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.

The Mother of All Horror

   

     Japanese have a saying: ‘I would like to taste a swellfish, but I would not like to lose my life.’ That’s the reason people ride on roller coasters. That’s also the reason people read horror stories. They strive for the thrill of danger, those wonderful spine tingling moments, without any lasting negative consequences that would advent from a real near death experience. 

     Chi no Wadachi (血の轍), translated as Blood On The Tracks in English, by the acclaimed Japanese author and illustrator, Shūzō Oshimi, is a manga that elicits those feelings in the readers. The recently completed manga series is comprised of 153 chapters, spanning a six year journey in print on the reputable magazine Big Comic Superior. Even though the magazine is packed to the brim with critically acclaimed authors and famous manga titles, it seems that Blood On The Tracks went by almost unnoticed. I often wonder what the marketing strategy to sell this work was. It’s one thing to let a manga build its own audience in the magazine, but when it starts being compiled into volumes, it needs to rely on the marketing strategy. Publishers capitalized on the fact that Shūzō Oshimi’s hard-won reputation as a masterful storyteller of psychological dramas — having previously created Flowers of Evil, Inside Mari and Happiness — would be enough to garnish him a sympathetic audience for his latest work. Goodwill accumulated over the years is a marketing strategy in and of itself!

     Other than the name, and an early video trailer on YouTube, the marketing strategy for the manga was to keep almost everything under wraps while posts on Twitter dripped cryptic imagery and tag lines designed to elicit readers’ curiosity. I’m not sure this unconventional marketing approach successfully lured in the intended target audience. Then again, I’m not sure who the intended target audience is, but more on that later.

     For now, can I say that I hate the fact that the marketing was predicated on a false premise? If I was tasked with selling this manga, one thing I would never do would be to write a text saying that Seiko Osabe is “an overprotective mother who loves her son very much”. That’s not even an embellishment, it’s an outright lie. The best description I’ve ever seen comes from the NHK Manben documentary, which manages to be truthful, while giving absolutely no secrets away. Promoting the manga as a dark, suspenseful psycho-thriller, while hinting at the disturbing and twisted nature of the story is the best way to sell it. Other than this minor blunder, I can’t fault the publisher’s need to balance intrigue and secrecy to lure in readers, but I question the wisdom of their choice of descriptors… And I fully understand that you cannot tell the truth in the case of Blood On The Tracks. If someone had asked me “hey, I have a great story here about child abuse, do you want to read it?” I would’ve smiled politely, while trying to suppress my urge to vomit and say “no, thank you”.

     I was told about this manga through a different means — a great example of fan marketing — the famous Super Eyepatch Wolf’s YouTube essay. In it, he discusses at length the virtues of horror tales and how Shūzō Oshimi masters the genre. It’s only after 19 minutes that he warns the audience that Blood On The Tracks is a story of a mother “potentially hurting her own child”. But, by the time he drops this information, he already made his point in favor of the manga, and hopefully the audience is sold on it. I know I was. And, ironically enough, that’s exactly how the manga sells itself. Because stories have to speak for themselves at the end of the day. There’s nothing more positively subversive than presenting a seemingly normal story that gradually morphs into tense and unsettling moments, and defies conventional storytelling norms. Readers who picked up Blood On The Tracks were likely expecting a dark and disturbing story, typical for this author, but instead of a straightforward narrative, they were confronted with an intricate web of psychological suspense and moral ambiguity, whirling inside a deeply moving and emotionally complex story.

     So how does Blood On The Tracks present itself? What is the author trying to do, who is his ideal reader, and does he accomplish his goal or not? I must say the way the story unfolds is very subversive, and it challenges our expectations of what a horror story should be. The comment sections for various forums consist of a confusing bunch of people, mostly teenage boys. That can’t be the target audience, right? After all, this manga is published in a magazine for adult males... But too many male readers are too busy ‘choking the bishop’ to a pretty face to pay attention to what’s happening on the pages. The women reading this are deeply worried they’re just like Seiko, or that they’ll turn into Seiko somehow, or they come to the conclusion that they’ll never have children. They can’t be the target audience either, right? There’s only one group of people who can grasp the complex message of this work – abuse victims. And that group splits into two: one subgroup is terrified that this story hits too close to home, is repulsed by the narrative and stays away from it as a means of self-preservation. The other subgroup (from which Oshimi comes from) find the veneer of fiction to be the perfect way to deal with their personal traumas. These folks are attracted to this manga like a moth to a flame. I imagine that’s Oshimi’s target audience, his ideal readers, and that’s the group that keeps telling us (the clueless readers) how accurate this story is in examining the impact of emotional manipulation on the psyche of a young boy. 

