and I wanted him to stand out in that way." 

Interview link:  If you are unable to see the link, go to bsd-bibliophileonlinelibrary, click interview and select writing relatable villain, there's a bug for some reason.

How does him being compared to a donut make him blank? The outer layers of a donut is tasty, everyone likes and more than often focuses on it rather than the inside because the inside is empty and there is no point of pursuing what is inside when its empty and cannot be eaten. This is the case for Dazai, as much as we question him, we cannot receive a proper answer, because there is no definite answer to our questions. Dazai's core element is blank, even if there is something in there, what can we do? Exactly, nothing.

Now onto your replies: "Dazai also definitely isn’t 100% up to interpretation. no fully fleshed out character is like that. you ‘Dazai is so complex!!!! he’s up to interpretation’ mfs r always so damn vague like?? WHAT" I never said he is a 100% into interpretation character, he has some aspects in his character in where people can understand some parts of his character, for example, his suicidal antics, his intelligence, and "all the things i don't ever want to be lost will always be lost."

"is up to interpretation? do you even know what interpretation is? do you even realise that you’re treating Dazai as a blank slate only there to change to your own views of it? do you realise that a ‘blank slate’ cannot be a complex character hence you are contradicting yourself? do you realise a ‘blank slate’ cannot be a fully fleshed character which Dazai clearly is?" Interpretation definition: the act of explaining, reframing, or otherwise showing your own understanding of something. "do you even realise that you’re treating Dazai as a blank slate only there to change to your own views of it? do you realise that a ‘blank slate’ cannot be a complex character hence you are contradicting yourself? do you realise a ‘blank slate’ cannot be a fully fleshed character which Dazai clearly is?" Because there's nothing for us to interpret him as, "why does he want to die? (his core element)" is it because he's bored of life? is it because he can't handle living any further? is it because he feels like a burden? Is it because he is unable to find the meaning to live? Is it because of an illness? Is it because he experienced abuse from his past? What happened to Dazai and what caused him to do this? We don't know, all we know is that he is a child who committed suicide at the age of 14 and was taken in by Mori as a "pawn". Why does he live in a shipping container? We don't know either, it could be simply a way for him to prevent assassinations towards him by mafia members, or it could be him isolating himself from everybody so when he dies, he won't have to worry about mortal means. We can go on and on about Dazai's character, and yet, we are unable to fully grasp upon his character, because there is nothing we can hold onto, all we are holding are pieces of sand slipping through our fingers easily.  

"that makes no fucking sense? “blank” CANNOT be complex. he is not fully up to interpretation you arguments make no sense & EVERYONE IN BSD IS MORALLY COMPLEX & GREY. YOU CANNOT TREAT DAZAI LIKE THE EXCEPTION. EXCEPTION. if we aren’t able to analyse him rationally and with logic then he ISNT A CHARACTER AND JUST A PLACEHOLDER, WHICH HE IS NOT. stop watering down his character to ‘up to interpretation’ too" Well no, Blank and Complexity can co-exist. Dazai IS complex, yet at the same time he is BLANK.. He hurts Akutagawa because he thinks its the best training for him, and yet, he knows that hurting akutagawa is not good (Contradictory Nature and Moral Ambiguity), In 18, he believed that the world is not a boring place and isn't worth living for, and that humans were just pawns, but when he met Oda and Chuuya, he changed! In the chapter where he got shot by fyodor and fyodor says "People are sinfully stupid. Even knowing they're being manipulated, they just can't stop killing each other. Someone must cleanse these sins.", Dazai replies, "Certainly, people are sinfully stupid, but what's so wrong with that?" I'd also like to bring up the fact that in PM he had an nihilistic view on humanity, and in current timeline, he follows the philosophy of existentialism. (Change in perspectives and character development), Dazai also had a unique outlook on death, he believes it is salvation of humanity. (Unique Perspectives)

Essentially, a BLANK character can BE complex under certain conditions, EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

We cannot properly understand him with logic because his core element is hard to understand with the use of logic, and simply, the only answer you will receive from logic is that, "Suicide is not a good thing." Which is why we have to use psychological means on him, but if we do that, there is way too many reasons on why he may be doing this, hence, he CANNOT be understood properly.

"Dazai isn’t necessarily always misunderstood—rather no one TRIED to understand him due to his place in the mafia, and he believed he was outcasted due to his inhumane nature. although, yes, that is morals, human values/relationships, and what it is to be human in general, hence he searched for a reason to continue living, finding it in Chuuya because he showed him the ‘unpredictability’ of human nature, awakening a will to observe and understand within him. a lot of people who relate to Dazai simply relate to the isolation & lack of understanding/care given, rather than the whole humans thing" Correct, you are correct! but how does this answer the question of: Why does Dazai want to die? What happened to Dazai? Why does Dazai live in a shipping container? Exactly, NOTHING!! 

