"Confessions of a Mask"
May. 7th, 2017 01:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joezuMr. Biscornu recently read his first Yukio Mishima book, Confessions of a Mask (1949), and recommended I read it. Mishima (1925-1970) was a celebrated Japanese author whose writings frequently had themes of sexuality, sadomasochism, and death, and who committed seppuku (ritual suicide) after a failed coup d'état. Confessions was Mishima's second novel and it catapulted him to fame.
Halfway through chapter one, I was struck by some of the similarities between the narrator's childhood (doubtlessly, Confessions is at least semi-autobiographical) and my own. When the narrator, Kochan, was a small boy, he saw a performance by real-life illusionist Tenkatsu Shōkyokusai, a woman who (from what little I can find on the internet) wore bizarre costumes and gave performances that bordered on the erotic and the grotesque (what is known in Japan as ero guro nansensu). Kochan is so taken by her gaudy appearance and complete self-confidence that he goes home and raids his mother's closet, wraps himself in her kimonos and sashes, paints his face and nails, then bursts into his grandmother's sitting room where she, Kochan's mother, a visitor, and a maid were sitting. He cried out “I'm Tenkatsu!” He instantly saw the embarrassment and shame in their faces, for this was certainly inappropriate behavior for a boy, and the maid rushed him out of the room and stripped him out of the costume like “a chicken for plucking.” Kochan also sees a movie about Cleopatra, and is similarly taken by her heavy makeup and splendid wardrobe.
Kochan has a fondness for fairy tales with princes in them, but only if the princes die. He recalls one story that featured an illustration of a prince being devoured by a dragon, but Kochan feels cheated when he learns the prince is resurrected thanks to a magic diamond in his possession. The prince “dies” several more times in the story and each time, comes back to life. Nevertheless, Kochan delights in reading the various gruesome ways in which the prince is dispatched.
When I was a boy in elementary school, I would frequently strip my bed of its sheets and lock myself in the bathroom. I would wrap the sheets and some bath towels around me this way and that, fashioning capes and shawls and headdresses and skirts, and preen in the mirror. I never got caught, thank goodness, for my parents would not have understood, to put it mildly. I was too young to really understand why I wanted to appear that way, only that it made me look striking and feel powerful.
At about the same time, I had a copy of Justice League of America #112 (August 1974—so I was nine years old). The opening page featured our heroes vanquished by the evil android Amazo. Black Canary, the only female member at the time, was sprawled unconscious on the rubble, upside down and supine. For some reason, that position fascinated me. I'd drape myself across my bed or other furniture and pretend to be unconscious. If I were daring enough, I'd dress up in the sheets while doing so.
I'm not sure why I identified with female role models more so than male ones. It could be that the men seemed so boring: all fists and muscles and fighting, whereas the women had more interesting powers. Wonder Woman had her enchanted lasso and bulletproof bracelets, Maya (Space: 1999) could transform into animals, and Zatanna and Isis had magical powers (I learned to speak in reverse and in rhyming couplets like they did, hoping to cast my own spells). But these women also combined beauty and poise with intelligence, resourcefulness, confidence, independence, and compassion.
And certainly I had a fascination as a child with what we might call kinks, though again I was too young to understand why, or to associate them with anything sexual. But there was something about seeing superheroes tied up, in some kind of peril, or battling the bad guys that just fascinated me. When taking a bath I would play that I was a “seal boy” in a freak show, held captive in a far too small tank of water by a cruel and sadistic ringmaster. When I learned to swim, I'd imagine I was Wonder Woman, stomped to the bottom of the pool to drown by a giant monster, and trying to use my lasso to pull myself from under its foot.
There are other experiences from my childhood that make me curious to know more about Mishima's life, though I can assure you, gentle reader, I won't be staging any coups d'état. You may also read my other entry about recent synchronicity involving Mishima here.
Halfway through chapter one, I was struck by some of the similarities between the narrator's childhood (doubtlessly, Confessions is at least semi-autobiographical) and my own. When the narrator, Kochan, was a small boy, he saw a performance by real-life illusionist Tenkatsu Shōkyokusai, a woman who (from what little I can find on the internet) wore bizarre costumes and gave performances that bordered on the erotic and the grotesque (what is known in Japan as ero guro nansensu). Kochan is so taken by her gaudy appearance and complete self-confidence that he goes home and raids his mother's closet, wraps himself in her kimonos and sashes, paints his face and nails, then bursts into his grandmother's sitting room where she, Kochan's mother, a visitor, and a maid were sitting. He cried out “I'm Tenkatsu!” He instantly saw the embarrassment and shame in their faces, for this was certainly inappropriate behavior for a boy, and the maid rushed him out of the room and stripped him out of the costume like “a chicken for plucking.” Kochan also sees a movie about Cleopatra, and is similarly taken by her heavy makeup and splendid wardrobe.
Kochan has a fondness for fairy tales with princes in them, but only if the princes die. He recalls one story that featured an illustration of a prince being devoured by a dragon, but Kochan feels cheated when he learns the prince is resurrected thanks to a magic diamond in his possession. The prince “dies” several more times in the story and each time, comes back to life. Nevertheless, Kochan delights in reading the various gruesome ways in which the prince is dispatched.
When I was a boy in elementary school, I would frequently strip my bed of its sheets and lock myself in the bathroom. I would wrap the sheets and some bath towels around me this way and that, fashioning capes and shawls and headdresses and skirts, and preen in the mirror. I never got caught, thank goodness, for my parents would not have understood, to put it mildly. I was too young to really understand why I wanted to appear that way, only that it made me look striking and feel powerful.
At about the same time, I had a copy of Justice League of America #112 (August 1974—so I was nine years old). The opening page featured our heroes vanquished by the evil android Amazo. Black Canary, the only female member at the time, was sprawled unconscious on the rubble, upside down and supine. For some reason, that position fascinated me. I'd drape myself across my bed or other furniture and pretend to be unconscious. If I were daring enough, I'd dress up in the sheets while doing so. I'm not sure why I identified with female role models more so than male ones. It could be that the men seemed so boring: all fists and muscles and fighting, whereas the women had more interesting powers. Wonder Woman had her enchanted lasso and bulletproof bracelets, Maya (Space: 1999) could transform into animals, and Zatanna and Isis had magical powers (I learned to speak in reverse and in rhyming couplets like they did, hoping to cast my own spells). But these women also combined beauty and poise with intelligence, resourcefulness, confidence, independence, and compassion.
And certainly I had a fascination as a child with what we might call kinks, though again I was too young to understand why, or to associate them with anything sexual. But there was something about seeing superheroes tied up, in some kind of peril, or battling the bad guys that just fascinated me. When taking a bath I would play that I was a “seal boy” in a freak show, held captive in a far too small tank of water by a cruel and sadistic ringmaster. When I learned to swim, I'd imagine I was Wonder Woman, stomped to the bottom of the pool to drown by a giant monster, and trying to use my lasso to pull myself from under its foot.
There are other experiences from my childhood that make me curious to know more about Mishima's life, though I can assure you, gentle reader, I won't be staging any coups d'état. You may also read my other entry about recent synchronicity involving Mishima here.