     Then again, I’m not sure the author had a specific target audience in mind… maybe that’s just a marketing gimmick to sell books. It’s not a secret to any fan of this author that most of his works are semi-autobiographical. It’s also not a secret (at least since 2014) that he’s had a difficult childhood due to his toxic mother’s malignant influence on him. He told us about that in the afterword of volume 3 of Inside Mari, he mentioned it again in his interview to the Le Monde in 2019, and yet again at the end of volume 14 of Blood On The Tracks. Believe it or not, that’s big… Vladimir Nabokov never mentioned his uncle Ruka while he was writing Lolita. Not everyone is willing to be so honest about their work and the inspirations behind it. 

     Shūzō Oshimi never shied away from difficult topics, often exploring them at length. That combination of transparency and personal vulnerability, plus his artistic prowess and his uniqueness in approaching certain topics is what makes him such an incredibly honest and relatable author. But that means that he’s not writing a story in the regular sense. Blood On The Tracks is Oshimi’s equivalent of The Book of Disquiet with Seiichi Osabe being analogous to Bernardo Soares. As dissimilar as both works are, they share a common thread in their exploration of internal thoughts, emotions, and the intricacies of the human psyche from a very subjective but poetic 1st person POV. And both works blur the lines between diary, autobiography, and fiction, creating a unique reading experience. To put it simply, Blood On The Tracks is a grueling task, an anguished howl of pain from an emotionally wounded author, trying to save himself. To anyone picking up this manga in the future, it stands as a testament to Oshimi’s courage as an artist and his ability to use his talent to grapple with the depths of human pain and suffering.

     Art-wise, there’s no disagreement amongst fans. Shūzō Oshimi’s exceptional talent for capturing the intricacies of emotional nuance through facial expressions and body language is undeniable. The use of negative space, minimalist backgrounds and surreal imagery only adds to the claustrophobic atmosphere, emphasizing the isolation and emotional turmoil that Seiichi feels on a daily basis. Readers just can’t turn away from the sensitive, brutal, unapologetic and unadulterated psychological drama. Its subtlety and rawness makes it pure and irresistible (against our best judgment). Even if there is no worse feeling than our sense of helplessness, we cannot turn away from the truth, and we’re compelled to keep turning the page.  

     Many people, however, gave up on this manga as it went along, especially after the first time skip. The early excitement was gone and you didn’t hear many people talking about it after chapter 108... I wonder if Super Eyepatch Wolf is still reading it? Speaking of Super Eyepatch Wolf, back in 2020, in the early days of the manga, so many theories regarding the plot and the characters abounded on the Internet; mostly about the white cat, Fukiishi’s real intent, Seiichi’s mental state, and the reason behind Seiko’s behavior. Many people were ready for the manga to end after chapter 82 — myself included. It would’ve been an excellent place to end the story. Now that the manga is over, I realize I had no idea what the manga was about… See, a lot of people were angry about what Seiichi did to his cousin. I can’t say that I like what happened, but I understand what that batch of chapters was trying to achieve for Seiichi’s character exploration. I agree with everyone about the stupidity of chapter 84; making Shigeru go to his cousin’s house at 4 in the morning was blatantly absurd and indefensible. This is Blood On The Tracks’ capital sin. A writer simply cannot go through great lengths to build the universe where the two cousins live miles apart from each other, show us how Shigeru is practically in a vegetative state with great mobility issues, and then expect the reader to believe that he would walk in the middle of a blizzard to his cousin’s house. The man just shredded the unspoken reader-writer contract right then and there. And he probably did it because he thought he could get away with it, like he had already, years before, in his most well-known work. In The Flowers of Evil, he sacrificed the internal logic of the universe he was establishing, as well as any kind of realism, in order to tell a story that makes it nearly impossible for readers to suspend their disbelief.

