I really can't fathom why 'dystopian' was chosen as a descriptor for this novel. Certainly, a lot of the overall notes hidden in Tawada's writing can be viewed as dystopian in nature. However, you would have to be a fool to insist that Tawada's inclusion of these factors is for an explicit purpose as such.

Tawada's work here is the effective sublimation of a dystopia, passing on so quickly from its horrible world to something, somewhere else that the word carries no meaning. Mumei might have to endure a terrible battle with breakfast every morning— full of suffering and challenge— but that cannot rob him of his joy and curiosity in life. Yoshiro may see his family wilt away in front of him, with his fragile great-grandson being all that's left, but the delicate little creature brings him an indescribable amount of joy.

It's something so much more tender and careful than just dystopian fiction, something that enforces this environment to tell a story that could only exist within it. In a sense, it might be the most correct to call The Emissary something along the lines of a Tragicomedy. Humor exists, oddity is abound, and creativity flows from every crack; but just like Mumei reflects a dark abyss of worry and fright in Yoshiro, so does this story within us.

I think ultimately, Thuận's Elevator in Saigon is equally too short and too lengthy to succeed at what it wants to. With its limited page count, it can struggle to effectively deliver all the various workings of Asian diaspora and experience, fumble with its more satirical theatrics of sociopolitical discussion, and rely too heavily on directly worded excerpts to get the point across.

On the other hand, it is only by the halfway point of the book that you begin to understand what Thuận is really aiming for. The initial hook is rather riveting, but it quickly pivots into a series of scenery, time periods, and protagonists. With only 192 pages, and a story that hungers for more, these changes don't execute well on the concept that I believe Thuận was aiming for— a slow progression through an obsession as a way to process grief.

If you pick apart the pieces of the novel— isolating them into their individual aspects— Thuận's narrative at a conceptual level is quite effective; the framing of grief, wealth and humanity, historical politics and so on do well with the initial catalyst of the novel. However, when sewn together the final product is much too loud and uncoordinated to be able to effectively convey these sentiments. You will be left wondering why we need seemingly random scenes with our protagonist until you're able to have the dots connected, purely because Thuận chooses to revisit and re-contextualize them. This does not occur with every oddity and loose end, however, which presents a difficult angle of perspective for what exactly some of these moments are included for.

I wouldn't necessarily say I disliked reading Elevator in Saigon. Thuận's prose itself can be quite fun and engaging, but the story itself struggles to find a solid shape and purpose. Does it want to extol on the difficulties of the prior generations under separate and challenging political management? Does it wish to examine the various, and typically strained, relationships of family members split across wealth and world alike? Does it wish to playfully poke at a fun and slightly absurd romp around the city of love? All of the above exist in some context here, but Thuận can't seem to pick which to pursue. The result: an enjoyable but disjointed and awkward read that leaves you with little of a conclusion and an equal amount of satisfaction.

Three novellas, three perspectives, and three conclusions that remain equally violent, surprisingly. I think Laura Van Der Berg's foreword can help with digesting these short stories, to a degree, but that it similarly forces the reader away from the greater purpose that Ogawa posits here.

In a sense, yes, these three women all exist on the exterior of their lives, but it's more important to understand from where they choose to perch, and which pieces of the detritus and grunge that they elect to examine and peck at like vultures. Each woman chooses a different perspective— a rather obvious conclusion— but all find themselves focused on the concept of family; a static being that slowly changes shape and form in front of them in ways that they cannot come to terms with. The concept of a family is a monstrous and unknown existence which, in equal parts, taunts and terrorizes these three character. How a girl exists in an orphanage while not being an orphan herself. How a woman must contest with something else controlling and affecting her sister. How a wife must come to grips with uprooting her life and giving up the familiarity of her existence.

The three stories focus a great deal on how these voyeurs can manage to cope when their position, safely seated outside of first-hand experience, begin to deteriorate their desires and interests (without their permission). So, while Van Der Berg's introduction understands a portion of their relationships with life, it neglects the most important connections. It also drones on with passages from the novella's themselves. A pet peeve of mine, to say the least (thanks to the writing habits of my younger self).

Regardless of Van Der Berg's influence on your potential readings of the... read, Ogawa's work still feels effortlessly blunt, hiding the sharpest of tools in-between the characters, lines, and letters of these stories. On the surface, they are undeniably perverse affairs that have their own allure as intriguing and undeniably unique reads, but taking the time to pick apart the smaller moments and meditate on why Ogawa has done what they have will lead you to much more rewarding and connected conclusions.

