Aku no Hana - Part 2

All characters in all stories reveal hemselves through their words, their thoughts and their actions. Everything they do (and even what they don’t do) is very telling of who they are. So, let’s break them all down.

Takao Kasuga is your run-of-the-mill 14-year-old that feels trapped in a small town that doesn’t validate his existence nor recognizes his worth. His only way of standing out is reading Charles Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal, while accusing his classmates of being mediocre for not being able to appreciate refined literature, using intellectual pretension as a shield against people he sees as inferior to him. This little know-nothing-know-it-all suffers from a bizarre amount of anxiety, and is incapable of forming meaningful relationships with his peers, because he is actively engineering his own alienation, convinced he’s living in a Baudelairean world.

Because Takao believes he inhabits a Baudelairean reality, he sees the world around him as part of that reality, rather than accepting it for what it is. Everything becomes an exercise in projection and dissociation, filtered through his literary fantasies.

Takao worships Baudelaire the same way Schroeder worships Beethoven. He even has a portrait of the man! Where did he get that image from in a world without Wikipedia? Anyway... The difference is that Schroeder can actually play Beethoven on his toy piano, while Takao doesn’t understand the themes, motifs or symbols in Les Fleurs du Mal. Despite this, he uses Baudelairean concepts to call the girl he has a crush on his “muse”, his “angel”, his “femme fatale”, his “Venus” and his “goddess”… 

In the early chapters, the story presents him as a competent connoisseur of literature. Later, in chapter 17, he confesses that he doesn’t understand Baudelaire or Les Fleurs du Mal. In chapter 28, an even more terrifying revelation: his father was the one who handed him the book and convinced him that reading it would make him superior to his peers. 

Complete disappointment ensues. 

See, I would be more willing to respect this kid’s bad decisions if they had been his own: if his father had prohibited him from reading the book because he was too young to understand it, and Takao had sneaked into the library at night, stolen it, and read it under the covers. That would’ve been a real act of rebellion, of asserting his will against parental authority! As the story goes, all the boy is doing is carrying around the book his dad gave him to make him feel special and carry it with him out in the big bad world, like a security blanket that protects him against the mediocrity of his small, rural town…  

It’s pathetic. It’s also quite revealing of the relationship between Takao and his father: by giving him Les Fleurs du Mal, and inflating his ego with lies, he harmed his son in more ways than one. He abandoned his kid with no means of interpreting the text, he never guided him through it, he was never there to educate him. A good father would’ve initiated his son’s literary journey with works like La Fontaine’s fables, and The Little Prince, move on to classics such as The Three Musketeers and graduate to The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and only later introduced Baudelaire. Imagine giving a baby a big chunk of meat to chew before he has teeth… You don’t start building a house from the ceiling! And I know I’m mixing metaphors here, but starting with such a difficult work without laying solid literary foundations is practically child abuse. 

Maybe that’s why he’s always so confused, and later confesses he doesn’t understand the text that makes his entire personality. For context, Baudelaire is typically taught in French high school and college, not middle school. It would be interesting if Takao’s IQ was through the roof and he did have the ability to engage with texts far beyond his age, while in college, at 14 (something admirable, indeed). But Takao Kasuga is not a misunderstood genius. The story never presents him as one. He’s simply an insecure teenager clinging to a book he doesn’t understand because he thinks it makes him feel special.

The audience should’ve known this from the beginning. We shouldn’t have to wait until the later chapters to learn about his true relationship with books and literature. He could still be the same unlikable wimp, but giving us a glimpse behind his armor early on would’ve created a much stronger point of connection.

His love for literature is not a lie: his bedroom is filled with books, he can quote Lautréamont from memory, and he’s knowledgeable enough to explain the origins of surrealism to Saeki. The kid clearly knows his stuff! It would be a surplus value for the character if we knew the full context — that his father routinely handed him books he was neither intellectually nor emotionally prepared to understand. It would transform his pretentiousness from a strange quirk into a tragic flaw. 

We never learn the origins of his insurmountable anxiety, or why he chooses to be humiliated by his bully over the possibility of personal growth. He could’ve improved by surrounding himself with better people, yet he doesn’t. Showing the source of his anxiety would help us understand why he consistently escapes into fantasy rather than facing reality—a habit that persists well into his high school days.

Saeki is merely the first victim of this tendency. He refuses to see her as the human being she is, preferring to worship her as an idealized goddess. That pedestal is later transferred onto Nakamura, then Tokiwa after her. He spends the entire manga projecting his fantasies onto these girls, while remaining incapable of relating to them as complex human beings. 

Another major flaw is Takao’s inability to be honest with the people around him or own up to his mistakes, even after he realizes how much damage he’s caused. He never apologizes to his parents, whose reputation was ruined by his acts of vandalism, forcing them to leave town. He never apologizes to Saeki either. Despite the emotional devastation he causes her, he never truly apologizes to her. The irony here is that he said he would atone for his sins for the rest of his life, but he never does. Only during his grandfather’s funeral does he even demonstrate genuine accountability.

Nanako Saeki is not based on anybody, according to the author. Ironically, this makes her the most believable character in the story. I find it hard to believe Oshimi never met anyone like her... There seems to be at least one in every classroom. I met quite a few of these people in my school days, unfortunately. That’s why I recognized her type so early in the manga.

Not just from school, mind you. The Dead Poets Society is one of my favorite movies, and Nanako Saeki is the distaff version of Neil Perry. Both are high achievers, but not because they are pursuing dreams of their own. These folks are not entitled to their own lives. They exist to fulfill their parents’ dreams of academic glory. All the horrific pressure they’re under is external. And the biggest problem is that, over time, they learn to accept their slavish condition. 

When I was in school, I had a nickname for students like these: I called them ‘greyhounds’, ‘cause that’s what they reminded me of. They’re trained to the bone, muzzled and forced to compete, If they fail, they’re discarded. It’s a horrific existence. Many academically gifted children are subjected to a similar logic. 

The first ‘greyhound’ I met was in grade school, and corporal punishment was involved in case of academic failure. Whatever the parents’ reasons to put their kids through this insane amount of pressure, the result is almost always the same: people who are deeply unhappy, but don’t really communicate their feelings to anybody, so their fellow students only see the nice, popular, straight-A students who appear to have everything under control.

That’s exactly who Nanako Saeki is. Except for one important detail: Saeki is surprisingly honest about the prison she lives in. When she first talks to Takao in Chapter 5, she openly describes her strict weekly routine. A tutor comes to her house 4 times a week. Then, it’s piano practice, and walking the dog. Takao is shocked by her absurd schedule and asks her if that is not a rough life. Her answer is revealing: she would rather play the piano… Playing the piano would make her way happier. Honest kid, isn’t she?

After seeing how freely Takao pursues what makes him happy (browsing bookstores and reading books) the reason she falls in love with him becomes obvious. It’s not really Takao himself she loves, just the idea of freedom he represents. 

Kinoshita does not explain it in exactly these terms, but this is the basics of it. When she tries to warn her best friend, Saeki isn’t ready to face the truth. Even after learning about the horrible things Takao has done, breaking up with him would mean closing the door on the one person who made her believe a different future might be possible; a world where she would be free from the encumbrance of her existence, and she feels loved. Nobody in their right mind walks away from that kind of hope.