     There was a perfect way to fix all of this: he simply had to make Shigeru live in the same street as Seiichi. Problem solved. (It would be equally easy to solve the narrative problems in The Flowers of Evil, but this is not the time nor the place for that.)

     Many people hated what happened in those chapters (84 to 92) not only for the obliteration to the internal logic of the story, but also because of what it did to Seiichi’s character. I can't say I disagree, but I believe the problem runs deeper than this batch of chapters… Blood On The Tracks is divided between the diary portion (in his relationship between his mother and Fukiishi), and the fiction portion (everything else). Unlike Seiichi’s relationship with his mother, and with Fukiishi, his relationship with his cousin, as well as Shigeru’s character are really ill-defined. Supplemental materials from the physical volumes paint a picture of two boys who grew up together almost as brothers, but you never feel it when you are reading the chapters. Shigeru comes off as this know-it-all jerk who enjoys making fun of his cousin and belittling him. Is that the real Shigeru? How does Seiichi feel about him? Shigeru is the closest thing Seiichi has as an older brother… Does he like spending time with him or does he see him simply as a nuisance that he had to put up with?! We don't spend enough time with these kids before the events on chapter 6, so their relationship is very ill-defined. The clues peppered across the manga tell us that Seiichi tolerates his cousin, more than enjoys spending time with him, and he may have thought that Shigeru deserved to be punished for his impertinence. That doesn’t mean he hated his cousin or that he wanted him dead. The person he was trying to destroy was himself. Then, in the physical volume, Shigeru thanks his cousin for his action if that’s the ending he wanted for himself. There’s also that mysterious letter at the end of volume 11 that can be read as a suicide letter… It’s rather strange that, unlike every other supplemental material, this letter never made it into the manga narrative… During these chapters, Oshimi expertly portrays Seiichi, as he grapples with anxiety, paranoia, and a growing sense of detachment from reality, while he vents years of emotional abuse inflicted on him by his mother. It delves deep into the vulnerability of the human mind and the consequences of psychological trauma, how children often justify their parents’ abuse, and feel responsible for it. These chapters left my brain sizzling, and it’s what drove my initial research. Had I been Yasufumi Nakoshi, I would’ve figured it all out on page 11 of the first volume.

     Many readers were as confused as I was, and dropped the manga. To me, the problem with this section was the lack of an established dynamic between Seiichi and his cousin… There’s no obvious payoff from that point of view, because every panel is dedicated to establish Seiichi’s mental breakdown due to his mother’s malignant influence on him. This is the problem with the manga: the part that deals with Seiichi’s connection to Seiko is very well-developed and is examined to the fullest extent, but everything else (his relationship with his cousin, his father and his aunt) kind of falls to the wayside… And this is the moment I ask myself where his editor is to guide him through these moments and to point out these foibles… 

     I didn’t mention Fukiishi before because she’s part of the ‘diary’ portion of the manga. Anyone who has read Drifting Net Cafe will recognize Fukiishi Yuiko, since she’s the mirror image of Kaho Tono. In the last volume of that manga, Oshimi wrote that part of his inspiration was the trauma he felt from his first love. When he was middle school, he fell in love with a girl in the softball team but, due to various reasons, the relationship didn’t last. Oshimi became plagued by the thought that he was unlovable, which generated traumatic emotional turmoil, which in turn, inspired Drifting Net Cafe. Never underestimate the emotional impact of the first love… This, of course, reminds me of the brief romance between Charles Schulz and Donna Johnson, whom he would later immortalize as the ‘Little Red-Haired Girl’ on Peanuts. Fukiishi Yuiko plays the role of ‘Little Red-Haired Girl’ — a symbol of someone these authors loved and couldn’t be with. 

