Born in 1862 in the Austrian Empire (modern day Austria), Klimt became an influential face of the The Vienna Secession (the Viennese variation of the Art Nouveau movement). Klimt has an incredibly recognizable style — one full of vivid color, fervent emotion, warped figures of the female form (often associated with themes of eroticism), and intricate patterns — stemming from his help in the creation of The Vienna Succession. The Maiden displays profound symbolism surrounding the cycles of a woman’s life — specifically themes of fertility and transformation. The subjects of this painting are 6 women huddled closely together, often assumed by galley-goers and art critics to be the stages in a woman’s life. The contrast between the gloomy browns of the background and the lucid colors and shapes of the women are not only true to Klimt’s personal style, but also true to the message this painting is conveying. The innocence of the women is shown is the gentle fluidity of their bodies and the intimacy in which they hold each other. Gustav Klimt, though incredibly controversial (as much of his work is overtly sexual in nature) while he was alive, is now one of the most treasured artists of the Art Nouveau movement.

Compared with the book, the novel relies more on internal thoughts, fear, psychological tension, and the horror of what the walk represents. The movie transforms that internal dread into physical horror. You see the actual violence rather than just imagine it.

Where the film does this well is by making you care about the characters: you meet them, learn a little about who they are, and once they start dying it hits. Still, the movie sometimes feels more brutal than necessary. At least to me, some scenes are so graphic they feel more like horror than a dystopian drama. Overall the pros of this movie definitely outweigh the cons, and I would recommend giving it a watch!

What makes the short worthy of the weirdness of Adult Swim, and my attention, is not the music, but the visuals. The uncomfortably sensual claymation, 3D models, and strained animated close ups, all make the feelings evinced more raw, even truthful, explaining common fears that might befall someone as they struggle with living life to the fullest. 

The story opens first with the song Shop, mostly just an introductory jingle. Then we see the speaker very intensely deliberating over the choice of sampling strawberry or vanilla yogurt. He leaves to think it over some more while he shops, beginning with milk. An old woman in a wheelchair and hooked up to a breathing machine asks him to retrieve “pecan” for her. He first grabs pecan cookies, to which she retorts: “no, pecan!” He then tells her she should try them sometime, and she says she will another time. There is then an extreme closeup on her face, and she disappears when the main character turns back around. The closeup serving to highlight her proximity to death with characteristics of old age: excessive face wrinkling, a large, differently colored nose and eyelids, and the exaggerated inflating and deflating of her body. Her vanishing to symbolize how sudden death is. The main character then finds the milk to be expired, and the song Milk proceeds with imagery of milk cartons and utters, but also houses, everyday objects, and photos of  the milk going on excursions, stressing the fact that, despite its now non-existence, it lived like everyone does. But, in the end, it thought it had more time and was deprived the simple experience of something new.

The main character then moves on to pick up bread. Another man reaches past him to grab a haughty sounding loaf of Artisanal Multigrain 12 Grain Nut Vitamin Bread. The speaker asks him if it is “good sandwich bread,” to which the other man corrects “this is for my dog.” He then says he must get going to get to the Antique Walnut Auction downtown, and the main character ponders the word "artisanal” while launching into song. The song is about appearances, there are clay renderings of an artisanal wife, car, and friends, but ultimately the speaker decides he would rather be truly known than liked because wealth and novelty are not always guaranteed. The imagery while he sings is dreamlike and unreal, the faces of what he considers to be artisanal are mangled, and when it all leaves, he is literally, and figuratively, naked. By the end signifying that material possessions and other’s opinions  really carry no substance when considering who someone is as a person.

After the main character picks up a store brand loaf of bread, he moves on to retrieve paper towels. There, a glass jar falls and shatters on the floor. A teenage employee of the store kneels to clean it up, and cuts himself. The main character asks him if he is okay, remarking that he is bleeding, and the employee replies: “yeah… Don’t worry, it's just mine.” The employee then begins a monologue about how the glass broke instantly, and will take an unequal amount of time to put back together. The main character begins to ask where the paper towels are, and the employee tells him aisle 8, but the more you use, “the bigger mess you make.” This begins the song Mess. The visuals within the song contain infinity symbols, splatters, and hands with uncomfortably long fingers. The resulting conclusion is that tragedy is uncontrollable and everpresent, but the speaker finds he is okay with that, reconciling that it can be very freeing when you let go of control.

