Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa was a Japanese short story writer, novelist, poet, essayist, literary critic, journalist, and screenwriter who worked in both the Japanese and English languages during the early twentieth century.
Born in Tokyo on March 1, 1892, Akutagawa was educated at the University of Tokyo. He wrote under the art name Chōkōdō Shujin and produced a body of work that drew on multiple literary forms throughout his career. Among the works he completed were the short stories Rashōmon, The Nose, The Spider's Thread, Hell Screen, and In a Grove, titles that span the range of his output as a prose writer.
Akutagawa's death came on July 24, 1927, in Tabata, when he took his own life through an overdose of barbital at the age of 35. He had been born thirty-five years earlier in the same city in which he built his literary career, and his death marked the close of a concentrated period of creative activity that had encompassed fiction, poetry, criticism, and journalism. The circumstances of his death drew considerable attention in Japan and contributed to the lasting significance attached to his name in the country's literary culture.
He is regarded as the "father of the Japanese short story," a designation that reflects his sustained engagement with the short fiction form across his working life. Japan's premier literary award, the Akutagawa Prize, is named in his honor, making his name a continuing presence in the recognition of Japanese literature. His recurring territory was the short story, a form he pursued alongside his work as a novelist, poet, and critic, and it is in that genre that his name has remained most closely anchored.
Quotes by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa's insights on:

No matter how accomplished one might be in any branch of learning or art, one would have to be condemned to hell, if on where not endowed with th five cardinal virtues of Confucius-benevolence, justice, courtesy, wisdom and fidelity.

I could have sworn that the man’s eyes were no longer watching his daughter dying in agony, that instead the gorgeous colors of flames and the sight of a woman suffering in them were giving him joy beyond measure.

A man sometimes devotes his life to a desire which he is not sure will ever be fulfilled. Those who laugh at this folly are, after all, no more than mere spectators of life.

I have no conscience at all – least of all an artistic conscience. All I have is nerves.

17. Butterfly A butterfly fluttered its wings in a wind thick with the smell of seaweed. His dry lips felt the touch of the butterfly for the briefest instant, yet the wisp of wing dust still shone on his lips years later.

I may be a lunatic, but then, wasn’t my lunacy caused by a monster that lurks at the bottom of every human mind? Those who call me a madman and spurn me may become lunatics tomorrow. They harbor the same monster.

Yes – or rather, it’s not so much that I want to die as that I’m tired of living.


