Fiction
Day of a Stupid Man
“I may wear the skin of an urbane sophisticate, but in this manuscript I invite you to strip it off and laugh at my stupidity.” – Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Sneakily, the overcast sky sinks darker into the evening. On Fridays, the library closes at 5.30 pm, though he didn’t know. He plans to renew the book he still hasn't read for two weeks. Because a part of him ardently believes in a future where he would read it. After biking for twenty minutes and climbing up two flights of stairs, he stands behind the locked glass door, staring at the dimmed lights, abandoned books, and a deserted reception.
Perhaps this is arranged so that the staff can come home earlier for a hearty dinner? He thinks as he returns to his bike. Beef potato hash? Pork casserole with Worcestershire sauce? He makes random turns on his bike. Down the main street, left on an alley, and stopping before a crowd, he mindlessly ends up at Farringdon Station. Many are waiting outside. For their loved ones? For friends? He picks up a free hot chocolate, and stands in the chilling January wind. He too pretends to wait for someone.
2. Paralysis
Dreams – intense. Evil hours – sporadic. Mentions of her name – torturous and unbearable. It is day three since he has been constrained to the couch. His left ankle just could not bear any weight. Even limping to the toilet requires enormous effort. Worse, the sun almost never visits him. On rare days, it does so by reflecting off the window of the gray-walled hotel that towers over his apartment and blocks all sense of the outer world.
In his solitude, thoughts start to enter unasked for, dripping into his consciousness like tiny droplets. As the droplet lands, it splashes and releases a specific feeling, which he is simply incapable of keeping out. So he tries to tally them: sometimes the fuzzy warmth of a nostalgic memory. Other times the sudden sink into grief. But at the end always the piercing feeling of incompetence and powerlessness. Every drop is so small and brief, yet so gratifying and painful. And as they drip faster and faster, the pauses between each become shorter and shorter. Until they start to form a little stream, he can no longer tell apart the colorful autumn of Seoul, the lonely streets of Tokyo, and the shivering wind of London within it. At this point, he is allured to succumb to its flow. One question leads to one memory that leads to another question, he finds himself both enlightened and entertained in the spiral. The beauty of autumn, would he have still let himself be enamored by it, if he knew the winter would be so unforgiving? But the never-ending questions only blind him from the impending danger. Very quickly, the stream widens into a gushing river that swells and forms white caps. In no time, actual waves begin to rise and break. Anything disguised as rational inquiries previously crackles and shatters into its most primitive form – angst. It is too late. He is tethered by the chains of dread. Bigger, more ominous waves rebel against his will. He is rendered as a helpless creature tossed around in his own mindstorm, threatening to engulf him completely, like countless times before.
The sun seeps in for a moment. He shuffles and rolls his body over to receive its touch. He lies in wakeful silence and endures.
Soon the sun makes way for the moon and the sky dims into a deep dark navy. A train is snaking into Eunston station, hissing imaginary smoke out of its chimney. It’s been a week, though his ankle still will not budge. Today, leaving the apartment feels as if an overpowering necessity. After spending an afternoon at University College London, he limps towards Eunston station (no biking, of course). Amongst the crowd in the backdrop of a clear night, his eyes are drawn to an East Asian man alone, perhaps in his early 30s, stepping out of the station.
Mr. A’s hairstyle looks Korean, but he has the slow footsteps of a Japanese. To some, Mr. A can appear mechanical and rigid. But to him, Mr. A oozes a silent dignity. His gray suit is tailored perfectly to his skinny figure and his navy tie tightly hangs off the still-unbuttoned collar. Mr. A keeps his head low, fixing his gaze to the ground, as if on his shoulders carry an unknowable amount of weight. As he emerges from the shadow of the underground, the full moon, at an instant, bathes him in white light and grace, illuminating a face of sharp eyebrows and shallow wrinkles. It was a difficult day, wasn’t it. But you made it, didn’t you? A question for Mr. A that didn’t leave his mouth in time. And as they brush past each other, a loneliness he never knew of overwhelmed him.