It’s also important to add that her self-esteem is below zero, which is surprising, given how popular, accomplished, and confident she appears. She openly admits this to Takao on their date and again when he visits her house. She keeps warning him that she doesn’t have any faith that anybody would want to date her, that she’s deeply insecure, and that her “tough and responsible” persona is largely an act.

There is yet another factor to consider: she was never taught how to lose. Good parents teach their children that they’re not always going to win in life, and that they must accept defeat with grace and keep going. Saeki's parents seem to have taught her the exact opposite. Victory is expected. Failure is unacceptable. This ‘greyhound’ upbringing, combined with her desperate need to love and be loved, her dangerously low self-esteem and her fear of losing the only ray of hope in her life, creates an emotional powder keg that will ultimately lead to… that… scene… in chapter 26… You know, that chapter. 

The obvious question is: why did Oshimi take the story there? Why sink to that level? My guess? Because Saeki is meant to embody several Baudelairean concepts. More on that later... For now, consider this parallel: in order to play Puck in Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night's Dream”, Neil Perry was willing to lie, cheat and forge his father’s signature in order to live his dream. To hell with the consequences! I feel a sense of déjà vu with Saeki. 

By the time Chapter 26 arrives, she has reached a point where chasing the possibility of happiness is more important than anything else. As strange as this may sound, this chapter itself reminds me of the Apollo 11 mission. Why did the Americans race to go to the Moon? Surely it wasn't for the beautiful rocks. The Moon itself was almost beside the point. The Apollo 11 mission was all about demonstrating superiority over the Soviet Union. And that’s what chapter 26 feels like. The act itself is almost secondary. 

The greatest tragedy is that Saeki could snap her fingers and all the boys in her class would line up for the chance to be with her. She has countless options. Yet she had the bad luck of falling in love with the one guy who cannot reciprocate her feelings. Ironically, Takao would probably have been willing to sleep with almost any other girl at school, except Saeki. How does the song go? “It’s like 10,000 spoons, when all you need is a knife”. It’s not ironic, it’s tragic! 

For Takao, it becomes his worst nightmare. He has placed Saeki on such a high pedestal that he developed an emotional block (kind of like a wheel lock) that has rendered him psychologically incapable of seeing her as an ordinary human being, rather than a pure angel, undefiled by mundane desires. To him, sex is ugly and sinful, something that would surely defile his angel. Sex is an ugly, sinful thing I don’t know where he gets this idea that sex is a horrible thing from, since he’s not even a Catholic… Maybe from Baudelaire, who knows? 

One question remains unanswered; what exactly did Saeki fall in love with? If we give credence to the poet's claim that “we never love someone, only our idea of them”, then what was it that captured her heart? My guess? She fell in love with the “awe of excellence”.

During their date at the bookstore, Takao displayed a deep knowledge and passion of Literature (he explain surrealism to her and, even if he doesn't understand Baudelaire all that well, he seems to know his stuff). He speaks with confidence, and his passion is unmistakable. That genuine enthusiasm (for any subject) is contagious, and Takao displays his openly and unapologetically. Saeki’s own passion seems to be the piano, but she's never really allowed to express it the same way. Seeing Takao display his passion for Literature so openly must’ve felt liberating to her. Through Takao, she could momentarily experience the freedom to embrace her own desires.

Saeki doesn’t explain it quite that way when she’s talking to Kinoshita. Instead, she reaches the wrong conclusion that Kasuga knows and loves her ‘real self’. And we all know that he’s not the slightest bit interested in her ‘real self’. 

Despite her strong feelings and her own romantic ideals, Saeki is wrong about Takao as well and, when she finally realizes she’ll never be able to win his love, she turns herself to the police and pleas guilty for arson, effectively putting her money where her mouth is, so to speak. Before doing so, however, she leaves Takao with one final warning: his delusions are simply that, delusions. There is no ‘other side’ to escape the harshness of life. The only way to live is to be honest with yourself and honest with others, no matter how painful it is.

Takao doesn’t heed her warning (at least, not in chapter 29), but ultimately the manga vindicates her worldview. For someone who spent her early years being relentlessly groomed to succeed according to other people's expectations, she emerges remarkably well adjusted. Or, at least, we imagine she does. After that, she largely disappears from the story, which is a shame, because she's one of Oshimi's finest characters. 

Speaking of great characters in this manga, Kinoshita has relatively little page time, but her role is pretty big. Relegating her to simply being Saeki’s best friend and confidant doesn’t do her justice. We don’t learn much about her personal life, but she serves as a surrogate for the reader. She’s the only character with a clear head on her shoulders and who consistently speaks the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She sees through everyone's self-deception, which becomes a curse, rather than a gift.

She tries to protect her friend by warning her that she’s making a terrible mistake pursuing a boy who doesn’t love her, but truth is like pills too hard to swallow, and her uncompromising honesty inevitably drives a wedge between them. Brutal honesty will alienate everybody, eventually. Kinoshita is also the one who restores a measure of moral balance by exposing the sordid activities Kasuga and Nakamura were involved in, because, frankly, the town deserved to know what kind of little monsters it were harboring. 

In the end, not even she’s immune to the ennui that pervades that small country town. When Kasuga sees her at his grandfather’s funeral, she confesses the same sense of entrapment that haunted him at the beginning of the manga. Apparently, this quiet despair affects every character. 

Aya Tokiwa belongs solely to the second part of the manga, but she makes a big impression on the audience, because she’s portrayed with remarkable balance and humanity. Like many teenagers, she walks a tightrope between society's expectations and her own desires, searching for a way to reconcile the two. More than anything, she wants to live authentically without becoming alienated from the people she cares about. 

Kasuga meets her at this crossroads when he catches her reading a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal. For reasons I still find difficult to understand, Tokiwa believes that her love of reading would make her an outcast among her friends, so she keeps it hidden. Reading, however, is only part of the secret. Her real ambition is to be a writer. She conceals that too, until Kasuga browses her book collection and finds a slim manuscript filled with notes for a future novel. 

This ‘secret’ hobby of reading and writing can seem a bit silly – what’s so weird about reading and writing, anyway? Yet, in the Aku no Hana universe, this makes perfect sense. In the beginning, Kasuga was mocked for his interest in Literature by his friends, proving to the audience that reading can and probably is a ridiculously alienating hobby that will make you an uncool and pitiful nerd nobody wants to socialize with. Whether or not this reflects reality is beside the point. 

What makes Tokiwa instantly sympathetic is that her struggle is universal. She’s trying to reconcile her private self with her public self without fully sacrificing either. That’s an extraordinarily difficult balancing act, and one Kasuga initially refuses to attempt, choosing instead to reject social conventions altogether (which makes him feel a little less human by comparison). 

The greatest human fear is social ostracism. People often suppress their ‘inner selves’ in order to fit in with a group. Tokiwa’s solution is to compartmentalize: she hides her love of literature while maintaining her popularity at school. In that sense, she represents all of us. We often keep our hobbies and interests to ourselves, mostly, until we find someone we can share them with.