     It’s interesting that in a story like Blood On The Tracks, there’s a character like Fukiishi. She’s the light of hope in the sea of darkness and despair that constantly threatens to swallow Seiichi whole. She stands out, not only for the love she feels for Seiichi and the hope she represents, but also because she’s the type of character that or Shūzō Oshimi considers uninteresting: Fukiishi is a simple, honest person, she says what she means, means what she says, and acts accordingly — she’s a straight shooter. Oshimi doesn’t create many of those characters… I can only think of Gosho from Happiness… For the type of manga that Blood On The Tracks is, Fukiishi’s presence is such a welcomed breath of fresh air (for Seiichi and the audience). Her importance in Seiichi’s life also stems from the fact that his feelings for her are his own; it marks him as an individual, with an existence that stands apart from the process of destruction his mother is inflicting on him. It was his choice to ask her to be his girlfriend. Which is probably why most fans would rather have the manga end in chapter 83, while there was still hope for a better future, while there was still hope that these kids could live for themselves. It’s also why chapters 117 and 118 hurt so much. 

     Maybe we’ll never know how much of Seiichi’s interactions with Fukiishi are rooted in real-life events, but that’s of no importance. The change of pace their interactions bring to the manga is a real lifeline, especially since both kids are risking their lives by being together. Oshimi mentioned trauma before; however, I have a hard time seeing it through their moments together… It all feels more like an homage to simpler, more positive times than anything else. Their love is a beacon of hope in a dark and unforgiving world, illustrating the potential for healing, redemption, and a return to innocence. Fukiishi’s love and positivity offer a poignant counterbalance to the unsettling and intense atmosphere of the manga. Whether or not trauma is still weighing heavily in the author’s heart, what shines through is the sense of genuine affection and connection that Seiichi and Fukiishi share. Their moments together feel like a love letter to the idea that, even in the most challenging circumstances, love and hope can thrive and offer solace. The fact that their relationship doesn't end in a conventional way, such as them being together, doesn’t diminish the impact of their love and hope on the narrative.

     The author wrote the manga in such a way that it would be impossible for the two of them to get together while obeying the rules of the narrative. And I know what you’re thinking: ‘well, he broke the rules before, couldn’t he break them again?’ He could have, but, if he was going to obey the rules, there was no way these kids were getting back together. That’s the reason why chapter 152 is an incredibly realistic and wonderfully nostalgic chapter (not for her husband, because he will have to live in the shadow of a great unfulfilled love), but it is nostalgic for the readers. I feel pretty good about the fact that she's happily married (hopefully, the gentleman is like Sudo from Happiness), but she still has lingering feelings for Seiichi. And, call me romantic, but I don’t think Seiichi forgot about Fukiishi either. If you know anything about this kid is that he never took pleasure in eating anything. He ate out of necessity, except when he was with Fukiishi. In chapter 35, Fukiishi offered him a plate of onigiri she had cooked, and he takes one and eats it with a wide grin. Probably the only time in his life he ever ate something with such gusto… Then, in the final chapter, he takes a tuna-mayo onigiri and eats it. I can’t help but think the two events are related, especially taking into account that Seiichi never shows any enthusiasm over food throughout the narrative. Of course, it’s impossible to confirm that Oshimi deliberately made a reference to Fukiishi when the elderly Seiichi eats that tuna-mayo onigiri, since that food is so omnipresent in Japan, but it seems pretty obvious to me that it could be a call-back to chapter 35. However improbable it might be, it could be seen as a way for the author to imply that, despite the passage of time and the complexities of their lives, Seiichi still carries the memory of Fukiishi and the happiness they shared.