The main character then decides on a product called Rago, a rag, ironically stating that “there’s no downside to mass-producing these.” Continuing on to look for oatmeal, he runs into a man who has planned his entire life out, and who loses a certain food for every moment more he stays to talk to the main character. When he leaves in a panic, the main character turns back to the oatmeal shelf and realizes it is so cheap, he could eat oatmeal for every meal the rest of his life. The visualization of the speaker sleeps in the oatmeal, goes to his “oatmeal job,” brushes his teeth with it, pervading every aspect of his life. But then, the unexpected, what does not fit into routine. He concludes that the ability to adapt is more comfortable without routine, and thus realizes how unfounded his anxieties in not having to choose are. So makes a compromise and chooses Oatmeal: Mystery Flavor.

Then, while shopping for coffee, he meets another storegoer. A woman who verbally corners him,  rambling about how she can not live without coffee and the new flavors the store has. Halfway through her monologue, she falls asleep standing up and the main character has to lift her tumbler of  coffee to her lips. All this, until she realizes she forgot to pick her son up from daycare. She then mumbles that she needs a refill and leaves, sparking the seventh song. Coffee is about coffee addiction, but also addiction at large. It features coffee cups with a human mouth, personifies the flavors the speaker drinks, and makes very deliberate connections between livelihood and coffee, with the shape of a cup beating like a heart within the main character's stomach. Finally, the main character decides that he would rather quit coffee than find out if it was an addiction later and picks up decaf coffee. This all highlights how, within addiction or even anything remotely close, it is usually better to abandon the vice all together than to determine if it was foggily bettering your quality of life.

The somewhat unserious last song themed around a food on the main character’s grocery list is Cheese. This time, no one talks to him, he only comes upon a shelf of cheese so tall you cannot see the top, and looks, mouth agape.  He begins pushing a shopping cart through aisles labelled with the stages of grief, singing puns and feeling the emotions of whatever aisle he is in. The aisle is dark and as he ponders choice, asserting his belief that it would be impossible to choose a cheese. The song is about the despair that ensues when putting too much weight in your decisions, and the freedom that comes after realizing it will be okay. So, he reaches out and picks up a hunk of Dairy Free Maple Coconut Water Cheese, and remarks; “I could've picked something better than that.” This starts the last song, Finale.

Finale tells the viewer to trust themself, accept the shortness and inevitability of life, and chiefly, enjoy it. It sums up all the previously expressed anxieties of the main character, and even if its few sentences will not cure a lifetime of disorder, its words are true. The natural combination of intimacy and awkwardness in  Jack Stauber’s visual artistry and how it approaches the themes present make the short film worthy of attention. I find that self expression is made too safe for consumption much of the time, and although Stauber’s work here still is, it also catches the viewer off guard sometimes. It is not the end all be all representation of how we live, it is not crude enough, not personal or global enough, but I do not come back to view it semiannually for that. It is simply a fun watch, set relatably and hilariously around one man’s extreme concern for everything, and the eccentric characters he meets.

 Books like Fourth Wing, If He Had Been With Me, The Red Queen, and The Summer I Turned Pretty are examples from this subset that aren’t quite up to standard. While they may have their fun moments and allow for a simple, fast-paced escape from reality, their concepts tend to closely follow those of books published years before them. Their characters can be irksome, and even lack…character. For example, Mare from Red Queen was probably the most wishy-washy character whose head I ever had the misfortune to be inside. One second, she loved Maven, then Cal, then hated them both. She accepted death, decided to fight, wanted to remember and forget and so on and so forth. It’s either a very dramatic version of the duality of man (two characters in one!) or just plain bad writing. For example, on page 219, “Maybe it’s the darkness, or maybe it’s the dance. He seems like he did when I first met him; not a prince but a person.” But then, literally a few pages later, “As much as his [Cal’s] presence makes my skin crawl, I have to endure it.” (P.321). Jeez. 