And that’s where Kasuga comes in. He notices her reading Les Fleurs du Mal, and the recognition is immediate. Like members of a secret society discovering one another through a private signal, they gravitate toward each other and begin to hang out as if they are the only two people on the planet who enjoy reading. They exchange reading lists, discuss novels, and share the excitement that every book lover does. Out of these moments, a genuine friendship is born.

Tokiwa trusts Kasuga enough to let him read her manuscript and support her writing. As their friendship deepens, she realizes her relationship with her boyfriend Koji is sadly unsatisfying and breaks up with him. What stands out is how honest she can be with Takao, something she feels she can’t do with anyone else. She listens to him openly and accepts every part of his past with radical tolerance, never judging him for his actions. When he decides to meet Nakamura again, she doesn't accompany him out of jealousy; she genuinely wants to support him, even if that means setting herself aside and allowing him to choose Nakamura over herself. How many people are that mature and open-minded? 

Kasuga finds her honesty contagious. It inspires him to build a more truthful and genuine life than he’s ever known. Their relationship is built on mutual respect, trust, and understanding, and both become better people because of it.

Sawa Nakamura, by contrast, makes everyone around her worse. I’ll say this upfront: I don’t have a good opinion of her or her role in the story, so don’t expect any compliments from me. I think she’s the most ill-conceived character Oshimi has ever written. Her only use in the story is to serve as a wrecking ball to set the plot in motion. (Oshimi could have achieved the same dramatic effect without relying on a character like Nakamura. Far better stories, like Silver Spoon, drive their narratives naturally without relying on such a disruptive force.) 

Many people see her as a cool rebel, but that’s not what’s on the page. Nakamura is a self-imposed outcast who divides the world into “shit-bugs” (overly civilized, polite people) and “perverts” (those who live according to their darkest desires). The strangest thing is that, even though she thinks of herself in both categories, she belongs to neither. She’s rude, obnoxious and openly hostile to everyone so she’s not a “shit-bug”. Yet she doesn’t truly live by her own deepest, darkest desires, so she’s not a true “pervert” either. What is she, anyway? She’s just a stupid 14-year-old girl who bullies an equally stupid 14-year-old boy. 

I might respect her more if she offered any sharp, insightful critiques of small town Japanese society or actually lived by her own philosophy. She could have resembled a character like Tyler Durden (some charismatic figure whose worldview is very seductive, because it pinpoints uncomfortable truths about modern society). But Nakamura never develops beyond juvenile insults. Calling everyone “shit-bugs” is not a philosophy.

She’s also not the rebel people imagine her to be. The first time we see her, she's sitting quietly in class, dressed in the same school uniform as everyone else. She remains fully inside the very system she supposedly rejects. Handing in a blank test and calling her teacher a “shit-bugs” may qualify as an act of teenage defiance, but it’s not a rejection of society… Come on… Be serious! Why does she take the trouble of going to school?

Compare her with Huckleberry Finn: Huck is a character that exists outside of the structures of respectable society. Every mother in town hates him and every boy envies his lifestyle. Nakamura is not like Huck Finn in any way, shape or form. She never leaves the world she claims to despise. And I wish she would just go out into the woods, to “the other side” of the mountains and suck all the marrow out of life, but that’s not what she does. That’s not who she is.

She’s just a miserable teenage girl. And misery loves company! So, she latches onto Kasuga the way a tapeworm latches onto a human host. That’s the only way she can thrive. She only thrives by dragging Takao and even Nanako into her misery. She’s nothing but a bully, really.

Well, if I’m being very, very generous in my interpretation, she’s a lonely weirdo who feels perpetually alienated and is searching for someone who feels the same. She convinces herself that Takao is that person, even though he’s a completely different kind of weirdo. Throughout the manga, Nakamura constantly accuses him of rubbing Saeki’s gym uniform all over his body and getting excited over it, but that only reveals her own ignorance. Also, every accusation is a confession when it comes to her. We know why Takao took the gym uniform with him, and we also know what he does with it. Nakamura is so desperate for a fellow “pervert” that she completely misreads him. Early in the manga, when she forces him to wear Saeki’s gym uniform in the library, she admits that she feels horny all the time. She doesn’t understand these feelings and is confused and frustrated by them. Naturally, she assumes Takao feels the same way about Saeki. Being the horny bully that she is, she makes him wear the gym uniform when he goes out on a date with Saeki. But Takao’s words and actions consistently point to something more complex than adolescent lust. 

In the end, all acts of teenage rebellion lead to nothing but dead ends, and Nakamura is saved by her father from certain death and moves away to live with her mother, far away from her hometown. She’s still miserable, by the way. Nothing in the story (or in her later meeting with Takao) suggests that she’s happy or has found peace. 

The last chapter revisits the early moments through her perspective, but it’s too late for the audience to sympathize. Nobody knows whether to interpret that chapter literally or metaphorically, but if you ask me, it doesn’t matter. She’s too young to be diagnosed with schizophrenia, so the imagery is best read metaphorically. We already knew she thought of everyone as a “shit-bug” so this isn’t new information, and already read her diary and understood why she forced her presence on Takao. The origin of the contract was already clear. The last chapter offers nothing new and changes nothing. Nor does it make her more sympathetic in my eyes. Oshimi could’ve tried this earlier, in chapter 2 or 3, but now it’s too late. All we have is dozens of pages of manipulation, humiliation, physical and emotional abuse. To me she’s just a bully, and I don’t give a crap about bullies. As a character, she’s very lacking.

The only way a character like Sawa Nakamura truly works is on a symbolic level. The first time I read this manga I never considered this, I was just too disappointed. But this time around, I decided to give it a shot. You see, as a realistic character, I don’t believer in her one bit. She just bores me. As a Baudelairean metaphor, however, she suddenly makes much more sense. Oshimi has said in an interview that he didn’t intentionally re-read Les Fleurs du Mal while working on Aku no Hana, so everything he’s doing is from memory… which is quite impressive, not gonna lie! 

Much of the criticisms I have of this manga find parallels in complaints in the Dragon Ball fandom about inconsistencies, abandoned plot-lines, underused characters, plot-holes and lack of continuity as evidence of weak storytelling in Akira Toriyama’s masterpiece. And, in many ways, those things bother me as well, except for the fact that Akira Toriyama wrote Dragon Ball ‘by the seat of his pants’ — as he himself confirmed. 

Many of Dragon Ball’s flaws are the product of improvisation rather than design, and it’s impossible for me to judge the story too harshly because of that. Logically, I should apply the same principle to Aku no Hana. So, I will.

Writing in an improvisational style inevitably produces narrative glitches. A mangaka may fix them as they arise, ignore them, or forget about them. Nothing can be done about that. The result is that, unlike Hiromu Arakawa, who made Lt. Havoc a smoker because of the scene between Mustang and Lust (if you know, you know), Oshimi didn’t have any long-term plans for Aku no Hana. I’m not entirely sure he has long-term plans for any of his works, but this is the clearest example of an improvisational style of storytelling. 