He starts frequenting the piano whilst at the library. For this, he must give up his identity card as a collateral to the librarian in exchange for a pair of headphones. As for the headphones, they are to be connected to the piano (it’s electric). So that only the player can listen to his own poundings on the keys. And so that others in the library may not be disturbed.
For a while, he has been meaning to learn to play Un Sospiro by Franz Liszt, a piece that even he cannot believe truly touches his heart. But ultimately, he is a piano player of limited potential. His amateurism prevents him from perfecting his previous piece, Merry Go Round of Life by Joe Hisaishi, and proceeding from there.
He plays for twenty minutes. But he finds himself irritable and incapable of concentrating. So in dramatic fashion (no one is around really), he rips his headphones off and walks off. As the librarian returns his identity card, remarking how much he seems to enjoy playing from his constant swaying, a thought takes hold of him: no one could hear me.
The rain has been beating down all morning, making the day seem like it has barely begun. He is reading on his phone about a type of double suicide in Japan called Shinjū. Two lovers, at odds with the society, believe they’d be reunited in heaven if they kill themselves at the same time. Osamu Dazai, the writer he has been reading, did exactly that. Twice. Because he failed to drown himself in Kamakura, while his lover, tragically, succeeded. It’s not hard for him to reconcile that such an extreme act occurs in Japan.
He never thought of suicide. But for those who decided to end their lives, life must be so unbearable to live – a statement he has neither the authority nor the experience to back up. All he has is a glimpse. A glimpse so small of what true sadness is that he might as well keep to himself. At this point, the cream starts boiling. He puts down his phone and turns down the gas. As he stirs the carbonara sauce, the thought of curly leaf parsley comes to him. Its unique aroma releasing into the air when chopped, he tries hard to conjure up in his head. It is what the pasta lacks, but he cannot be sure.
Right when he rushes into his apartment, he scours the coat wardrobe, frantically searching for a cigarette. The truth is, he is not a smoker. He barely smoked the past few months. Like those who are generally content with their lives, he thinks smoking is unhealthy, expensive, and most importantly, not cool. Especially to the cheerful kinds of girls he likes. But in the evil knick of the moment, the idea of smoking suddenly feels like an overwhelming necessity. Though, the cigarette he thought existed is nowhere to be seen.
He musters up the courage to knock on his neighbor’s door for the first time. What an awkward request it is. Oh hi, nice to meet you. By any chance, do you have a cigarette? Because any more words will not add to his cause but unnecessary details. Oh no, sorry to bother you then. He stands outside of their door for a moment to collect himself. He ponders the possibility of just buying a pack at the store downs– Oh no I must not. I’m not a smoker…
At the store counter downstairs, his remaining dignity (very little at this point) has him make an incredulous request. Oh excuse me, can I buy… two cigarettes? The store owner only returns him a weird stare. Oh you only sell packs of cigarettes? The gazes of the other customers only further infuriate him. As he defeatedly makes his way home, he surveys the clear night sky. Oh lonely cloud, did we exhale you from our cigarette tips, out into this cold vast world? Just as he sinks on the couch to strategize his next move, his phone starts ringing in his pocket. No sooner does he glance at the caller's name, he runs uncontrollably out onto the street without picking up, ignoring the immense ache in his ankle.
The spring breeze blows crisply at his face, like Jack in Titanic. As he strides down the street, he notices the only cherry tree in full blossom. How beautiful and seductive it is! He pauses under it for a second, and announces to himself that now, more than ever, is a poetic moment. Not the poetic moment, but a poetic moment. He then drafts a haiku in his head (what the heck), as the words come to him like the slow and steady brush strokes of calligraphy:
“First cherry blossom
Tonight loneliness and him
Springs into deep dreams”
He employs the singular “springs” to imply him and loneliness has become one. He also chuckles at his cleverness with the double entendre. But the message is too overt and the tone too excited and positive. So he quickly dismisses it and drafts another one:
“First cherry blossom
Who on earth would just care to
Stop and look at him?”
