This was my second Mishima read, the first being 'The Temple of the Golden Pavillon' which I also thought was fantastic.

I now consider myself well enough acquainted with Mr. Mishima's style and preoccupations (as they overlap in these two novels at least) to make certain recommendations as well as offer words of caution.

Just as 'The Temple' gives us a host of unlikable but nevertheless fascinating characters, so too is 'Forbidden Colors' populated by people you likely wouldn't want to hang out with over a pint.

That being said, it's another triumph of storytelling. While 'The Temple' dazzled with Mishima's mastery of the first person narrator, 'Forbidden Colors' shows his strength as a writer of the third person, with all of the same vivid and razor-sharp observations of society, relationships, and with the same care and love taken to describe post-war Japan.

The place 'Forbidden Colors' holds in the global queer literary canon cannot be understated. Mishima (it is assumed semi-autobiographically) takes the reader on a tour of gay life at the time, describing, by turns, the sense of community and companionship, and the debauchery and loneliness. Indeed, many of the paradoxes of the queer community then apply to greater or lesser extent to the queer community now: the relief of letting your guard down among your 'fellows' and also the intense pressure to participate in the community the 'right' way. The worship of youth and disdain for age have been toxic staples of mainstream society since forever, but are sadly often amplified even within modern gay culture.

In short, from an anthropological standpoint, anyone interested in tracking the evolution of queer culture, or even just getting a historical sense could do much worse than 'Forbidden Colors' as long as it is kept in mind that many aspects have likely been dramatized and therefore that the picture painted by Mishima ought to be taken with a pinch of salt.

This leads rather well into the major criticism of this novel. Mishima, through the mouthpiece of the Lord Henry (if you will) to our protagonist's Dorian Gray is palpably misogynistic. It is Shunsuke's misogyny that pulls the strings of much of the plot, and indeed, what puts the plot into motion. Much as 'Lolita' is both about pedophilia and a heavy critique of it, 'Forbidden Colors' is about misogyny and also a critique of it. However, if you don't want to be subjected to reading an entire novel about that, this isn't for you. I should also add that this novel comes with several additional trigger warnings as it pertains to sexual assault.

I stand by a person's valid distaste for works of the above nature, however, let that not be confused for endorsement on the part of the text itself. Those who know more of Mishima's biography than I do may well point to his having been woman-hating and claim, therefore, that 'Forbidden Colors' is a poisonous fantasy of his set to paper. But if that is so, he made rather a mess of it.

The deeper into Shunsuke's fantasies of destroying the women he perceives to have wronged him protagonist Yuichi gets, the more off-putting he finds them, and the less willing he is to participate. The more his mentor rages at women, the more sympathetic Yuichi finds his wife. And in the end, when he's at his lowest, he turns to Mrs. Kaburagi (who he by this point has completely screwed over) and she not only forgives him, but helps him get out of trouble.

The ones that come across the worst in the narrative are undoubtedly the men. The pain inflicted on the women of the novel by Yuichi is never painted as triumphant or deserved, and we, the reader, ache with them as it is revealed that while they may be vapid or superficial or simple, they are no less deserving of decency. And just like that, the unreliable strokes Shunsuke painted them with in his resentment of their rejection crumbles. In this sense, 'Forbidden Colors' is a cautionary tale for men who feel entitled to the affection of women: it gives them the satisfaction of 'getting back at' the women who have rejected them, then forces them to face the real human cost.

The group to which 'Forbidden Colors' is genuinely uncharitable is gay men, revealing, perhaps, some internalized homophobia on the part of its author. Aspects of Yuichi's journey down the rabbit hole of the 'gay lifestyle' feel painfully cathartic. He yearns for the companionship of other gay men, but believes from top to bottom it will never make him as happy as loving a woman could. Being gay, according to Mishima, means to be hypersexual and promiscuous, shallow and aloof. When any of the men Yuichi sleeps with fall in love with him, they are immediately discredited by revealing some deep character flaw that precludes them from being a long-term partner. In this way, Mishima frames queerness as an inherent tragedy--a conclusion Yuichi himself reaches. His queerness leads to the ruin or near-ruin of many of those around him, including his wife and himself.

This all may hit too close to home to some queer readers, and this may not be a book for them either.

Why recommend it at all? one may therefore ask. Well, because just as 'Lolita' has inherent value for how brilliantly Nabokov rendered the depravity of Humbert Humbert while still managing to make him horrifyingly sympathetic until he himself can no longer believe his own slanted narration, so too does 'Forbidden Colors' have inherent value. Instead of the mind of a pedophile we enter the mind of an embittered old man and the world of his willing executioner. What begins as misogynistic revenge porn ends as a meditation on the horrifying consequences of getting what you want all wrapped up in the bow of Mishima's stunning prose.

Enter if you dare.