The result is a number of continuity errors. For example, Takao declares that he will pay for his sin until he is an old man, only for the story to seemingly drop that idea in the following chapter. Another detail that annoys me is the lack of continuity with Nakamura’s eyesight. She’s nearsighted, but she doesn’t have astigmatism, because she doesn’t seem to need glasses to see up close. but in certain scenes (including night scenes) she is inexplicably drawn without glasses, which feels ridiculous. Consistency is nonexistent, and that annoys me more than it should.

On the next post, I’ll be focusing on the literary analysis of Les Fleurs du Mal and Aku no Hana.

Aku no Hana - Part 1

Of all the stories Shūzō Oshimi has written (or will ever write) Aku no Hana is hailed as his masterpiece. For many fans, nothing will ever surpass the experience of reading it. 

I discovered Oshimi’s stories in late 2020, and began reading them in reverse chronological order, which means that Aku no Hana was one of the last stories I read. I had high expectations, since it was supposed to be his best work, but I was sorely disappointed. I was caught flat-footed by the low start, and I couldn’t predict I would find a story so full of holes, plot contrivances, or characters so hollow of personality. 

If this was any other manga by any other author, I would’ve given up after five chapters, but since Shūzō Oshimi had enough goodwill for me to give him the benefit of the doubt, I pushed through to the end. To his credit, the series did improve: the art became stronger, the characters gained more depth, and the story grew more compelling, but that’s because it was hard to sink lower than those opening chapters. 

Granted, I am not the target audience for this manga, but that was never an impediment to enjoy his stories before. The foundation of this story has more holes than a Swiss cheese, and it’s riddled with plot contrivances. Not that I mind one or two contrivances sprinkled in the story (for example, in Fullmetal Alchemist, as the Elric brothers are traveling back to Resembool, they casually see Dr. Marcoh outside the window. How convenient for them, right?) These coincidences should be avoided, lest it turns the narrative implausible for the readers. 

Characterization was another issue for me. Most characters aren’t fully formed in the first few chapters of any story, but these ones still felt barely half-formed after ten. Each one was defined by a single gimmick: Takao Kasuga was obsessed with Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal, Nanako Saeki was the popular girl in class, and Sawa Nakamura was the anti social outcast. These characteristics are enough to tell them apart from one another, but they don’t make them feel like complete human beings.

The plot constantly relies on coincidences in several situations to generate tension: everything from the gym bag falling on its own, to Takao stopping his bike in front of Nakamura when he barely even acknowledges her existence, or Nakamura always knowing where to find Takao (like she’s omnipresent) or the fact that there’s a nice big river in town, but Takao won’t get rid of the clothes to avoid being blackmailed… There’s just so many it’s easy to lose track of them all. 

These contrived coincidences completely shatter my suspension of disbelief. What frustrates me is that none of these problems would be especially difficult to fix. It wouldn’t require changing the core character dynamics, just giving the coincidences plausible scaffolding so they feel like organic outcomes. 

For example: instead of the gym bag falling mysteriously by itself, it would’ve been more believable if Takao himself noticed it tucked away and consciously decided to take it. That single adjustment would immediately give him more agency and responsibility for his actions.

Later, feeling guilty for stealing the gym uniform and humiliating Saeki in front of the class, Takao leaves school on his bicycle, screaming like a madman, passing by several people, until, for some unknown reason, he stops in front of Nakamura (who is just sitting there). Not because she’s blocking the road, though. Why does he stop the bike?! This chick means nothing to him! What’s the incentive other than the plot requires him to?

She then reveals she saw him stealing the gym uniform, and orders him to take her to the “other side of the mountain” in exchange for her silence. Instead of denying everything, he runs away, abandoning the bike.

Do you really expect me to believe this premise when it hinges on behavior that feels fundamentally inhuman? The logical reaction, no, the human reaction would be to deny the accusation and eliminate the evidence to avoid the blackmail. 

To the author’s credit, chapter 3 devotes a decent amount of pages to the boy trying to get rid of the gym uniform, but his paranoia gets the best of him. At first, he imagines everyone in the city watching him, judging him, so he can’t discard the bag. Yet, he also can’t bring himself to return the uniform to where he found it, again for reasons the story never convincingly explains. He makes one last attempt – a clever one, actually – to throw the gym uniform into the library incinerator, but Nakamura stops him.

What Takao fails to realize is that she has no real leverage over him. She’s an outcast with no social credibility. No one would believe her word if she decided to tell the truth about the theft. There is no real blackmail. It’s all in his head… And I don’t find it particularly compelling, because it strips him of agency, turning him into a puppet to be dragged through the plot. Any victim of bullying would do anything in their power to avoid their tormentor, but Takao gives into her immediately. For me, that behavior never felt psychologically convincing.

It would’ve been far more effective if Nakamura had recorded the theft on her smartphone and used it to blackmail Takao. No matter how strong-willed someone believes themselves to be, if their greatest fear is being exposed as a pervert to their entire town, and another person possesses undeniable proof of their crime, they’re going to comply immediately. A recording of the theft would’ve been as psychologically devastating to Takao as the cage of rats was to Winston Smith in Nineteen Eighty-Four... and it would be way more believable.

With actual proof, Takao throwing the clothes into the river would accomplish nothing. Nakamura could still expose him at any moment, because the blackmail would’ve been airtight.

The story seems to be cognizant of the fact that you cannot accuse someone without evidence. Takao is perfectly capable of arguing this very fact when Nakamura is accused of stealing money, and again, when the cops accuse him of another crime. In both cases, there’s no proof. So why doesn’t this same logic apply when Nakamura bullies him? She has no evidence! It often feels as though he behaves stupidly on purpose, because the story needs him to.

Another issue I have is with Nakamura’s ubiquitous nature. This weirdo knows where Takao is at all times, which is just unbelievable. I mean, I would believe that she would follow him around at certain times, but always knowing where he is, when he is alone, stretches credibility to the breaking point.

Other things about this story bother me quite a bit, but they’re related to characterization, and not so much with the plot. Both Takao and Nakamura feel less like complete human beings and more like “one-trick ponies”. Takao carries a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal around, and Nakamura calls people “shit-bugs”. That’s basically the extent of their personalities. We aren’t privy to their inner emotional lives (I’m not sure they even have inner lives). Strangely enough, even though both characters were based on real people, they don’t feel authentic. I don’t think that matters to the story, though, it’s just like a fun piece of trivia.

Ironically, the only character who felt truly human to me was Saeki. She seemed to possess a real life, a functioning Brain, and genuine emotions. That is especially funny considering Shūzō Oshimi has stated that Saeki was created entirely from scratch, rather than being based on a real person.

To be fair, if I had given up after chapter 5, I would’ve missed later developments that add context to these characters. Still, much of that information that we should’ve been privy to early on arrives too late for me to care. The early chapters leave the cast feeling hollow when they should’ve already possessed a richer inner life.

The Unfilmable Masterpiece

From Manben NEO documentary

 

 

Reading Naoki Urasawa’s words, I can’t help but nod my head in agreement. His reasoning is that the panels are so perfect that any adaptation would have to follow them slavishly to be successful. Well, most manga adaptations take great care in using the manga panels as ‘storyboards’.

I believe there are other reasons why Blood On The Tracks cannot be adapted. I won’t lie, though: there’s a small part of me with a morbid curiosity for what an adaptation would be like… Years ago, I saw a photograph of a little kid who reminded me of Seiichi and I felt my heart do a backflip in my chest… I don’t think I could last two minutes of an adaptation. 