Sadly, he is too self-pitying to consider himself a blossoming cherry tree.
He is hungry. Worse, he is thirsty. Usually hunger didn’t bother him so much. But thirst has made his mouth salivate for the past three hours. He starts to feel dizzy and achy in his forehead. Weirdly enough, his concentration is sharper than ever. It is the fourth day of Ramadan. He has been fasting in solidarity of sorts with his Muslim friends. Today though, he couldn’t wake up in time for Suhur at 4.30 am, the last meal before the fast begins, which made the day extra difficult. But what really challenged him was the constant low mood it has put him in. He can’t quite think straight. He entertains negative thoughts more readily.
The truth is, his mental and physical capacities have been on decline since he injured his ankle two months ago. And the fast revealed exactly that to him. Hunger can be satisfied and thirst quenched, but what of misery? He is too weak to soothe his soul, so let him eat and drink at least. On day five, he devours his first lunch, not without shame.
On a chilly drizzly morning, he visits the bookstore at University College London. He has been frequenting it for the past months, for its multi-storey selection and the prospect of being surrounded by people of his age. He took a particular liking for Japanese authors of the early 1900s, right when Japan was in her final empire days. Their misery and insanity comforts him, and in return, he wants to feel closer to them. In their writings, he gradually discovers what true madness can look like. Sōseki’s Kokoro made him yearn for a sensei in his life. Dazai’s No Longer Human made him ponder for the first time about suicide. And Akutagawa’s The Life of a Stupid Man simply left him incredibly empty.
As he reads, he wonders whether developing an emotional closeness to their writings might also drive him into madness. He asks the bookstore attendant for books by Sōseki. But without checking the online catalog, she shakes her head, as if she already knows they don’t have any. A missed opportunity. I love his books too, but it is just such a missed opportunity. Apparently, Sōseki lived his most insufferable two years just around the corner, on Gower Street, while he was studying in London. After he walks out of the bookstore, he decides to make a left unlike usual. In front of 76 Gower Street, he ponders what constitutes a missed opportunity. That we must take advantage of his madness, for the sake of literature?
On a rare April Sunday, the sun forgives and graces the people of London. As he arrives at a curve by the canal and enters a crowd, he slows down and sees a floating bookstore. His ankle is not fully healed, but nonetheless good enough to last him a few kilometers on his first run in three months. The sun is in his eyes. He feels a warmth that he had forgotten for a while. How cruel is the sun for making him feel so vulnerable!
Under a cherry tree, opposite to the bookstore, where people are gathering, a man in a navy suit is playing Un Sospiro on a brown upright piano. As he walks through and looks around, passersby also lift their heads to meet his eyes. Today, he feels inexplicably light. He thinks he knows why, but he dares not describe it, lest this lightness, not precisely understood, is ruined by the limits of his vocabulary. Afterall, most beautiful things can only be fully grasped in hindsight.
As he scans the book titles, he is surprised to find Sōseki’s Kokoro, lying face down on the far end of the boat. He wouldn’t have found it if it was upright, because he would have had to tilt his head. He picks up the book, an edition he has never seen before. It is hardback but with a leathery touch to it, and the cover depicts a violent wave in Japanese style. Kind of like The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, but not exactly that.
He turns the book around, and finds that it is a personalized hand-made, very limited leather edition, with a note by the cover-maker: The violent flow of water reflects the brutal, emotionally unstable, and dangerous periods of individual lives. And the high possibility of not being able to come out of it. I thought the image can be seen as an abstract reflection of Kokoro's theme. Later on, he will find out that this is the first and final time he will ever come across this edition in person. Because the cover-maker passed away a week earlier. In Kamakura, out of all places.
He puts down the book, letting the sunrays caress his face directly. He meditates on the beauty of where he is. Or more accurately, the beauty of where he ends up in. He lets out a sigh. Or un sospiro, in Italian. At which point, he picks up his pace once again, running, with less hesitation, towards a future that is no longer the here and now that he was for a while familiar with.