"huh? rephrase this sentence again ion understand it /nm. you claimed he is BLANK and UP TO INTERPRETATION, and I’m saying people IN THE SERIES struggle to understand him, not us as the viewer." then explain the interview. if that were the case, then people close to the manga would've been given an answer why Dazai acts that way. 

"i fucking hte NPD Dazai and generally cluster b Dazai except ASPD ngl. ion care what u hc but he definitely has the most ASPD symptoms…" aspd is a cluster b disorder.

In conclusion, you are stupid, and you just hate Dazai. 

do people acc view this... 

Diary Entry #3

I lived a happy life, I lived a stable life, I lived a very joyful life: I was happy, I was happy to the point I could barely feel the happiness I felt myself, I was content because I didn't know, I didn't know the limit of happiness; I didn't know what it meant to struggle, I didn't know what it meant to be unhappy, because I lived a different life from others until that day.

Until that day where his sickenly gross calloused hand caressed my body, until that day where he whispered unto me— "ena, you're such a cute child." and defiled my childish innocence. That day I didn't know what I was happening, I didn't know what he was doing to me, all I knew was that it was out of love, or so he told me. He told me this was out of love, that he adored me deeply. Back then, I didn't know what he did to me but I knew one thing: he loved me, and being desperate to be continued to be loved, I complied, I complied when he told me not to tell anyone, I complied even when he would say things that made me uncomfortable.

Because girls were meant to be nice, they taught me that girls were meant to be submissive, to accept anything from men. I was taught to become a woman in a young age, and I wanted to become one, even before my life turned tables on me, i thought showing skin was what made a woman, i wanted to become one, i would always lift my school skirt up to thighs, I wore make up hoping to look more "adult-like", and thinking about that, I feel like, unconsciously, I was unintentionally leading myself into a terrible fate.

I think I shouldn't be feeling this way.

I brought it upon myself like everyone told me, I led him on, It was my fault, I shouldn't be feeling this way when I did this to myself. I shouldn't be weeping for the innocence I had lost when I set myself up to this fate.

I shouldn't be feeling this way.

It was my fault.

So why am I so sad?

It's pathetic really.

Diary Entry #2

"Will you ever have enough?" — "No."

I have always knew the answer to that, anyway.

In the ripe age of 12, callouses on his palms, rough with his tender, hellish caressing. It was supposed to be protective, gentle, sterile, impersonal, non-intimate; "Your skin is so soft, and you're so cute too... C'mon, just for few minutes, this was your fault, you were tempting me," He said.

I was 8, all I asked was for him to play a simple childish game of hide and seek with me.

I was 8 when he hooked a gross, fattened finger down the hem of the fabric of my undergarments.

I was 8 when he tugged on the front of my shirt and peered down at the parts I had grown to detest.

I was 8 ears old, I was a child, a kid; I was no nymphet, no lolita, no grue, I was a child, a little girl.

I was no temptress, I was a kid, I was a little girl playing in her mother's makeup and dress up of a lady, I was a little girl whose panties had just been clothing; no attachment, pure neutrality.

But underneath that sickenly appalling sun, with me trapped underneath your arms, to you, I was a woman, a piece of meat, a warm body, a blushing virgin, nothing else

I was no child to you, I was no little sister to you, I was a play thing to you, I was a damozel, a charnue laced with eglantine, your sex pot.

Under your arms, I lost any sense of beauty I had. No longer was I an innocent kid--Innocent to the horrors of man--I was a violated woman.

I had always wanted to be a lady, to be a bathing beauty, but now, all left is the marks of your hands, the ichor that stained my clothes, and the everlasting sensation—I prayed and cried to god to remove—of your touch.

Forever, I am marked by you and your grossly touch.

Diary Entry #1

Humans leave off a distasteful sense of flavor on my tongue. 

The word itself and the embodiments make me sick to my stomach: walking bags of flesh stuffed to the brim with everything—bones, tendons, zits, sweat, mucus, blood, and goo, with beating hearts that beat, lungs that shudder, bladders filled with warm urine...

How gross.

Humans are gross.

Just thinking about all of these makes me want to dig my fingersnails into the rake of my skin, sink the very tip of my nails into the muscles and tendons inside my skin, and just dig it all out, lacerate myself until I am no longer.

But I bet that would look gross too, vile and inhumane.