Blood On The Tracks can’t be faithfully adapted to the screen without breaching serious ethical boundaries.

Fans certainly expect that any successful manga will eventually get an anime/tv show/movie adaptation, and indeed, many of Shūzō Oshimi’s mangas have been adapted to the screen, most notably, Aku no Hana. 

Aku no Hana is about to receive its 3rd live-action adaptation. Previous adaptations were bad for different reasons, notably having adult actors playing teenage characters. The tv series that is set to begin in April this year is about to repeat that mistake.

To think that Blood On The Tracks can be adapted quickly, easily or even accurately is naïve, to say the least.

You see, Aku no Hana is similar in spirit to William Golding’s Lord Of The Flies (a work which also received its 3rd adaptation this year with a mini-series on BBC).

The themes are quite different, but it all comes down to children hurting children, which is disturbing enough. Lord Of The Flies (in all adaptations) had real child actors playing the characters. In all its adaptations, Aku no Hana uses adult actors to play pubescent characters. Even if the adaptations had been 100% accurate with regard to storytelling, the fact that it used adults instead of children basically nullifies the effort to adapt Oshimi’s story, and especially the disturbing notion of children hurting other children.

Blood On The Tracks, on the other hand, is a haunting exploration of emotional and physical abuse from a mother to her own son, bringing to light the pervasive trauma caused by controlling and abusive parental figures, which makes this manga closer in spirit to a work like Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Lolita also had two theatrical adaptations, both of which highly unfaithful, if you consider the ethical conundrums related to depicting child abuse in such a visually explicit medium. 

In any case, it’s safe to say that the horrific experience of reading Lolita is magnified tenfold when you read Blood On The Tracks. Vladimir Nabokov has ways of defusing (minimizing) the horror by setting the story in the past ,and writing it from the point of view of a villain trying hard to make himself better than the monster he really is. Blood On The Tracks has no such “horror shock absorbers”. The manga is told from the point of view of the victim, as the abuse is taking place, and the audience is forced to live the experiences as he’s living them. Much more horrific as a reading experience, if you ask me. 

So, what are the challenges of adapting a story like Blood On The Tracks? Well, the manga is told entirely from the point of view of a child who lives in a perpetual state of fear and confusion which Oshimi neither sanitizes nor sensationalizes. The rhythm of the manga is deliberately slow, allowing for a lingering dread to build with each new page. The tension relies on a methodical buildup, and without this, any adaptation would lose the nuanced horror Oshimi seeks to create in his work.

Film and anime are often limited in their capacity to sustain this kind of nuanced, internal tension, without resorting to more obvious visual and auditory cues. An adaptation might fall into the trap of focusing too much on plot-driven actions, distorting the story’s subtle exploration of childhood trauma and emotional abuse. On the page, these themes are largely communicated through the pacing, stillness, and panel after panel of body language. Seiko’s psychological manipulations become difficult to convey effectively in film or anime, where it risks being either underdeveloped or sensationalized. In a manga so full of compelling micro-expressions, that are masterfully frozen on each panel, how would a director convey that on screen (either in animation or live-action)?

These technical challenges may seem unsurmountable, but I could imagine that, in the right hands, the manga could successfully make the transition from page to screen. Heck, we’re living in a world where Uzumaki had a proper anime adaptation (though it’s up for debate how successful it was), so it can be done! Hiroshi Nagahama directed a perfect first episode, after failing to adapt Aku no Hana years before.

Blood On The Tracks would need a dream team of animation directors, producers, storyboard artists, key animators, voice actors and soundtrack composers to make it come alive… Maybe Oshimi would need to be involved in some capacity; maybe he could be credited as a storyboard artist and be in charge of the rhythm of the story... Maybe Oshimi could just learn how to animate himself…

Hey, don’t laugh, dreaming is not taxed yet!

Blood On The Tracks is not an action-oriented manga and therefore wouldn’t be a very movement-oriented anime. It could work well if the emphasis of the animation would be on characters’ reaction shots. Subtle animation combined with a sober soundtrack could work really well on-screen. The 2006 anime adaptation of Ai Yazawa’s NANA comes to mind: it was a great adaptation with very little movement, but it has amazing music by Tomoki Hasegawa and inspired animation. 

So, let’s assume a great animation team could be put together for this project, studio Ghibli, maybe, or a studio of that caliber, with an awesome director, a great composer, and close cooperation with Shūzō Oshimi himself. What would they do regarding the voice actors? This, to me, will always be what throws a wrench in the whole deal.

Because there would be two ways of doing this, and both of them would be a disaster. Either the director chooses adult voice actors who can actually sign a contract, understand the weight of the events, and the devastating emotional effect it has on the audience, and act accordingly, or he would try to hire children (to enhance the horror, perhaps). None of these choices would be a good one… for separate reasons… but only one of them would be completely unethical.

The anime industry is filled with teenage male protagonists played by voice actresses like Son Goku being played by Masako Nozawa, and Edward Elric being played by Romi Park. Women voicing teenage boys is not the exception, it’s the rule. It’s awfully rare to have teenage boys voicing teenage characters, mainly because their voices tend to change around this time. A very noticeable example is Aaron Dismuke, who played Alphonse Elric in the 2003 adaptation. After his voice changed, he was replaced by Maxey Whitehead in Brotherhood. If one is looking for consistency in the character, having a 12-year-old boy whose voice is changing is a big no-no. And nobody complains when Nancy Cartwright has been voicing Bart Simpson for nearly 40 years. The quality of the performance is what matters most. 

While not common, having child actors playing child characters is not as unusual as it seems. Walt Disney has been doing it since Pinocchio, when the title character was voiced by 12-year-old Dickie Jones.

However, when we think about children voicing children, the Charlie Brown Specials come to mind. Indeed, Charles M. Schulz always wanted his characters to be voiced by children for the sake of authenticity. It was so authentic, in fact, that some children had their lines cued to them, because they couldn’t read yet. Of course, each technique has its pros and cons; children voicing children does sound more authentic, but if the franchise runs for enough time, the kids will eventually need to be replaced with other kids. Such is the case of Charlie Brown and the “Peanuts” series. And in this case, there is nothing unethical about using children to voice child characters.

That’s not true for all cases. Some film-makers threw the ethics out the window for the sake of authenticity, and children were emotionally scarred because of it.

Can you imagine how 8-year-old Donnie Dunagan felt when Bambi’s mother was killed? That scene traumatized several generations of children, but Donnie had to be inside the sound booth… In The Lion King, the director told Jonathan Taylor Thomas to visualize his mother falling off the cliff. As a result, he ended up screaming ‘mom’. Don’t tell me this isn’t traumatizing to a young boy. Even more traumatizing would’ve been to play the character of Nina Tucker in Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, but 9-year-old Sumire Morohoshi was cast for the fateful role. Worse yet: the character of Setsuko from the movie Grave of the Fireflies was played by 5-year-old Ayano Shiraishi.

You would think no sane casting director would ever have the nerve to cast children for those roles, but in all these cases, that door was slammed open. An argument can be made that those decisions were gross ethical breaches that scarred the children for life. All in the name of Art, of course.