1. Longing
Sneakily, the overcast sky sinks darker into the evening. On Fridays, the library closes at 5.30 pm, though he didn’t know. He plans to renew the book he still hasn't read for two weeks. Because a part of him ardently believes in a future where he would read it. After biking for twenty minutes and climbing up two flights of stairs, he stands behind the locked glass door, staring at the dimmed lights, abandoned books, and a deserted reception.
Perhaps this is arranged so that the staff can come home earlier for a hearty dinner? He thinks as he returns to his bike. Beef potato hash? Pork casserole with Worcestershire sauce? He makes random turns on his bike. Down the main street, left on an alley, and stopping before a crowd, he mindlessly ends up at Farringdon Station. Many are waiting outside. For their loved ones? For friends? He picks up a free hot chocolate, and stands in the chilling January wind. He too pretends to wait for someone.
2. Paralysis
Dreams – intense. Evil hours – sporadic. Mentions of her name – torturous and unbearable. It is day three since he has been constrained to the couch. His left ankle just could not bear any weight. Even limping to the toilet requires enormous effort. Worse, the sun almost never visits him. On rare days, it does so by reflecting off the window of the gray-walled hotel that towers over his apartment and blocks all sense of the outer world.
In his solitude, thoughts start to enter unasked for, dripping into his consciousness like tiny droplets. As the droplet lands, it splashes and releases a specific feeling, which he is simply incapable of keeping out. So he tries to tally them: sometimes the fuzzy warmth of a nostalgic memory. Other times the sudden sink into grief. But at the end always the piercing feeling of incompetence and powerlessness. Every drop is so small and brief, yet so gratifying and painful. And as they drip faster and faster, the pauses between each become shorter and shorter. Until they start to form a little stream, he can no longer tell apart the colorful autumn of Seoul, the lonely streets of Tokyo, and the shivering wind of London within it. At this point, he is allured to succumb to its flow. One question leads to one memory that leads to another question, he finds himself both enlightened and entertained in the spiral. The beauty of autumn, would he have still let himself be enamored by it, if he knew the winter would be so unforgiving? But the never-ending questions only blind him from the impending danger. Very quickly, the stream widens into a gushing river that swells and forms white caps. In no time, actual waves begin to rise and break. Anything disguised as rational inquiries previously crackles and shatters into its most primitive form – angst. It is too late. He is tethered by the chains of dread. Bigger, more ominous waves rebel against his will. He is rendered as a helpless creature tossed around in his own mindstorm, threatening to engulf him completely, like countless times before.
The sun seeps in for a moment. He shuffles and rolls his body over to receive its touch. He lies in wakeful silence and endures.
3. Moonlight
Soon the sun makes way for the moon and the sky dims into a deep dark navy. A train is snaking into Eunston station, hissing imaginary smoke out of its chimney. It’s been a week, though his ankle still will not budge. Today, leaving the apartment feels as if an overpowering necessity. After spending an afternoon at University College London, he limps towards Eunston station (no biking, of course). Amongst the crowd in the backdrop of a clear night, his eyes are drawn to an East Asian man alone, perhaps in his early 30s, stepping out of the station.
Mr. A’s hairstyle looks Korean, but he has the slow footsteps of a Japanese. To some, Mr. A can appear mechanical and rigid. But to him, Mr. A oozes a silent dignity. His gray suit is tailored perfectly to his skinny figure and his navy tie tightly hangs off the still-unbuttoned collar. Mr. A keeps his head low, fixing his gaze to the ground, as if on his shoulders carry an unknowable amount of weight. As he emerges from the shadow of the underground, the full moon, at an instant, bathes him in white light and grace, illuminating a face of sharp eyebrows and shallow wrinkles. It was a difficult day, wasn’t it. But you made it, didn’t you? A question for Mr. A that didn’t leave his mouth in time. And as they brush past each other, a loneliness he never knew of overwhelmed him.