On the other hand, books like The Song of Achilles, Once Upon a Broken Heart, Inheritance Games, and A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder are shining examples of works that have an intriguing plot, are well written, and were difficult for me to put down. The banter in Inheritance Games is amazing, and in Song of Achilles, the poetic way Madeline Miller writes adds to the depth of the feelings of her characters. They are obviously not without these faults, but any issues in books like these aren’t enough to hinder the narrative or to send you back to reality. 

So, long story short, take what people say with a grain of salt. Maybe go to a bookstore and read the first few pages of a book yourself. Look for books that aren’t just the featured, popular ones. Or go on Google and check the ratings of a book. Or, I suppose you could just read them all for the heck of it.

Written and directed by Robert Rodriguez, the general premise of the film focuses on how the creator of a children’s TV show called Floop’s Fooglies has been secretly capturing agents from the Organization of Super Spies, OSS, and mutating them into his TV creatures. Meanwhile, the genius behind the show, Mr. Minion, has been building a robot army of child clones who need “The Third Brain,” an AI supercomputer with all of OSS’s spy knowledge, in order to obtain full, world destroying abilities. Carmen and Juni’s parents, Gregorio and Ingrid Cortez, are sent on a mission to stop Floop and Mr. Minion but are unsuccessful until their children show up with their new spy skills and gadgets. 

I can’t remember the first time I watched the original Spy Kids movie. To me, this 2001 epic piece of filmmaking is the perfect combination of absurdism and adventure. The set design and props is what really stands out to me every time I watch the movie; high-tech (for the time) trinkets and doo-dads stand out in every scene: the mom’s makeup-desk-turned-spy-computer, the instant McDonalds burger-maker in the safe house, the incredible hand-throne in the main room of Floop’s fortress. Every inch of every set is so expertly thought out and contributes immensely to the traits of characters and moods of the scenes.

And then, of course, there are the hauntingly clownish, almost gruesome Fooglies. These transformed spies are the brainchildren of Floop’s childlike imagination. Squashed heads, buckteeth, jester costumes, eerie smiles, and rainbow-colored skin, Fooglies are the stuff of fever dreams. And they speak backwards. Which makes the theme song to the fictional TV show even creepier since the spies in the Fooglie disguise are really yelling “Floop is a madman, help us, save us,” when to the general public it sounds like squeaky gibberish. 

The message of this Spy Kids movie is essentially that of how when a family sticks together they can accomplish amazing things. At the beginning of the story, Carmen and Juni looked down on their parents and had their own issues with self-image. Ingrid and Gregorio believed they were too old to continue their careers as spies and that their kids were embarrassed of them. In the end, the family is brought closer together by saving one another from an evil scientist and protecting the world from an army of angry robot children. Even Floop turns out to have simply wanted a group of people he could call family.

This painting is set in a Russian Church and shows an old man marrying a young woman. The bride looks pale and her eyes are red and cast downward. The flowers in her hair and dress are not yet blossomed. Her wrist is limp and she holds the candle, not caring if it falls. Her hand is raised with reluctance and her posture is slouched slightly. In contrast, the candle and the groom stand proud and upright. He watches his young bride closely. Two elderly women look at him with an air of disapproval. The painter also included himself in painting. His arms are crossed as he looks at the groom with disgust. No one in this claustrophobia-inducing church is pleased about this wedding. Apparently, after being exhibited, the painting had such a large effect that elderly men refused to marry young women. It is rumored to reflect a real experience lived by the painter or by one of his friends. 

Most chapters of This is How You Lose the Time War switch the point of view back and forth between Red and Blue. The Time War is between the Agency and the Garden. The Agency is an industrial and futuristic hive-mind, where humans have merged with machines. The Garden is a single consciousness embedded in all plants and organic matter. 

The main parts of the story are told in letters exchanged between Red and Blue. At first, the letters are antagonistic but curious about the other side of the Time War. Over time, both in the past and future, the letters became more and more personal–and more dangerous if their superiors were to find out.

