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As I said in my mission statement/profile bio, the intended aim of this blog is to psychoanalyse the reiatsu out of my love of Bleach and various other Bleach/Japan-related things. I thought a good place to start with this would be to talk about my recent re-reading of Bleach Vol. 40, titled 'The Lust'.
Now, I think it would also be useful to talk about the circumstances which led to this re-reading. I had bought this volume while visiting the London Forbidden Planet for this very purpose. I went in for the one book and left with four (Bleach volumes 25, 32 and 40, along with the second Scott Pilgrim volume - darn you sales!). The emotions that I went through while browsing and buying and in the aftermath, though, were intriguing. For one thing, I got the feeling I always get in Forbidden Planet - a slight feeling of fear and being out of one's depth. However, unlike when I've gone in there before to buy Hellsing volumes or Umbrella Academy comics, I was satisfied that my purchases were to be mainstream enough to be unobjectionable to the staff, whom I am always, always, always sure judge my taste. Yet I felt different when deciding which one to buy. I was talking in what I hoped was a knowledgeable manner to my friend next to me in a bid to look like I belonged there, but inside I felt like ... You know that one bit in Kill Bill Vol. 1? The bit where Uma Thurman's character goes to see Hattori Hanzo and he shows her his collection of swords, and there's that lovely, almost holy music playing in the background and she goes up to the wall of katana in wonderment, yet she hesitates before touching one of them, silently asking the creator's permission?
That is exactly how I felt when looking at those Bleach volumes. It was something else. But then, having chosen and bought the books, I found that I was sweating and felt slightly sick. I was simultaneously feeling overwhelmed by my positive emotions and feeling the same guilty thrill as if I had stolen the stuff.
However, the guilt I felt was explained later when I showed my purchases to my mother, she pronounced it to be 'trash' which wouldn't get me a degree (more on why she's wrong another time, perhaps). I must say I found her choice of word ironic, considering the word to be Ulquiorra Cifer's main catchphrase early in his Bleach appearances.
But, when actually reading the books - just before I fell asleep at night - my feelings were more akin to the Hattori Hanzo scene. It felt like my soul was being fed by something lovely. Strangely, Bleach is one of the few books which I would definitely say I consume as I read - it has that sort of feeling - but it isn't like fast food, tasty but bad for me. Reading Bleach when I'm in the mood makes me feel like all is right with the world. I think the feeling comes from both the beauty of the art (I have never seen a better aesthetic in any other manga) and just that release of watching an honourable fight. Violence in itself is never beautiful - movies like The Expendables show us this - but the idealised violence of Bleach, which can never truly exist in this world, acts as a sort of antidote to my soul's ills, to be taken, not frequently, lest its effects wear thin, but certainly in times of need.
Now, I think it would also be useful to talk about the circumstances which led to this re-reading. I had bought this volume while visiting the London Forbidden Planet for this very purpose. I went in for the one book and left with four (Bleach volumes 25, 32 and 40, along with the second Scott Pilgrim volume - darn you sales!). The emotions that I went through while browsing and buying and in the aftermath, though, were intriguing. For one thing, I got the feeling I always get in Forbidden Planet - a slight feeling of fear and being out of one's depth. However, unlike when I've gone in there before to buy Hellsing volumes or Umbrella Academy comics, I was satisfied that my purchases were to be mainstream enough to be unobjectionable to the staff, whom I am always, always, always sure judge my taste. Yet I felt different when deciding which one to buy. I was talking in what I hoped was a knowledgeable manner to my friend next to me in a bid to look like I belonged there, but inside I felt like ... You know that one bit in Kill Bill Vol. 1? The bit where Uma Thurman's character goes to see Hattori Hanzo and he shows her his collection of swords, and there's that lovely, almost holy music playing in the background and she goes up to the wall of katana in wonderment, yet she hesitates before touching one of them, silently asking the creator's permission?
That is exactly how I felt when looking at those Bleach volumes. It was something else. But then, having chosen and bought the books, I found that I was sweating and felt slightly sick. I was simultaneously feeling overwhelmed by my positive emotions and feeling the same guilty thrill as if I had stolen the stuff.
However, the guilt I felt was explained later when I showed my purchases to my mother, she pronounced it to be 'trash' which wouldn't get me a degree (more on why she's wrong another time, perhaps). I must say I found her choice of word ironic, considering the word to be Ulquiorra Cifer's main catchphrase early in his Bleach appearances.
But, when actually reading the books - just before I fell asleep at night - my feelings were more akin to the Hattori Hanzo scene. It felt like my soul was being fed by something lovely. Strangely, Bleach is one of the few books which I would definitely say I consume as I read - it has that sort of feeling - but it isn't like fast food, tasty but bad for me. Reading Bleach when I'm in the mood makes me feel like all is right with the world. I think the feeling comes from both the beauty of the art (I have never seen a better aesthetic in any other manga) and just that release of watching an honourable fight. Violence in itself is never beautiful - movies like The Expendables show us this - but the idealised violence of Bleach, which can never truly exist in this world, acts as a sort of antidote to my soul's ills, to be taken, not frequently, lest its effects wear thin, but certainly in times of need.