No one would argue that hiring children to voice Ponyo and Sosuke was the right thing to do, but the movie Ponyo is pretty harmless (there are two heartbreaking moments in it). Grave of the Fireflies on the other hand is traumatic from beginning to end.

Live-action movies have no shortage of traumatized young actors. Audiences were impressed when Vada Sultenfuss cried at Thomas J.’s funeral but, in order to get that gut-wrenching performance, 10-year-old Anna Chlumsky was told by her mother “picture me in that casket”. I can’t imagine that not scarring a child.

Even though Thomas J. died, we all know that Macaulay Culkin isn’t dead. His face went through a make-up process to make it look like he had been fatally stung by bees. That’s movie magic for you! When (in all versions of Lord Of The Flies) we see Roger throwing a boulder at Piggy, we know that scene has been rehearsed many times and, with clever camera tricks, we are led to believe that Roger murdered Piggy, but we know that’s not true. All the blood we see in films is nothing but corn syrup, and all the violence is rehearsed. Many effects of ‘violence’ are dealt with in post-production. After the director says ‘cut,' the actors smile, go out to lunch and back to their normal lives.

Physical violence is easy to fake and easy to make believable. Emotional violence is not. If an actor is put in the mental space of a character going through emotional abuse, they’re going to be mentally affected, whether they want to or not. I don’t know any reader who read through Blood On The Tracks and didn’t come out of it mentally scarred in some way… And I am talking about a manga that is targeted to adults. If a live-action adaptation could be approved for Blood On The Tracks, hiring a 13-year-old boy to inhabit the head space of Seiichi would be nothing short of an ethical disaster. For any filmmaker, representing Seiichi’s terror and confusion on-screen would require guiding a child actor through scenes that involve sustained emotional abuse. The immersive nature of acting means they would still experience feelings of fear, anxiety, or shame that could leave an imprint, regardless of the director’s attempts to protect them. It would be nearly impossible to portray the character of Seiichi Osabe without asking the child actor to embody the resulting trauma, no matter how vicariously. And Seiichi is not the only child being abused in that manga, either, so two more children (Fukiishi, and Seiko herself, if the entire manga was to be adapted) would need to be sacrificed for this to happen.

Adapting this manga in anime form, would present the same problems as a live-action adaptation. In all certainty, the casting director would simply choose a female actress to play 13-year-old Seiichi. A safe, ethical choice, of course, but a self-defeating one. Either it’s unethical, or it’s a ‘cheat’. Either option doesn’t do Blood On The Tracks any favors as a work of art. The only way to minimize the damage would be to have a psychiatrist on set (or on the booth), at all times. Or a team of them — one for each actor. 

Maybe child labor laws in Japan wouldn’t allow children to act anyway… Maybe that’s why no adaptation of Aku no Hana has child actors…

After watching a short film entitled The Cord (which has many parallels with this manga), I began thinking that a mute version of Blood On The Tracks could actually work, given Oshimi’s boundless gift to tell entire stories through body language and facial features alone. Not sure whether a mute animated adaptation of Blood On The Tracks would garner any popularity with viewers, though… But, then again, I have my doubts that Blood On The Tracks is a popular enough manga to be considered for an adaptation anyway… We know that Aku no Hana is a bestseller because it’s already had three adaptations. As much as I respect Blood On The Tracks as a work of art, I don’t know if it’s selling enough copies to even pay for Oshimi’s monthly rice bills… I don’t imagine this manga flies off the shelves like hotcakes. Let’s face it: stories about child abuse are difficult to market and sell.

For all these reasons, adapting Blood On The Tracks is likely a futile attempt. Adapting it faithfully would represent an ethical violation by subjecting real children to unimaginable emotional trauma for the sake of realism, and no story should demand that price. Perhaps it’s best to leave this tale within the pages of a manga, where its horror and poignancy can be experienced without any sort of compromise.

A Mordaça

Este foi um dia que eu não esperava ver acontecer. O dia em que o país assistiu, impávido, ao mansinho retorno ao pesadelo que assolou toda uma nação durante quatro intermináveis décadas. Um passado que se julgava morto e enterrado por um golpe de flores foi, ainda mais rapidamente, desenterrado por vilões que não se consideram como tal. Afinal de contas, ninguém é vilão na sua própria história... Estes homens podem sempre afirmar, em tom paternal e com uma condescendência agonizante, que este regresso, sob uma capa de proteção às gerações mais jovens, vai melhorar a vida de todos. 

Argumento bafiento de tão usado no passado, mas ninguém neste país estuda História... Ninguém se exaspera com este dia, nem sequer se inquieta com o regresso anunciado do pesadelo. Olho para trás e vejo o lápis azul partido ao meio, esmagado pelos amantes da liberdade. Por onde andarão eles? O que terão eles pensado neste dia? Estarão tão inquietos como eu? Será que ainda resta alguém neste país que ame verdadeiramente a liberdade? Ou terão todos abandonado o barco com a promessa pífia de segurança? 

Antigamente havia bufos nos cafés. Hoje querem forçar-nos a chibarmo-nos a nós próprios. Porque quereria um cidadão incriminar-se voluntariamente? Não há maior censura (nem mais eficaz) do que aquela que fazemos a nós próprios por medo que a verdade incomode a quem manda. Num sistema em que a vigilância não dorme, não haverá espaços verdes para onde escapar. Hoje acordei e respirei fundo, com medo que já nem o ar me pertencesse. Observei o cãozito através da janela, abanando a cauda, sorrindo, feliz por existir. Num futuro próximo, aquele é o único ser verdadeiramente livre do país. 

A minha janela para o mundo foi invadida por seres que espreitam cada uma das minhas acções. Hora após hora, dia após dia, os meus movimentos são vigiados com uma minúcia perversa. Esta gente não me conhece; aguardam apenas que eu cometa um qualquer acto que eles considerem traiçoeiro. Poderei eu saber o que entrará na lista de actos traiçoeiros? Poderei eu proteger a minha existência da vigilância constante? 

Vivo num mundo em que só sobrevive quem se cala, quem não dá sinal de vida. Tento existir por entre os cliques de um rato e as palavras que ficam por escrever. É intolerável depender desta gente para tudo! Quando a vigilância for total (porque o será!) tornar-se-á impossível dormir, comer, falar ou pensar livremente... Mas as pessoas não querem liberdade – o simples facto de serem responsáveis pelas suas próprias escolhas e pelos seus próprios actos é um fardo demasiado pesado para a maioria da população que apenas anseia o abraço aconchegante do Estado paternalista. 

Esse abraço irá sufocar-nos a todos...

Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

"5. Labor not unwillingly, nor without regard to the common interest, nor without due consideration, nor with distraction; nor let studied ornament set off your thoughts, and be not either a man of many words, or busy about too many things. And further, let the deity which is in you be the guardian of a living being, manly and of ripe age, and engaged in matter political, and a Roman, and a ruler, who has taken his post like a man waiting for the signal which summons him from life, and ready to go, having need neither of oath nor of any man's testimony. Be cheerful also, and seek neither external help nor the tranquility that others give. A man then must stand upright, not be kept upright by others." 

