Confessions of a Mask: Yukio Mishima (Penguin Modern Classics)

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One may wonder if this too-clever self-reflexive narrative was intentional. This was, after all, Mishima’s second novel, and he was only twenty-four when it was published. Although it is rich in the imagery that would come to define his literary output, both in its violent and sensual content, as well as the mastery with which it is depicted, it is nonetheless quite undeveloped in comparison to his later work to be found in, for instance The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, much less, Spring Snow. As his relationship with Sonoko progresses, it becomes clear that she thinks both very highly and very fondly of him. Rather than sincerely reciprocate her feelings, he writes at length on the torture he experiences when he is unable to reconcile the contradictions of how he feels he is supposed to act and his own inclinations for violence and grief. As such, its value can only be found in those looking to understand Yukio Mishima’s corpus. The degree of its explicit violence, as well as his his descriptions of men, flirt with levels of appropriateness that are best left obscured and avoided. Likewise, the book offers little beyond its wildly self-indulgent narrative. Everything that can and probably should be said about it refer almost exclusively to its use as a means of better interpreting the rest of Mishima’s literary output and, indeed, even his life. But so far as casual reading is concerned, one is better off with almost any one of his other books. On the other hand, as it often is in literature, seeing too strong autobiographical references is risky, in terms of literary criticism. More importantly, it’s pointless. The story is neither about Kochan, the protagonist, nor about Mishima; rather it is about all“Kochans” and “Mishimas”, in Japan and elsewhere, in the 1940s and always. I really don’t feel a review of Confessions of a Mask can properly reveal the genius of Yukio Mishima. Anyone familiar with Mishima’s life can definitely see parallels between Mishima and the protagonist – whose name is Kochan, the diminutive of Mishima’s real name, Kimitake.

All of this has been important for sketching a brief psychological portrait of the sort of character Kochan believes himself to be. The action of the plot doesn’t begin until well into his school years, and then, for the most part, a chapter later, with the introduction of Sonoko. At the heart of Confessions of a Mask is, as far as Kochan believes, the tension between how he thinks he is supposed to act as a burgeoning young man entering into the prime of his virility, and the erotic fixation he has with strength and death. Confessions of a Mask follows a perfectly clear trajectory, in terms of narrative journeying. There is a logical sequence between events. Fiction, however, is not synonymous with ‘lie’. It is of altogether different mode, sitting downstream from the operation of reason, by which truths and lies are discerned, morality, from which good and evil are discerned, and aesthetics, from which beauty and ugliness are discerned. The fiction that a mask participates in is that of the stage performance, wherein everyone accepts the mask as necessary towards the functioning of the drama. The language is also fascinatingly modern; you’d never believe the novel was written in 1949. In that regard, it strongly reminded me of The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. all this somehow achieved a melancholy harmony with her haughty air of self-importance, characteristic of conjurers and exiled noblemen alike, with her sort of somber charm, with her heroine-like bearing. The delicate grain of the shadow cast by these unharmonious elements produced its own surprising and unique illusion of harmony. 3

One might suggest that this is perfectly inline with the sort of pathological confusion that seems to characterize the average homosexual’s interior life. It’s possible, given that their collective behavior could suggest such, though it’s uncharitable to make such sweeping assumptions. However, one might also rebut with the question of how to define an ‘average’ homosexual, and should such a general profile be constructed, it becomes harder to profile Kochan according to it without introducing quite a few suppositions into the narrative that simply aren’t there.

I use the word crudely because the novel goes far, far beyond the story of a young man who realizes he’s attracted to men, rather than women.In any case, with this in mind, we could say that Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask is a literary-fiction novel. After all, it talks about some very universal human experiences: love, identity, one’s place in society. It’s also symbolic in various ways, and has incredibly realistic characters. The nature of our protagonist’s angst over the feeling in his chest should, by this point in the book, come across as amusing to the average reader. This is the point at which the book begins to read like parody, not just in the emotional immaturity of its protagonist, but even in his use of melodrama to describe this parting scene. It might as well have been ripped from the celluloid of a classic Hollywood film: the brooding protagonist interiorly aware of his doomed relationship fleeing the warmth of a loving maiden. One can practically see how it would be shot. The book is divided into four chapters. In the first, Kochan describes his early life, beginning with the insistence that he remembers the day of his birth despite recognizing that such a thing should be impossible, and it ends with his memory of a manic shrine procession stumbling into his manor’s front yard to ruin their garden. In between, he recounts the distance that was put between himself and his parents on account of an overbearing grandmother, the size of the house he grew up in and its number of maids, as well as episodes of early childhood frivolity. Of the latter, many commentators are drawn to the emphasis with which Kochan proclaimed his fascination with detached, moody feminine figures such as the theater magician Shokyokusai Tenkatsu or Cleopatra. Even though still young, I did not know what it was to experience the clear-cut feeling of platonic love. Was this a misfortune? But what meaning could ordinary misfortune have for me? The vague uneasiness surrounding my sexual feelings had practically made the carnal world an obsession with me. my curiosity was actually purely intellectual, but I became skillful at convincing myself that it was carnal desire incarnate. What is more, I mastered the art of delusion until I could regard myself as a truly lewd-minded person. As a result I assumed the stylish airs of an adult, of a man of the world. I affected the attitude of being completely tired of women.