     Maybe I’m giving the author too much credit here. Maybe this thought never occurred to him, and this was nothing but a serendipitous moment in the last chapter. I don’t know much about Oshimi’s writing style: is he a meticulous story planner or does he write more off the cuff like Akira Toriyama? I don’t have the answer for this question, but I can see that the ‘diary’ portion of this manga is better developed than the ‘story’ portion. The fact is that Seiichi’s relationship with his cousin, aunt and father is rather underdeveloped, when compared to his relationship with his mother and with Fukiishi. ‘Write what you know’ as the motto goes. The ‘diary’ portion of this manga has immaculate psychological architecture, which is why I believe this is the best manga Shūzō Oshimi has ever produced. Many people would disagree. After all, lots of folks gave up on this manga right after the time skip. Everything regarding Seiichi’s dynamics with his elderly mother made a lot of people very confused, upset, and outright reluctant to pick up the manga again. Some readers wanted revenge, they wanted a story with cathartic release, and they never got it. The frustrations led many people to close the book for good. It is quite confusing (unless you've been abused). But Seiichi’s behavior is relatively easy to understand. Oshimi’s characterizations are a masterclass in portraying the human psyche. Readers witnessed the gradual erosion of innocence and the emergence of darker, hidden facets of the protagonist’s soul, making him both relatable and unsettling. Blood On The Tracks stands out for its willingness to challenge conventional storytelling norms and embrace psychological realism. While it may not offer the cathartic release some readers seek, it invites contemplation and reflection on the complexities of human relationships and the enduring impact of trauma and abuse.

     Maybe that’s why there’s that line at the end of volume 13 about it being the “end of the preface”… Maybe because Blood On The Tracks isn’t about the total annihilation of a young boy’s soul, rather, it’s about how a young boy, after his soul was annihilated by his mother, lives with the effects of that destruction. Blood On The Tracks is also not about recovery, because Seiichi never recovers from the emotional trauma; he lives with it every day. If Blood On The Tracks was about the process of recovery, the manga wouldn’t have ended in chapter 153… Or there would’ve been another volume after chapter 152. If this manga conformed with storytelling norms, the readers would be rewarded with witnessing Seiichi conquering his identity, finding a companion, having children… That explains why many readers get so frustrated by this manga. However, I believe Oshimi was more interested in exploring the dark side of human nature and the devastating effects of trauma. When we see Seiichi as an old man enjoying his day, enjoying a good book outside, living simple pleasures in life, we can be happy for him. Deep down, we know he hasn’t recovered, and he never will, but he has learned to live with his pain, and he has found a way to survive and make the most of his life as he sees fit. The fact that he can barely remember his mother’s face tells us that the ruthlessness of the abuse she inflicted on him no longer crushes him into a ‘black hole’ of self-loathing and suicidal thoughts. This is the best possible ending, considering Seiichi has no one to help him escape the ‘black hole’ of emotional trauma.

     And this is where the manga contrasts with real life because, supposedly, Shūzō Oshimi is not alone in the world and, therefore, he’s living proof that one can escape the ‘black hole’. But did he? Why would Blood On The Tracks even exist if he had escaped the ‘black hole’?! Do people feel guilty when they read this manga, or is it just me? Because the manga industry is getting groundbreaking work of art, the audience is getting a distinct experience… We’re all reaping the benefits of Oshimi’s “self-therapy” as he calls it. What is he getting in return? He has stated in interviews, and in the afterword of volume 14 that the more he draws the manga, the more he suffers, and the worse his stutter gets. Writing and illustrating this manga as a form of self-mutilation in an attempt to exorcize the trauma… He has stated in interviews, and in the afterword of volume 14, that the more he draws the manga, the more he suffers, and the worse his stutter gets. Writing and illustrating this manga as a form of spiritual ‘self-mutilation’, and an attempt to exorcize the trauma… It’s evident that this creative process takes a toll on him, and has a profound impact on his own well-being. 

     So, how is that a form of self-healing? Is this a necessary step in his healing process? While it may seem counterintuitive that a process that takes a toll on an artist’s well-being can be considered healing, it’s essential to understand that healing is not a linear or straightforward journey. In the volume of Inside Mari that I mentioned before, he describes the moment where his mother kicked him out of the house when he was a toddler. It’s pretty horrific to imagine a childhood like that, but there’s a part where he says “I’m sure stress had been building up inside her”, because, like all victims, he makes excuses for his abuser’s monstrous behavior. The afterword of volume 14 of Blood On The Tracks is, in essence, Seiichi’s emotional journey in the latter part of the manga. Oshimi describes a relentless voice — that he considers to be the voice of his mother inside his head — that keeps him from being happy, and forces him into the ‘black hole’ of misery. His description is that of a man who, according to all societal markers for success, should be happy and fulfilled, but isn’t. 