"Constantly regard the universe as one living being, having one substance and one soul; and observe how all things have reference to one perception, the perception of this one living being; and how all things act with one movement; and how all things are the cooperating causes of all things that exist; observe, too, the continuous spinning of the thread and the contexture of the web." 

"In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be present,—I am rising to the work of a human being. Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist and for which I was brought into the world? Or have I been made for this, to lie in the bed-clothes and keep myself warm?—But this is more pleasant.—Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure, and not at all for action or exertion? Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees working together to put in order their several parts of the universe? And art thou unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost thou not make haste to do that which, is according to thy nature? But it is necessary to take rest also.—It is necessary. However, Nature has fixed bounds to this too: she has fixed bounds to eating and drinking, and yet thou goest beyond these bounds, beyond what is sufficient; yet in thy acts it is not so, but thou stoppest short of what thou canst do. So thou lovest not thyself, for if thou didst, thou wouldst love thy nature and her will. But those who love their several arts exhaust themselves in working at them unwashed and without food; but thou valuest thy own nature less than the turner values the turning art, or the dancer the dancing art, or the lover of money values his money, or the vain-glorious man his little glory. And such men, when they have a violent affection to a thing, choose neither to eat nor to sleep rather than to perfect the things which they care for. But are the acts which concern society more vile in thy eyes and less worthy of thy labor?"

 

"The best way of avenging yourself is not to become like the wrongdoer." 

"Above, below, all around are the movements of the elements. But the motion of virtue is in none of these: it is something more divine, and advancing by a way hardly observed it goes happily on its road."

"Is my understanding sufficient for this or not? If it is sufficient, I use it for the work as an instrument given by the universal nature. But if it is not sufficient, then either I retire from the work and give way to him who is able to do it better." 

 

"Accustom thyself as much as possible on the occasion of anything being done by any person to inquire with thyself, For what object is this man doing this? but begin with thyself, and examine thyself first."

"Remember that this which pulls the strings is the thing which is hidden within: this is the power of persuasion, this is life, this, if one may so say, is man. In contemplating thyself never include the vessel which surrounds thee and these instruments which are attached about it. For they are like to an axe, differing only in this, that they grow to the body. For indeed there is no more use in these parts without the cause which moves and checks them, than in the weaver’s shuttle, and the writer’s pen and the driver’s whip."

"Have I done something for the general interest? Well then I have had my reward. Let this always be present to thy mind, and never stop doing such good."

"As Viagens São Os Viajantes"

A recente ameaça de acabar com o Plano Nacional de Leitura (PNL) e com as bibliotecas escolares causou grande alvoroço nas redes sociais. 

Isso é bastante curioso porque segundo um estudo do Plano Nacional de Leitura (PNL 2027) e do ISCTE mostra que os jovens portugueses têm lido cada vez menos desde 2007. Em 2019: 21,8% dos alunos do 3.º ciclo e secundário disseram não ter lido nenhum livro por prazer nos 12 meses anteriores. Em 2007, esse número era de 11,9%. A percentagem de alunos que não leram qualquer livro por lazer no secundário subiu de 11,3% para 26,2%. A influência da família e o uso das bibliotecas escolares foram apontados como factores importantes para o hábito de leitura. 

Outro artigo do PNL 2027 confirma que os níveis de leitura em Portugal têm vindo a diminuir, especialmente entre os mais jovens e mais escolarizados. 

A única conclusão possível é que o PNL é não serve para nada!

Embora tenha sido criado em 2007 por aquele génio do mal (cujo nome não vou referir) creio que tinha uma intenção nobre, mas ignorou algo fundamental sobre o ser humano, sobretudo o adolescente: tudo o que tente impor a um adolescente será prontamente rejeitado. 

Imagino que o público-alvo deste projecto sejam jovens que ainda não encontraram o livro que os apaixonará... Na verdade, é assim que acontece. É preciso um livro, um livro muito especial, que faça uma pessoa apaixonar-se por ele e depois queira ler outros livros para replicar esse sentimento. É como uma droga, na verdade. Presumo eu, que nunca consumi drogas... graças a um livro.

Se queremos que as crianças leiam mais livros, precisamos de lhes incutir esse gosto desde a infância. É tão simples quanto isso. E, lamento dizer, nem isso garante um resultado positivo. Muitos pais leram livros aos filhos quando eram crianças e muitas dessas crianças nunca desenvolveram hábitos de leitura quando cresceram. 

Algumas pessoas simplesmente não gostam de ler. É estranho, eu sei, mas também é estranho ver pessoas que não gostam de chocolate! É evidente que nenhuma actividade neste mundo é universalmente adorada.

O actual Ministro da Educação Fernando Alexandre garantiu que o PNL não será extinto e, no entanto, tenho as minhas dúvidas sobre a sua eficácia em influenciar mentes jovens. O PNL não produziu os resultados esperados desde a sua concepção. Pergunto-me se as pessoas que estão a organizar uma petição pública estão convencidas que vai haver uma reviravolta nos hábitos de leitura dos jovens? Acho altamente improvável.

Na minha infância, o meu primeiro livro “seduziu-me e envolveu-me por completo”. Até esse momento, “nunca tinha conhecido o prazer de ler, de explorar os recônditos da alma, de me deixar levar pela imaginação, pela beleza e pelo mistério da ficção e da linguagem”. Já falei dele aqui, foi Os Cinco e a Ciganita. As palavras entre aspas são d’ A Sombra do Vento, as quais subscrevo sem reservas e conheço muitas pessoas que também as subscrevem.

A maior recompensa da leitura reside no prazer da descoberta de um livro novo e na magia de ver os pingos de tinta transformarem-se, como por magia, em imagens, em cheiros, em sons — numa gloriosa viagem dos sentidos e da imaginação. Citando novamente A Sombra do Vento:

“Cada livro [...] tem uma alma. A alma de quem o escreveu e a alma de quem o leu, viveu e sonhou com ele. Cada vez que um livro muda de mãos, cada vez que alguém percorre as suas páginas com o olhar, o seu espírito cresce e fortalece-se.”

A experiência de leitura é pessoal, intransmissível e, de certo modo, involuntária. Se um leitor entrar numa livraria, não se irá apaixonar por todos os livros que nela constam. Só um número reduzido de livros irá movê-lo no sentido da leitura. Nesse aspecto, há algo de profundamente misterioso na relação entre o leitor e o livro. Na minha opinião, os livros escolhem-nos a nós e não o contrário. Carlos Ruiz Zafón articulou esta inexplicável relação entre o leitor e o livro de forma muito eloquente n’ A Sombra do Vento.

A razão pela qual nunca consumi drogas foi graças a um livro chamado A Lua de Joana. Este livro, como tantos outros, chegou-me inesperadamente, numa aula de Geografia, no oitavo ano. A minha professora, sem mais nem menos, leu-nos a célebre carta de 20 de Fevereiro de 1994 (entendedores entenderão). Não sei quantos dos meus colegas ficaram tão fascinados pela leitura como eu, mas assim que cheguei a casa perguntei se tínhamos aquele livro e, após receber uma resposta positiva, percebi que o meu irmão estava a coleccionar “O Clube das Chaves”. 

