The Flowers of Buffoonery

by Osamu Dazai

“A painting is just a glorified poster,” he told Hida, putting him in his place. “Art is a proverbial turd, the byproduct of the socioeconomic complex. Social capital made manifest. Even the greatest masterpiece is no more than a commodity, just like a pair of socks.”

Whenever they found themselves in a beautiful natural setting, they couldn’t help but stage a performance. Perhaps it was a way to commemorate the moment.

I cannot love a woman without smothering her with commentary. Proof that if a man is dumb enough, he can do harm without lifting a finger.

“It felt great. I knew the second that I jumped, all of my problems would be gone. No more worries about debts, or the academy, or family, or regrets, or my masterpiece, or shame, or Marxism, or even about any of my friends, or trees or flowers. Suddenly, I’m standing on that cliff and laughing. It felt great.”

We’re all a bunch of clowns. If you want to see a farce, look in the mirror.