Genius, madman or both? Japanese literary icon Yukio Mishima died during the coup. Today he would be 100 years old

“Human life is limited, but I would like to live forever,” the article reads note Yukio Mishima retired to his desk shortly before leaving home for the last time.

Mishima, who would often be 100 years old today advertised as a potential Nobel Prize winner, he was one of the most renowned Japanese writers and seductive prose stylists of all time. He is also one of the most controversial figures in Japanese history due to his ultranationalist policies, reactionary proclamations, and shocking death by ritual seppuku (suicide) after leading a failed coup attempt.

Mishima first gained literary fame with his semi-autobiographical novel Confessions of a mask (Kamen no Kokuhaku) (1949), set in a pre-war setting marked by imperialist fervor and right-wing extremism, and the main character is gay.

But he worked in almost every genre: fiction, drama, poetry, autobiography, criticism. He was also involved in film, music, dance, bodybuilding and martial arts.

Mishima’s work and extraordinary life story have inspired artists such as the filmmaker Paweł Schraderwho wrote Taxi Driver, Musician Richey Edwards Manic Street Preachers and cultural icon David Bowie. They were drawn to his well-thought-out and transgressive exploration of beauty, violence, eroticism and death.

Bowie in particular was strongly influenced by Mishima’s performative approach to art and existence. Bowie name-checked Mishima in the lyrics of one of his latest songs songs and famously slept under portrait author who painted in 1977.

Over time, Mishima became increasingly disillusioned with Japan’s postwar trajectory, which he believed had abandoned its traditional values ​​in favor of empty promises of Westernization and globalization. This change, him he arguedit symbolized the degradation of the emperor from a divine figurehead to a mere ceremonial symbol in an increasingly wealthy democratic state.

Convinced that the Japanese spirit was in complete decline, he turned to traditionalism and nationalism. In 2025, with nationalist rhetoric and debates over cultural identity in the news, Mishima’s concerns about the erosion of tradition, while problematic, seem strikingly relevant.

A daring coup attempt

On the morning of November 25, 1970 right after completion the last part of his master’s thesis Sea of ​​fertility (Hōjō no Umi) novel series, Mishima and four members of his private militia, the Shield Society (Tatenokai), organized a daring coup attempt that ended with his death.

Mishima was carrying a briefcase and an antique samurai sword when he arrived at the Japan Self-Defense Forces in Ichigaya, Tokyo. Had arranged meet with General Kanetoshi Mashita, commander of the Eastern Army.

After exchanging pleasantries, the author and his young acolytes defeated Mashita, taking him hostage and barricading themselves in his office. Mishima demanded a general summons for the thousand-strong garrison stationed at the base to gather in the courtyard outside Mashita’s office.

His goal was to inspire soldiers to rise up against Japan’s postwar government, overthrow its democratic constitution, and restore the emperor to his prewar position of divine power.

Stepping onto the sunlit balcony, Mishima, wearing a brown Shield Society uniform and wearing a headband emblazoned with the symbol of the Rising Sun, unfurled his written manifesto and began to speak. But the crowd below drowned out his admonitions with jeers and laughter.

Disappointed, he retreated back into the building. Taking off his watch and most of his clothes, he, with the help of his followers, began to set the stage for the planned – and carefully choreographed – final act.

Kneeling, Mishima raised the foot-long dagger and plunged it deep into his stomach. Behind him stood 25-year-old Masakatsu Morita, whose task was to cut Mishima’s head from the body, according to a traditional samurai ritual seppuku. After completing the gruesome task, Morita also committed suicide.

Mishima’s death shocked the world. Vulgar tabloids was speculated wildly talks about the more intimate details of Mishima’s relationship with Morita. The nation’s leaders are scandalized he quickly issued statements condemning the militancy of the world-famous author. The Japanese literary community distanced itself.

Meanwhile, interested viewers tried to make sense of it all. Why did Mishima do this? What did he hope to achieve?

A wonderful child

Yukio Mishima was born on January 14, 1925 in Tokyo. His real name was Hiraoka Kimitake. He was a child prodigy, educated at the prestigious Peers School (Gakushūin) and graduated in law from the University of Tokyo. After working for a short time at the Ministry of Finance, he decided to become famous as a writer.