4. Lunatic
He starts frequenting the piano whilst at the library. For this, he must give up his identity card as a collateral to the librarian in exchange for a pair of headphones. As for the headphones, they are to be connected to the piano (it’s electric). So that only the player can listen to his own poundings on the keys. And so that others in the library may not be disturbed.
For a while, he has been meaning to learn to play Un Sospiro by Franz Liszt, a piece that even he cannot believe truly touches his heart. But ultimately, he is a piano player of limited potential. His amateurism prevents him from perfecting his previous piece, Merry Go Round of Life by Joe Hisaishi, and proceeding from there.
He plays for twenty minutes. But he finds himself irritable and incapable of concentrating. So in dramatic fashion (no one is around really), he rips his headphones off and walks off. As the librarian returns his identity card, remarking how much he seems to enjoy playing from his constant swaying, a thought takes hold of him: no one could hear me.
5. Imagination
The rain has been beating down all morning, making the day seem like it has barely begun. He is reading on his phone about a type of double suicide in Japan called Shinjū. Two lovers, at odds with the society, believe they’d be reunited in heaven if they kill themselves at the same time. Osamu Dazai, the writer he has been reading, did exactly that. Twice. Because he failed to drown himself in Kamakura, while his lover, tragically, succeeded. It’s not hard for him to reconcile that such an extreme act occurs in Japan.
He never thought of suicide. But for those who decided to end their lives, life must be so unbearable to live – a statement he has neither the authority nor the experience to back up. All he has is a glimpse. A glimpse so small of what true sadness is that he might as well keep to himself. At this point, the cream starts boiling. He puts down his phone and turns down the gas. As he stirs the carbonara sauce, the thought of curly leaf parsley comes to him. Its unique aroma releasing into the air when chopped, he tries hard to conjure up in his head. It is what the pasta lacks, but he cannot be sure.
6. Desperation
Right when he rushes into his apartment, he scours the coat wardrobe, frantically searching for a cigarette. The truth is, he is not a smoker. He barely smoked the past few months. Like those who are generally content with their lives, he thinks smoking is unhealthy, expensive, and most importantly, not cool. Especially to the cheerful kinds of girls he likes. But in the evil knick of the moment, the idea of smoking suddenly feels like an overwhelming necessity. Though, the cigarette he thought existed is nowhere to be seen.
He musters up the courage to knock on his neighbor’s door for the first time. What an awkward request it is. Oh hi, nice to meet you. By any chance, do you have a cigarette? Because any more words will not add to his cause but unnecessary details. Oh no, sorry to bother you then. He stands outside of their door for a moment to collect himself. He ponders the possibility of just buying a pack at the store downs– Oh no I must not. I’m not a smoker…
At the store counter downstairs, his remaining dignity (very little at this point) has him make an incredulous request. Oh excuse me, can I buy… two cigarettes? The store owner only returns him a weird stare. Oh you only sell packs of cigarettes? The gazes of the other customers only further infuriate him. As he defeatedly makes his way home, he surveys the clear night sky. Oh lonely cloud, did we exhale you from our cigarette tips, out into this cold vast world? Just as he sinks on the couch to strategize his next move, his phone starts ringing in his pocket. No sooner does he glance at the caller's name, he runs uncontrollably out onto the street without picking up, ignoring the immense ache in his ankle.
7. Blossom
The spring breeze blows crisply at his face, like Jack in Titanic. As he strides down the street, he notices the only cherry tree in full blossom. How beautiful and seductive it is! He pauses under it for a second, and announces to himself that now, more than ever, is a poetic moment. Not the poetic moment, but a poetic moment. He then drafts a haiku in his head (what the heck), as the words come to him like the slow and steady brush strokes of calligraphy:
“First cherry blossom
Tonight loneliness and him
Springs into deep dreams”
He employs the singular “springs” to imply him and loneliness has become one. He also chuckles at his cleverness with the double entendre. But the message is too overt and the tone too excited and positive. So he quickly dismisses it and drafts another one:
“First cherry blossom
Who on earth would just care to
Stop and look at him?”