Assim, após terminar A Lua de Joana, comecei obviamente a ler os livros d’ “O Clube das Chaves”... E depois d’ “O Clube das Chaves” comecei a ler o “Triângulo Jota”. Nunca me faltava material novo e fazer uma colecção era muito emocionante.

Já falei anteriormente sobre A Sombra do Vento; este livro também veio ter comigo através de um amigo da faculdade que mo emprestou, iniciando uma paixão pela obra de Zafón. Muitos livros na minha vida chegaram até mim como se me tivessem escolhido, tal como “A Sombra do Vento” do Julián Carax escolheu o Daniel Sempere, mesmo que o pai o tenha levado pela mão até ao Cemitério dos Livros Esquecidos. Aconteceu com O Principezinho, aconteceu com o Fernão Capelo Gaivota, aconteceu com o About a Boy e aconteceu com o Mil Novecentos e Oitenta e Quatro. 

De outros livros corri atrás como o Tom Sawyer, o Huckleberry Finn, A Insustentável Leveza do Ser, Cartas a um Jovem Poeta, O Filósofo e o Lobo, Ethan Frome, etc. Fernando Pessoa é sui generis; li alguma da sua obra na escola, mas simplesmente não lhe prestei a atenção devida. Foi necessária uma redescoberta através de um documentário da RTP chamado “Grandes Livros” e de um episódio sobre O Livro do Desassossego para que me aprofundasse na sua obra e me apaixonasse por ela.

Faço parte de uma geração que cresceu com o “World Masterpiece Theater”; um conjunto de obras literárias animadas por estúdios no Japão como a Nippon Animation, exibidas entre 1969 e 1997.

Crescemos a ver “Heidi, “Um Cão da Flandres”, “Rascal, o Guaxinim”, “Ana dos Cabelos Ruivos”, “As Aventuras de Tom Sawyer”, “A Família Robinson”, “A História de Pollyanna,” “As Mulherzinhas” e “As Aventuras de Peter Pan”, familiarizando-nos com nomes como Hans Christian Andersen, Thornton Burgess, Johanna Spyri, Maria Louise Ramé, Thomas Sterling North, Lucy Maud Montgomery, Mark Twain, Johann David Wyss, Eleanor H. Porter, Louisa May Alcott e J. M. Barrie, só para citar alguns.

Outras obras literárias, como Abelha Maia, Os Três Mosqueteiros, Nils Holgersson, Alice no País das Maravilhas, Zorro e “As Misteriosas Cidades de Ouro”, não fazem parte do “World Masterpiece Theater”, mas também foram adaptadas por estúdios de animação japoneses. A obra de Alexandre Dumas foi tão acarinhada no Japão que teve direito a duas adaptações — uma pela Nippon Animation e outra pelo Estúdio Gallop.

A geração que cresceu nas décadas de 70, 80 e 90 conheceu nomes como Waldemar Bonsels, Alexandre Dumas, Selma Lagerlöf, Lewis Carroll, Johnston McCulley e Scott O'Dell. O Zorro é uma personagem universalmente conhecida e adorada, embora poucas pessoas tenham lido The Curse of Capistrano, de Johnston McCulley, mas no caso de King’ Fifth de Scott O’Dell, a sua ligação com “As Misteriosas Cidades de Ouro” é tão ténue que é praticamente irreconhecível. No entanto, só quem gosta de ler é que entra numa livraria, vê o nome do autor e tem curiosidade em ler o livro.

O que me traz de volta ao meu ponto original: se não houver uma curiosidade natural sobre os livros e sobre leitura, nem experiências positivas com livros acumuladas ao longo dos anos, os livros não têm significado, mesmo para quem tenha sido inundado desde a infância por inúmeras adaptações animadas de grandes obras da literatura universal.

O prazer pela leitura tem de ser cultivado e um dos melhores exemplos dessa prática em Portugal é o caso d’ A Lua de Joana. A primeira edição foi livremente distribuída com um dos volumes da colecção “O Clube das Chaves”. O livro tornou-se tão popular nas escolas que muitos alunos começaram a montar peças de teatro. Em 2008, Maria Teresa Maia Gonzalez publicou uma resposta directa ao fenómeno com um livro intitulado Os Herdeiros da Lua de Joana em formato de peça de teatro, como forma de agradecimento e cativação de novas gerações de leitores. É preciso lembrar que A Lua de Joana foi um livro encomendado pelo Projecto Vida, mas foi divulgado junto do público leitor da forma mais orgânica possível e é por isso que teve tanto sucesso! Também há uma meta-referência deliciosa: a Joana Brito e os seus colegas de turma escrevem e organizam uma peça de teatro chamada “Os Amigos da Onça” sobre a morte da Marta.

Esta é a vida que todos os livros merecem. Uma vida onde o passa-palavra faz crescer a alma do livro e conquista novos leitores. A Joana Brito está mais viva do que nunca e nenhum autor pode esperar melhor destino para a sua obra. E adivinhem só? Nada disto aconteceu porque o Governo coagiu os adolescentes a ler este livro.

Sim, A Lua de Joana está no Plano Nacional de Leitura, mas a realidade que os apoiantes do PNL não querem enfrentar é que uma pessoa que não gosta de ler não vai, de um momento para o outro, desenvolver o interesse só porque o Estado português compilou uma lista. As listas, por muito extensas que sejam, nunca são suficientes, são sempre limitadas.

Há muitos anos atrás, arrancou um projecto revolucionário para um país tão pequeno como Portugal: a biblioteca móvel, inaugurada por António Branquinho da Fonseca. Este senhor acreditava piamente que as bibliotecas “deviam ser espaços onde o conhecimento formasse e educasse as pessoas, através do cumprimento de princípios inovadores à época, tais como: um serviço biblioteconómico de cariz gratuito que permitisse o empréstimo domiciliário (até cinco livros) das obras por um período alargado (mensal), favorecendo a partilha entre os membros da comunidade dos livros requisitados; um aconselhamento personalizado aos utilizadores sobre as leituras que, para eles, mais poderiam ser úteis; o livre acesso às estantes”.

A Rede de Bibliotecas Itinerantes da Gulbenkian começou em 1958 e terminou em 2002, quatro anos antes de ser criado o Plano Nacional de Leitura e, a meu ver, é uma abordagem mais orgânica e menos prescritiva, o que constitui uma genuína promoção da leitura. As icónicas carrinhas da Citroën, cheias de livros, que se espalhavam por todo o país, especialmente nas zonas rurais onde as pessoas nunca tinham visto uma biblioteca antes, criaram gerações inteiras de pessoas com uma profunda paixão pelos livros. A leitura era apresentada como um universo de infinitas possibilidades, onde cada um podia encontrar a sua própria estrela.

Um livro é tanto um passaporte para outro mundo como uma máquina do tempo para outra era. Como dizia Bernardo Soares: “Para viajar basta existir. [...] Se imagino, vejo. Que mais faço eu se viajo? Só a fraqueza extrema da imaginação justifica que se tenha que deslocar para sentir. [...] A vida é o que fazemos dela. As viagens são os viajantes. O que vemos, não é o que vemos, senão o que somos”.