I recently came across someone who, following my statement that I found Yukio Mishima, the controversial militarist Japanese writer, who, after the spectacular, and tragically stupid stage play he carried out (wherein he urged the army to overthrow the democratic government and reinstall the emperor in an affirmation of traditional values) committed ritual seppuku—right down to death poems and being beheaded—charming, blurted out, “But how? His writing is just so stupendously bad.” I, a fan, could only nod in agreement.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I frequently like Mishima in spite of his writing—I couldn’t really describe it as a strong point. Without twisting words or tangoing with the point, Mishima makes stylistic gaffes so gross that they can only be described as juvenile—the mistakes of a juvenile writer still getting a grasp of the basics. The baffling quality of the matter is just this: they are such puerile mistakes and Mishima does show an otherwise clean and sharp prose; capable of writing very beautiful, and often powerful scenes.