Sadly, he is too self-pitying to consider himself a blossoming cherry tree.
8. Deprivation
He is hungry. Worse, he is thirsty. Usually hunger didn’t bother him so much. But thirst has made his mouth salivate for the past three hours. He starts to feel dizzy and achy in his forehead. Weirdly enough, his concentration is sharper than ever. It is the fourth day of Ramadan. He has been fasting in solidarity of sorts with his Muslim friends. Today though, he couldn’t wake up in time for Suhur at 4.30 am, the last meal before the fast begins, which made the day extra difficult. But what really challenged him was the constant low mood it has put him in. He can’t quite think straight. He entertains negative thoughts more readily.
The truth is, his mental and physical capacities have been on decline since he injured his ankle two months ago. And the fast revealed exactly that to him. Hunger can be satisfied and thirst quenched, but what of misery? He is too weak to soothe his soul, so let him eat and drink at least. On day five, he devours his first lunch, not without shame.
9. Madness
On a chilly drizzly morning, he visits the bookstore at University College London. He has been frequenting it for the past months, for its multi-storey selection and the prospect of being surrounded by people of his age. He took a particular liking for Japanese authors of the early 1900s, right when Japan was in her final empire days. Their misery and insanity comforts him, and in return, he wants to feel closer to them. In their writings, he gradually discovers what true madness can look like. Sōseki’s Kokoro made him yearn for a sensei in his life. Dazai’s No Longer Human made him ponder for the first time about suicide. And Akutagawa’s The Life of a Stupid Man simply left him incredibly empty.
As he reads, he wonders whether developing an emotional closeness to their writings might also drive him into madness. He asks the bookstore attendant for books by Sōseki. But without checking the online catalog, she shakes her head, as if she already knows they don’t have any. A missed opportunity. I love his books too, but it is just such a missed opportunity. Apparently, Sōseki lived his most insufferable two years just around the corner, on Gower Street, while he was studying in London. After he walks out of the bookstore, he decides to make a left unlike usual. In front of 76 Gower Street, he ponders what constitutes a missed opportunity. That we must take advantage of his madness, for the sake of literature?
10. Beauty
On a rare April Sunday, the sun forgives and graces the people of London. As he arrives at a curve by the canal and enters a crowd, he slows down and sees a floating bookstore. His ankle is not fully healed, but nonetheless good enough to last him a few kilometers on his first run in three months. The sun is in his eyes. He feels a warmth that he had forgotten for a while. How cruel is the sun for making him feel so vulnerable!
Under a cherry tree, opposite to the bookstore, where people are gathering, a man in a navy suit is playing Un Sospiro on a brown upright piano. As he walks through and looks around, passersby also lift their heads to meet his eyes. Today, he feels inexplicably light. He thinks he knows why, but he dares not describe it, lest this lightness, not precisely understood, is ruined by the limits of his vocabulary. Afterall, most beautiful things can only be fully grasped in hindsight.
As he scans the book titles, he is surprised to find Sōseki’s Kokoro, lying face down on the far end of the boat. He wouldn’t have found it if it was upright, because he would have had to tilt his head. He picks up the book, an edition he has never seen before. It is hardback but with a leathery touch to it, and the cover depicts a violent wave in Japanese style. Kind of like The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, but not exactly that.
He turns the book around, and finds that it is a personalized hand-made, very limited leather edition, with a note by the cover-maker: The violent flow of water reflects the brutal, emotionally unstable, and dangerous periods of individual lives. And the high possibility of not being able to come out of it. I thought the image can be seen as an abstract reflection of Kokoro's theme. Later on, he will find out that this is the first and final time he will ever come across this edition in person. Because the cover-maker passed away a week earlier. In Kamakura, out of all places.
He puts down the book, letting the sunrays caress his face directly. He meditates on the beauty of where he is. Or more accurately, the beauty of where he ends up in. He lets out a sigh. Or un sospiro, in Italian. At which point, he picks up his pace once again, running, with less hesitation, towards a future that is no longer the here and now that he was for a while familiar with.