     He feels like he can’t, that he should never aspire to anything other than misery and suffering. After you’ve done enough research, that stream-of-consciousness confession becomes somewhat easier to understand. He internalized all these negative emotions and his self-loathing and self-doubt are all too apparent and painful to witness, which is all his mother’s fault, because she was supposed to teach him about love and acceptance. The process of writing Blood On The Tracks reminds me very much about that episode of House MD, when House performs surgery on his own leg to remove the tumors. It’s that painful!

     If he intended for the manga to be some kind of revenge on his mother for all the horrible things she did to him, I’m sure there would be easier ways to accomplish this, where he wouldn’t have to put his soul in such danger. But could there be any action that would restitution him? Would there be anything she could do to or say to make him whole again?! In the manga, it becomes apparent that say Seiichi’s peace of mind cannot be given to him by his mother; it’s something he has to do for himself. It’s obvious he’ll never get what he wants out of her, either because she’s a narcissist or because she’s demented. There’s nothing she could do for Seiichi to atone for her sins; he’ll believe whatever scenario makes him feel better. This way, healing and closure are primarily internal processes that Seiichi must undertake for himself. In real life, restitution and closure may not always be achievable through external means, and survivors often have to find their own path to healing and peace, as is depicted in Seiichi’s character arc within the manga.

     In the afterword, Oshimi also says he wants to draw a curse over the audience, but if you ask me, I think he just wants someone to hear his story and validade his experience. If he really wanted to throw his pain around, he would have likely become a mass murderer, like so many others who target total strangers based on their childhood traumas. Instead, he worked on a manga for 6 years of his life, hurting no one but himself in the process. And now, because of what he did, other victims of abuse across the world might find salvation in his work, making him a beacon for positive change. I just pray that he’s looking forward, that he finds emotional support with his family and friends. I pray there is someone to hug him and tell him the abuse he endured as a child wasn’t his fault.

     The author muses over the origin of the voice in his head, and he writes that, if his mother programmed him that way, who programmed his mother? Welcome to the end of the thought process. Evidently, the main theme of blood on the tracks is generational trauma, which he would later explore at length from chapter 130 to 139. Some readers reacted angrily, others felt sorry when they heard Seiko’s story about her life before Seiichi was born. I never thought a sad childhood story gives anyone carte blanche to take their frustrations out on their children, so I don’t really care about Seiko’s sob story. She was the adult and she didn’t do anything to be a better person. She just pushed that responsibility on Seiichi — he was encumbered with the impossible task of making his mother happy. Whether or not Oshimi’s maternal grandmother was the one who started the cycle of abuse is equally irrelevant. The only thing he can do is to actively close the cycle and make sure his children are not victimized.

     In the afterword of the recently published volume 17, Shūzō Oshimi confesses that he drew this manga in order to survive. He made it all the way to the end and the last chapter was very positive for Seiichi. I’m curious to know just how many copies this manga sells worldwide, though my gut tells me that it probably doesn't make a lot of money… It’s not a diss, it’s just the fact that these themes are not family-friendly, so this manga would never sell like Dragon Ball or Fullmetal Alchemist… I hope I’m wrong; I wish it is so successful that it’s paying for Oshimi’s beach house, or his yacht, or something like that, but I have the feeling that the manga that pays the bills is The Flowers Of Evil. Still. 

     I can just hope and pray that Blood On The Tracks has granted its author some long-awaited peace of mind. As for Seiichi Osabe, he is a true hero who embodies the boundless strength of the human spirit. He was plunged into the depths of hell by the person he should’ve trusted the most, and through enduring countless hardships, he taught us that our true strength lies in finding out who we really are. Seiichi's legacy will forever inspire readers to rise above their circumstances and find their own path to self-acceptance and healing, to be authentic and stand tall, no matter what challenges life throws our way. His journey shall never be forgotten.