The writing can be confusing, and there's parts at the beginning that make zero sense until the end, but I love the way it’s written. It gives just enough information to make the reader curious about what the Time War is, what Red and Blue are, and how all the time travel happens. I’m a bit biased as I love the way it uses letters as both a way to see into the characters mind and as a way to progress the plot, but I truly do think it’s worth a read. The ending made perfect sense to me, and looking back there was a lot of foreshadowing that I now appreciate.

The world building is also beautiful, the author creating a whole new universe and observing the different ways history could have changed, yet also connecting it to Earth’s own history.

I really enjoyed reading this book, so I’d give This is How You Lose the Time War 5 Cresties for its storytelling abilities and unique structure.

The writing is arresting. Vonnegut is a master at choosing scenes that are interesting, relevant, and cohesive. As such, many details from the first half of Mother Night again become relevant at the end of it.

The book is also, at times, deeply and darkly funny. Still, Mother Night does not downplay or excuse what Campbell did as a Nazi. I, personally, am often skeptical of morally gray stories, because I find that they often try to excuse the harm done by the characters. Mother Night does not do that. It is this lack of excuse that allows it to work as a story about gray morality. Consequently, the book appropriately deals heavily with anti-Semitism, Nazism, and regimes.

The characters are expertly crafted. A great deal of them are horrible people, but all of them are flawed and so, so human. The pacing, too, is excellent. The story unwinds, steadily unhurried, for the first two thirds of the book. It is in the last third of Mother Night that Vonnegut drops revelation after revelation. Here, the story, though still measured, begins to gain a sense of urgency. Similarly, it is in the last third of the book that Vonnegut finally feels compelled to answer, in the most astounding yet fitting way possible, the driving question: is Howard W. Campbell guilty?

Written and illustrated by Junji Ito, Uzumaki is a fantastic piece of literature, similar to Ito's other works. The story mainly follows Kirie Goshima, a Japanese student living in a town called Kurouzu. Some of the chapters focus on the people around her, which adds to the world building and believability of this story (even though the events happening are supernatural). Although some (most) of this 3-volume story was downright disgusting and made my stomach turn, it ultimately advanced the plot in meaningful ways and expertly demonstrated the struggles and frustrations of the protagonist.

Throughout the story, the people of Kurouzu gradually become increasingly obsessed with spirals. At first, the obsession only manifests in the town’s nature, as curly grass and whirlpools in waterways start to draw Kirie’s attention. However, strange events keep happening and spirals always seem to be in the center of them, leading curious onlookers around and around in circles (eventually in a literal sense). Junji Ito’s storytelling is incomparable to any other author, as he has a distinct method of conveying the twisted rules of his worlds in a way that strangely compels the reader to not look away.

I would advise that if you have a weak stomach or don’t like body horror, you probably wouldn’t have an amazing experience reading this book, but I recommend Uzumaki nonetheless.

The titular Penelope, who is intelligent and lonely, is interesting enough. However, where the characters really shine is not in Penelope but in Penelope’s description of others. There’s Eurycleia, who helps Penelope adjust to living in Ithaca but is more loyal to Odysseus and, later, their son Telemachus. There’s Penelope’s mother, a flighty naiad; Helen, egotistical, beautiful and condescending; and Odysseus, who is cunning and lying and whose exploits are never clearly defined as either godly or mortal. There are, of course, the maids, whose voices shine through in periodic interludes written in verse.

The maids’ deaths by Odysseus and Telemachus are central to the plot, although the maids themselves are only present in the second half of the story. The other characters, when described by critical Penelope, are severely flawed. The maids, though, according to Penelope, are sweet and loyal. Similarly, Penelope is unwilling to be as critical of herself. Throughout the beginning and middle of the story, she is witty enough to cover her own flaws. I especially liked her portrayal of ancient Greece. Ancient Greece, in modern retellings especially, is often sanitized or weighed against modern ideals, but The Penelopiad deals with the ugly parts while acknowledging the cultural norms. However, it is the maids’ interludes that give voice to their anger, their pain, and their humanity. It is the maids’ interludes that build up to the fact that Penelope, for all her self-professed perfection, is just as flawed as the people she dislikes. Then again, who among us isn’t?