I should pluck out my eyeballs first, let the blood blur my vision, gouge it out and let my blood fall down to the porcelain white tiles.

The Letter of a Bondwoman

Will God still love me?

Will God still love his daughter whose purity was robbed violently from her pelvis? will God still love a lamb desecrated and defiled with sin? Will God still love me even if my soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, and disturbingly swallow me whole? Will God still love me, his daughter who hath turned into a bondman?

The Secret to Innocence: Non-Human

I find myself in a sort of filthy, repulsive crudity-- when my flesh is ripened with life, I see myself in the most extraordinarily unattractiveness.

I loathed it: when the blood pulsed in my blood like septic, when the sweat trickled down my skin, the fabric of my clothing sticking to my skin, the filthy, repulsive sensation of my flesh, the vessels in my eyes that seem undead; red, branching out across the white of my selcra—a sickening sign of being alive.

I loathed it and despised it more than anything else in the world; I wanted to rip my flesh apart, make it melt off my skin, make my stomach fall out to the floorboard, drain out the blood pumping through my capillaries, make my arteries clog, for my arterioles to coagulate, for my limbs to turn a sickening corpse, a corpse-like dullness, and oxidize—turn blue and purplish, and let veins covered by thin hide be grossly exposed.

It is the splendous form of myself, the only form where each and every single mask concealing my grotesque, hollow self is ripped out of my very being; when the slope of my stomach is inwards, when my hip bones protrude from thin skin, when my diaphragm and ribs stick sickenly, and each bone looks like a mountain range on the plateau of my pectorals; the way scars turn beautiful, thrumming pink, and fade dark into a luscious shade of near-blue when it’s cold; the vibrancy of blood as it trickles down his tainted flesh.

With that, I would be the epitome of "pulchritudinous" the pique of beguilment, splayed as a corpse.

Too bad, my flesh is still as anchored as ever and in a stable state.

I would love my eyes sunken in, my lips silenced, skin as cold as the boomerang nebula.

Too bad, my body has a bad taste of being alive.

What a shame, Indeed.

— written in the perspective of Dazai Osamu.

i hate (i love) to hate (to love) to hate (to love) to hate you (to love you)

I wish I could say I miss you, but the truth is more complex, more blue. In the quiet corners of memory, I find the echos of us, a shattered symphony.

The moment I stop thinking of you, the hues of yearning fade, this is true. Once a sapphire, sharp and deep, now softened, like twilight’s gentle sweep.

The seconds slugged by, relentless and cold, yet my thoughts clung to you. I yearn for silence, an escape from the noise, I wish for solace, away from chaos, the world’s endless toys.

The eye of the storm eludes my grasp, instead, I’m caught in a swirling rasp. Drowning, grasping for breath in the center, should I have let go? Would that have been better?

I am the aftermath, the quiet aftermath, when the storms subside, leaving paths. You tested my heart, pulled it from my chest, and now I’m left with scars, a love better left unexpressed.

Trust shattered, pride swallowed whole, lessons learned in the fire’s searing coal. Yet amidst pain’s icy grip, a fragile refrain, love persists: a stubborn bloom in the rain.

The world fractures, rips apart, yet love endures, thawing the frozen heart. In this unforgiving dance of joy and strife, love finds its place, etching hope into life.

My Loved One.

Mon Amour Interdit,

I would kill— no, I would die— No.

I would live for you.

To die, to fade and decay in the absence of your light would be the easiest task, A dandelion blown away in the wind, an inevitable demise in the foreseeable winter.

This the most natural thing, to rot and expire without you… The very essence of your presence has always held the sense of mortality, the urgency of the eternal and life everlasting.

However, to live without your empyreal presence beside me, It would be to live without living.

It is an aberration, a blasphemy born into the world scraping, weeping, and aching for death. To live is as unnatural a thing as to be shunned, exiled, that the feeble existence does not offend its neighbors to look upon. To live without you a torturous sentence one wouldn’t commute on the worst offender, much less expect them to endure and thrive.

A sickly, pale glowing, cave-dwelling weed devouring a pinlight of sun. Its pollen is long since pointless and seeds bear only doomed children who perish in its view.

A Sisyphean lifetime is life without you. Fraught with trial for an outcome non-existent, punished through perseverance with little option to surrender.

- However -

For you... Oh, my sweet, distant subject of Morpheus’ reign, my beloved dream who still somehow holds the strings of my corseted heart,

For you.. only for you...

(If only it could be for you...)

I would live. For you.

Yours in devotion, in spirit, in respectful distance...and I suppose hopelessly still in love,

- Moi