Of the three, I felt like Dormitory was the easiest to dissect for meaning and value, while Pregnancy Diary didn't deliver a great deal that felt novel(la). The Diving Pool was by far the most intriguing of the trio, pushing the limits of a palatable read, but still conveying the most off-color and damning scenario of the three.

Obviously, a very great (and easy) read.

While not quite the highs of the first volume, Nihei manages the dialogue here in far better fashion than the second volume. A hard feat to explain without spoilers, but I think having passed the "setup" phase for this narrative arc, Nihei's visual capabilities are able to soar with the absurd ideas that seem almost recklessly strewn across the page. A feat of science fiction as old as time, wherein each twist and turn demands your curiosity. Plenty of fun potential through the middle-to-back sections of this omnibus.

A step down from the prior volume, purely for the narrative that begins to ensue. Blame! still remains a great and intensely intriguing read, but struggles to reconcile the honing of its narrative vehicle with the scale with which Kyrii's mission operates.

The inclusion of color pages, though, is incredible. It immediately highlights Nihei's detail with palpable emotion; scale is not necessarily removed from the equation, but a considerable force overrides it with how grim the blues are, how antagonizing the reds can be— the megastructure slowly begins to rise from the shadows and prove with startling fright to its inhabitants that a soul may lurk in it somewhere.

All in all, I'm still quite infatuated, and I wouldn't think this step down any more (or perhaps even less) than I expected. I think you can see where Nihei wishes to have done things differently in this volume, but I don't think that affects the overall allure of this story.

I'm not really sure how to justify my being late to Blame!, truthfully. Evidently, I have a terrible habit of holding off on series that will absolutely be up my alley, but even then this delay feels painful. Perhaps I was a little off-put by Nihei's more contemporary works, but Blame! truly feels like a sublime cyberpunk-grunge-dark-future to explore.

By and far the highest praise ultimately comes down to Nihei's desire— hardly even necessity in the case of this manga— to remove rational and linear dialogue. Much like the city that ceaselessly expands without reason, so does Kyrii's journey to find the net terminal gene. The world immediately presents as something so unfathomable and dense that you simply must let it and its megastructures wash over you. A very simple feat given Nihei's artistic talent. They manage their megastructures with such incredible size and scope in a way that makes me reminiscent of Q Hayashida's artwork throughout Dorohedoro and Dai Dark.

Outside of the context of art and dialogue however, I wouldn't say there's much else to add. Nihei does allow a story to arise, albeit through countless fractured engagements, but that's not truly the draw of this manga. In essence, I would argue that there are two avenues for such a story to pursue: the pointed and purposeful narrative of inequality and striation that technology and power inherently produce, and the absolute limits of human cognition and society. The former must remain at the minimum a vestige of modern humanity, but the latter... rather than sky being the limit, it more so feels like it is the most base requirement. A concept which Nihei, in his first manga back in 1997, has grasped incredibly well.

Japan being the pinnacle of Cyberpunk and Dark-Future storytelling from the 90s well into the 2000s still remains an ironic statement. One that I will gladly accept for truth, but still remains comical given the yellow peril-esque origins of cyberpunk's popularity.

An incredibly strong showing from Dazai as a debut (published) work. It's "stream of consciousness" approach is perfect for the themes of growth, uncertainty, grief, and many others that the schoolgirl projects as if frozen in that single day.

While undoubtedly carrying the more depressive and grim existence of Dazai, Schoolgirl forms an opinion surprisingly more separate from the rest of Dazai's body of works in spite of some of their similarities. In particular, its message presented as a monologue at the end of the novel retains an impressively positive spin from the author.

In between its opening and ending, Dazai fits all manner of critique and irony, ranging from implicit discussion of sexism and its perpetrators (a commendable feat for the 30s in Japan) to a disapproving nod to Japanese Imperialism; the schoolgirl dances with uncertainty through her usual moments in a way that feels as though she specifically caters them to the reader.

An impossibly short read for the value that Dazai imparts, Schoolgirl remains an emotional roller coaster that still manages a valuable and relatable message while getting close to being a century old. While it's far from the greatest heights of Dazai's works, this short novella is something that I still hold in high regard and close to my chest.