First things first. I have never been to a concert until this year, partly because I have never heard a band that I wanted to see in person. That changed three years ago when I discovered Vampire Weekend. This was the first year they came to Chicago since I started listening to them and I really appreciated being in a major city because they were playing two nights which doubled my chance of being able to go (I was not able to go the first night). In addition, their new album “Only God was Above Us” has some of my favorite songs. Ezra (the lead) must have read my mind since he sang Mary Boone, Capricorn and Step, which were the songs I most hoped to hear that night. I was surrounded by people who all knew and loved Vampire Weekend, a welcome change from the blank stares I normally receive whenever I mention them. It was exciting to be part of a crowd of fans with Vampire Weekend t-shirts, hats and bags who knew every word to every song. I loved how the band interacted with the crowd the whole night, letting us sing parts of a chorus and giving us their appreciation of Chicago. 

I had a blast, but that did not come without some grievances. Because I try to be on time to events (some people would say even too early) I would have liked a heads up that the actual concert would not start until 8:30. My friend and I arrived promptly at 6:30 which was the time stamped on the ticket and we had to kill two hours. That said, there was an upside to this as there was no line to get into the venue or to the merch stand (I’m happy to say I got my first Vampire Weekend t-shirt that day). I also got to hear the band Ra Ra Riot and comedian Maya Rudolph (Judge Gen from The Good Place, one of my all-time favorite TV series) as opening acts. With more time to kill we set off on the quest to find something to drink. This turned out to be more difficult than I had anticipated as literally the only drinks that were being sold were alcoholic. News alert, Northerly Island: I’m only 17! Luckily my friend is very tall and was able to see a lonely Sprite at the very bottom shelf of one stand. Sprite in hand, the concert was finally about to begin. It was at this point that I was forced to comprehend that I was surrounded by 17,000 people and 106 giant speakers (trust me, I counted). To some people, a loud and crowded place is heaven, but I am a person who gets overwhelmed very easily in this particular situation. In preparation I had made sure to wear my most noise-canceling set of earplugs and would like to give a shout out to Loop ear plugs since they made my Vampire Weekend experience for the most part tolerable (although next time I’ll probably wear headphones). 

Despite these few sour notes, I could not have asked for a better first concert. I got to see my favorite band live, sit in amazing seats where I could see the stage standing or sitting (given that I’m only 4’9” that’s saying a lot), and spend quality time with a good friend. 

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, to put it simply (because I will not put any effort into giving this book a fair chance at success) tells the story of Monique, a biracial woman who interviews Evelyn Hugo towards the end of her life. Evelyn recounts her many husbands and her one true love, her colleague, Celia. 

Hailed as a holy grail of sapphic fiction and representation in contemporary literature, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is a fine example of why the act of reading or writing novels is not an indicator of intelligence. Not only is the plot unrealistic, poorly written, and full of unlikeable characters, but this book fails to accomplish what it is often praised for: an engaging story about a well-developed sapphic romance. The main pair, Celia and Evelyn are absolutely horrible to one another, with their starving chemistry being completely composed of paragraphs of physical descriptions (often containing the word “thin” and “slim”) and the character’s monologues of how “utterly gorgeous” the other is. Their constant toxicity and vileness towards one another should not be upheld as the pinnacle of sapphic representation. It seemed as if a romance between two women to Reed can only be dictated by the male gaze, with no other sustenance. This felt more like a sexualization of sapphic love, rather than a celebration of it.

In addition, every character, including men, who the audience is supposed to root for, is described as being “beautiful” and “skinny,” while clear antagonists or the villain of the hour being “pudgy” and labeled unattractive. While these descriptions are acceptable as an occasional occurrence, they become questionable when it is the author’s only way of denoting a protagonist and antagonist. The obsession with weight and body image in this book is incredibly unnecessary, with both Evelyn and Monique mentioning their fear of their bodies changing after giving birth and going through a heartbreak respectively. Although this could be used to discuss and reflect toxic body standards, the book never follows through with this lens. It most likely was not intentional, but this casual mention of negative body standards in women only serves to normalize these harmful thoughts. 