Mishima’s literary aspirations date back to his childhood. He started writing poetry at the age of six. By the time Mishima was a teenager, drawing inspiration from classical Japanese poetry and contemporary Western writers such as Oscar Wilde and Rainer Maria Rilke, he had composed more than a thousand poems and several short prose pieces.

His literary career began in earnest in 1944 with its publication The forest is in full bloom (Hanazakari no mori), a collection of short stories. Four years later, his debut novel entitled Thieves (Tōzoku), about love and death in Japan immediately after the war. Notably, it included the introduction of Mishima’s sponsor and champion, Yasunari Kawabatathe first Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize.

Hidden self and brutal fantasies

Then “Confessions of a Mask” made him a household name in Japan. It tells the story of a young gay boy, Kochan. Extremely self-aware, precocious Kochan understands that he is different. Emphasizes craftsmanship and performance:

Everyone says life is a stage. However, most people don’t seem to be obsessed with this idea, at least not as early as I was. By the end of my childhood, I was deeply convinced that this was the case and that I had to play my part on stage without ever revealing my true self.

For the same reason, Mishima’s narrator happily confides to the reader:

it is not simply a matter of “self-awareness” that I am talking about here. Instead, it is simply a matter of gender, a role through which he tries to hide, often even from himself, the true nature of his sexual desires.

As she honestly discovers, Kochan’s sexual and mental desires often become disturbingly violent. Earlier in the book, he admits that he “takes pleasure in imagining situations in which I myself die in battle or are murdered.”

These impulses persist throughout childhood and adolescence, my dear. In September 1944, Kochan, now 20 years old, after graduating, was sent to work in a factory. In characteristically expansive prose, he explains that the factory

it operated on the basis of a mysterious system of production costs: disregarding the economic imperative that capital investment should bring a return, it was doomed to monstrous nothingness. It’s no wonder that every morning the workers had to recite a mystical oath.

The reader needs a moment to appreciate what Kochan, surprised by what he sees, comes to:

In it, all the techniques of modern science and management, along with the precise and rational thinking of many excellent brains, were devoted to one goal – Death.

He continues:

Producing the Zero warplane used by suicide squadrons, this great factory resembled a secret cult that operated with lightning – groaning, screaming, roaring… it actually possessed a religious grandeur, even in the way the priest-directors fattened their own stomachs.

This disturbing, morbid passage is typical of Mishima. It is an uncompromising critique of industrialized modernity, at the same time showing the factory as a quasi-sacred space, swollen and clearly sexualized.

Soon after, Kochan admits that he “completely lost the will to live.” He takes comfort in being “surrounded by such a heavy harvest of so many kinds of death,” including “air raid,” “military service,” and “disease.”

Despite this, he manages to survive the war. Yet his survival almost feels like a betrayal of his desires. He confesses “the feeling that he is neither alive nor dead.”

While we must be careful when drawing direct parallels between fiction and the author’s life, it seems that Mishima, like many others of his generation, felt the same way.

Exposed to an intoxicating mixture of war propaganda and emperor worship, he struggled to understand what defeat meant for post-war Japan and to come to terms with Emperor Hirohitorelinquishment of God’s authority.

These themes come to the fore in the title story of Mishima’s new English short story collection, Voices of Fallen Heroes (Irea is not koe), was published this month on the occasion of its centenary.

A dangerous mix

As his dramatic and divisive actions on November 25, 1970 demonstrate, Mishima passionately embraced the idea of ​​a glorious militaristic past. In a very real, yet unnerving sense, Mishima’s commitment to this vision culminated in his final, dramatic act.

During his life he has been marked “sensationalist, perverse, irrationalist, egomaniac, fraudster, buffoon, nihilist, genius, fascist, madman.”

His life invites us to reckon with the intersection of art, politics and identity in a way that is still painfully relevant. It also raises many related questions. Would he be remembered as an outstanding figure in world literature if it weren’t for the way he died? I think so, although others may disagree.

We can be sure that Yukio Mishima is not just a literary icon – he is a warning reminder of the complex, sometimes dangerous relationship between creativity and fanaticism.