1948 | Osamu Dazai
No Longer Human is a study of the clinically depressed mind, a journey into the deepest depths of despair. The protagonist Oba Yozo is tragic in his alienation from the world and other human beings, and the knowledge that the novel is semi-autobiographical makes it all the more tragic.
Oba Yozo’s life is conveyed to the reader through three notebooks, written in first person by the protagonist himself. The reader is familiarized with Yozo’s inner being, which he keeps hidden from everyone else and fears that they might catch glimpses of. He imagines himself as different. Someone who’s unable to understand human beings and, through this fact, is disqualified from being one himself. He struggles through life, trying to please everyone while hiding his true feelings.
On the surface, Yozo seems like an ordinary person, not much different from anyone else. He dreams of becoming a painter, is sent to university by a hard-working father who doesn’t approve of his son’s dream, has friends, and finds a community. It’s in his thoughts about this life he leads that the tragedy of the story lies. He claims to never enjoy the friendships around him, mocks the communists he joins, and despises the women in his life. There’s an ever-present threat of being found out and exposed as a fraud, as something other than a human being. Yozo is so full of anxiety, and perhaps of pride, that he fails to realize that he’s very much like everyone he writes about. He may mock the communists, but to any external witness, he’s one of them, carrying out the duties he’s assigned and attending the meetings. In a similar manner, when he befriends Takeichi in high school to make sure his secret isn’t revealed, everything but Yozo’s feelings seems to indicate genuine friendship.
“I know that I am liked by other people, but I seem to be deficient in the faculty to love others. (I should add that I have very strong doubts as to whether even human beings really possess this faculty.)” (p. 107).
For someone as anxious and depressed as Yozo, everything seems meaningless, fake, and pointless. Time and time again, there are moments of light in his life, opportunities to leave the darkness and the path that inevitably leads to disaster, but he fails to grasp them. Instead, Yozo continues toward utter ruin, believing that he was doomed from the start, without a chance to ever become like other human beings. He’s in no way unique, in his desperation and self-doubt, but the feeling that he’s alone, and that nothing can be done to close the gap between himself and others, is enough to keep him separated throughout his life.
Dazai uses a particular narrative technique throughout the novel, where he hints at something he could explain, only to withhold crucial information until later. This is the case with Takeichi’s “demoniacal prophecy” (p. 47), Yozo’s musings about what was to happen to his wife (p. 84), and his stating that he’s going “somewhere where there aren’t any women” (p. 155). The first time this occurs, however, the crucial information is never revealed, leaving the reader to draw their own conclusions. “Already by that time I had been taught a lamentable thing by the maids and menservants; I was being corrupted. I now think that to perpetrate such a thing on a small child is the ugliest, vilest, cruelest crime a human being can commit.” (p. 35). He was most likely abused in some way, perhaps sexually, by the servants, which could explain some of his later behavior. The fact that he withholds information about this event hints further at the traumatizing effect it had on him.
Yozo is an excellent example of how events, relationships, and locations can be interpreted and experienced in entirely different ways depending on one’s mindset. One occasion which I thought exemplified this was when he ponders how, on the surface, someone like him might resemble other people, even though there’s a difference deeper down. “Is it not true that no two human beings understand anything whatsoever about each other, that those who consider themselves bosom friends may be utterly mistaken about their fellow and, failing to realize this sad truth throughout a lifetime, weep when they read in the newspapers about his death?” (p. 119). Yozo himself realizes he’s similar to other human beings on the surface. What he fails to reflect on is that others might harbor the same feelings he does, deeper down. Others might struggle with similar fears and anxieties. Regarding his thoughts on two friends who never truly understand each other’s deepest depths, I wonder if this unperceived distance really matters if they enjoy each other’s company.
No Longer Human is a troubling book to read, but it provides a greater understanding of how someone struggling with depression might view the world. It is sad to see someone so utterly ruin themself and fail to grasp the ample opportunities for redemption. Unfortunately, there are a lot of people struggling with issues quite similar to Yozo’s, especially today. It is easier than ever to fall into the trap of only seeing the surface of other people, failing to see the human being behind the smiling face and the social media posts. Mental illness is an epidemic that affects us all in some way, whether we’ve felt it ourselves or know someone who has. Reading No Longer Human is a way to understand how depression can keep its grip on someone, even when they appear happy on the surface. Reading it in 2026, I could easily imagine Yozo being a shut-in, only interacting with others through the internet, reminiscent of the current Japanese phenomenon of hikikomori. I’m glad to have read No Longer Human, even if the events, thoughts, and feelings portrayed were anything but uplifting.
There’s room in literature for everything human beings can experience. It’s therefore important and natural that explorations of depression, anxiety, and alienation, such as No Longer Human, should be written and read.
I read the 1973 edition translated by Donald Keene, published by New Directions. ISBN: 978-0-8112-0481-1
Tim Fahlstedt 
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