Reed should win an award for the most types of botched diversity, for in addition to the horrid diversity in body type and sexuality, she manages to also disgrace people of color. While the quote mentioned should satisfy the explanation for the writing of Monique’s character, Evelyn is another (perhaps even more severe) case of Reed’s careless view of representation. Evelyn is a Cuban immigrant, who bleached her hair in order to pass as a white person. Aside from Reed’s painful and highly unwarranted attempt at writing about the immigrant experience, she also whitewashes Evelyn to the point where her fancasts for a live-action movie feature white actresses. There was absolutely no reason for Reed to write a Hispanic main character while also whitewashing her. It may be argued that this was the only way to become successful during the time (1900s), but Reed does nothing to show that this mentality and behavior should not be promoted. Even when Evelyn meets an openly Hispanic woman, she views her as inferior and does nothing to show she is interested in her culture. 

This book is regarded as the pinnacle of fictional diversity? Absolutely not. 

To be sure, diversity can and should be written into every source of literature. However, diversity can quickly become problematic when a white and straight author is speaking about the biracial or immigrant experience, as if she has personally experienced it or is capable of offering an authentic voice on the matter. It is even more disappointing that someone who is more systemically privileged is being rewarded and seen as the epitome of representation for racial minority groups and the LGBTQ community over someone who is a genuine member of these groups.

For actual (good) sapphic representation, Adrienne Tooley cannot be recommended enough. Not only is she a phenomenal writer in her own right, but her stories focus on well-developed relationships between women, with actual chemistry and likable characters. Unlike Reed, Tooley is fully aware of her strengths and caters to them, rather than attempting to be an author she is not. The only accomplishment Reed has made with this book is giving me free fire kindling and enough spite to last me a decade.

In this parallel universe her mother and father are better and give her everything she wants. But as the movie continues she begins to find it suspicious. Coraline goes on a journey through this world and learns that there is more than what the eye can see.  Overall, the lesson that can be learned from this movie is that you should never take things for granted. Watching Coraline is like recalling a strange yet magical dream. A world of circus mice, talking cats and magical gardens overwhelms the audience with awe. Although many people say that this movie is too scary, I believe that the elements of horror complement the comforting and warm tones that are sprinkled throughout the film.

 You Might Have Seen Them, my favorite of his creations, is a collection of his short stories that make up part of a project called the Hypnagogic Archive. The archive, which can be found at hypnagogicarchive.neocities.org, is an amazing work of storytelling disguised as a place to find artifacts of the old days of the internet. If you go through the archive you’ll find stories and videos about cults, haunted gas stations, undead herons, and more, but if you look closer, you can see that many of these stories have the same characters in them. A selfish girl who would do anything to get her way, including murder. A woman on a VHS tape that makes you wonder where your world ends and hers begins. A guy with a bad haircut that ruthlessly collects all the media he can in order to achieve his goals. After combing through the archive, you begin to see the true story of the project. The most impressive part, however, is the fact that they don’t need to be put together. Almost every story contained in the Hypnagogic Archive can be taken out of context and enjoyed just as much. Even if there was no overarching narrative, the archive would still be a testament to Sequeira’s skill as a writer by showing just how many unique and high-quality stories he can put out. I highly recommend that you take a look through the archive yourself, and if you feel moved by it, buy a copy of You Might Have Seen Them like I did, or buy the shorter Tales From The Void that is coming out soon. If you just want to read through the hypernarrative, you can read Oxide of the Void, The Persecuted Accountants, Requiem for Steve, Chloe: Final Thoughts, Evening Meeting, Joyce, Ellis: Final Thoughts, and Shelby: Final Thoughts, but I encourage you to take a deeper dive. I’m sure you’ll find something worth your time.

I read Look Back originally a couple years ago, because I was a fan of Fujimoto’s series, Chainsaw Man, a popular shonen manga and anime. I felt entranced by the way he tells stories, and wanted to see more of his work. His comics are heavily inspired by cinema, and they feel like movies themselves, which is probably why they adapt so well. The Look Back movie adaptation came out a couple months ago, and even though I have sort of gotten out of my anime and manga phase, I decided to watch it. 

The story follows a girl named Fujino, and her friendship with another girl, Kyomoto. It starts out when they are in 4th grade, and Fujino is renowned as the “class artist” for her funny comic strips in the school paper, but is challenged by the homeschooled kid, Kyomoto, who does pro-level illustrations. She starts practicing more and more, not wanting to be surpassed. At the end of the 6th grade, Fujino has to deliver a diploma to Kyomotos house, where she finds out that Kyomoto is a huge fan of hers. The pair then team up to create comics together, and they grow up together as well. 

I’m going to stop here in my summary because I truly cannot do this manga justice, I cannot recommend it to anyone enough. 

Tatsuki Fujimoto’s art is beautiful in this manga. His drawings themselves, while they are not technical masterpieces, convey so much emotion in them. There is one scene, early on in the story, after Fujino finds out Kyomoto admired her, where she is walking home in the rain. The walking turns into running, which turns into dancing, and there is a full two page spread of her running and dancing in the pouring rain. There are so many scenes like this in this story, that allow a deeper look into how the characters are feeling. The emotion shone through bounces off the page, and it is truly beautiful to look at. The expressions he draws on the characters, from judgement to nervousness to shocking, debilitating grief show so much emotion and humanity. 

There is so much humanity in this story, and its central theme surrounding why we create art is deeply explored throughout. “Then why do you draw, Fujino?” Kyomoto asks this question at the end of the story, in a flashback where Fujino is complaining about the process of making manga. There is no answer given through words, only pictures. These pictures show all the times in the story that the two worked together, the two laughed together, the two explored together, and the two created together. In my opinion, the answer that Fujimoto gives for the reason of creation is love. Love for the craft, love for another, love for the world and what you put out into it. 

Well, I’m assuming here you haven’t read it, but even if you have, here’s the main plotline:

Winston Smith is a man living in (maybe?) 1984, but even he isn’t aware of the true year. He lives in Great Britain, now called Airstrip One in a post-capitalist society governed by The Party, which follows the principles of Ingsoc, or English Socialism. Ingsoc is in fact not English nor socialist, but a doctrine of the unitary authoritarian Marxist-Lenist state, otherwise known as dictatorship. The Party goes about enforcing its tyrannical rule through mass surveillance, secret police, revising history, and rallies in support of the Party. Winston navigates this dystopia by keeping an illegal journal, downing gin, and later on having an illicit relationship with a coworker. However, when he eventually gets tired of the Party and tries to join the rumored, underground opposition known as the Brotherhood (in ironic reference to Big Brother, the figurehead of the Party), Winston receives a copy of a manifesto that explains the global situation.

In summary, this manifesto adds detail to the setting, but primarily serves to realize the immense feeling of dread and desolation the current world order imposes on its citizens. It’s at this point in the novel that, in my opinion, the rest of the story is mostly irrelevant and most of the meaning has been delivered.

Because from here on out, Winston follows the path you’d expect him to: he is brainwashed into genuinely believing the ideology of the Party. He is then released for a limited time before his undated public execution, where he dilutes his trauma with gin. However, before a “bullet is placed” in the back of Winston’s head, a military victory announcement results in a final, true shift in belief for him, culminating in the iconic line: “He loved Big Brother.”

Apart from being a great book with countless metaphors, complex layers, and a myriad of issues where 1984 was ahead of its time, 1984 is REAL. Feel like you’re in a monotonous machine? Validated. Can’t speak your truth? He can’t either. Swamped with endless work but minimal free time, or even a lack of things to do in your free time? Winston gets it. The ending resonates deeply with any sympathizers of the previous sentiments, those losing rights, and honestly many people in today’s world. It feels crushing, that the Party was absolutely unresponsive to all attempts at liberation, silencing each and every one with torture and death. For many of us, it seems like a deep parallel to the current world order and its lack of rapid and effective change.

But there’s always hope. Before the mid-1800s, even men weren’t able to vote, and look at us now: nationwide voting regardless of sex or race! This isn’t to say there isn’t more work to do, but we’ve done it before and we can do it again. Losing the battle doesn’t mean losing the war, and keeping in touch with the status quo while also actively questioning it will keep you educated and aware. Much like in the world of 1984, there are always going to be forces with malicious intent (where most of the parallels drawn come from), and all you can do is fight back in any way you can.