Have you ever heard Toru Takemitsu? He was a Japanese composer. I sometimes listen to his music while writing, like right now.
Japan has a really interesting take on science fiction. Sure, it can be cheesy as hell: giant robots with swords fighting kaiju. But there’s another kind, a more haunting, philosophical kind. The one that keeps me awake, writing.
A lot of Western science fiction asks what a new technology, a visitation from aliens, or some unexpected event would do to humanity. But in some of the most interesting Japanese science fiction, the question is different: what kind of worlds make humanity even possible, and what kind, do not?
I’m not talking about something as simple as extinction, the multiplication of the individual dead. I’m talking about something harder to define: What makes a human being human?
In much of Western fiction, the person is the individual. The protagonist. A self-contained thing, bouncing through the world.
But in some Japanese works, the self feels more like a process than an object. Something that happens, rather than something that simply exists. Something shaped by the people around it, by the systems it belongs to, the things it can remember and those that are forgotten. There’s a weight to the whole, both visible and invisible, pressing itself into the individual. Excruciatingly molding every possible aspect of who they might become.
In the West, the boundary of the individual often seems to be the skin. In these other worlds, that boundary moves back and forth, like a tug-of-war.
Pull too far in one direction and you’re stranded, alone. Pull too far in the other and you come apart, your pieces claimed by others, until there’s nothing left that you can call your own.
Part of your existence can become hostage to something greater than yourself. But if you allow this kidnapping, this violation, if you let your skin stretch beyond the body, then you can become so much else, in so many different ways.
Suddenly, there’s room.
Room to fit so much more within the self.
But you must be careful about the shape and nature of whatever gets beneath this new skin. Otherwise, it might burst. Something foreign can cut a wound from the inside, leaving the self to bleed out, or infection to come and take hold.
…
Science fiction.
Science applied to fiction.
But sometimes, what works on paper can work in the real too.
We have no witches. No werewolf has ever hunted anyone in the dark, no dragon has ever crossed the sky. Nobody has died from magic…just from superstition.
But we do have rocket ships. We have walked on other worlds, and created machines that sometimes do as though they might think. People have been killed by robots and lasers, cities have been bombed from the edge of space.
So much of today could have been yesterday’s science fiction. So much of it actually was.
We have invented dreams. And because we have watched some of them cross the boundary into reality, they now carry a different weight in our minds. Something no other kind of fiction has.
A promise, more often a warning, of things to come.
…
Did I tell you about Toru Takemitsu?
He’s dead.
He’s been dead for thirty years.
Tonight, I’m listening to a piece of music he never composed. But I didn't know that the first time I heard it.
And somehow, knowing that now doesn't change what I hear.
Every time I listen to it again, I can believe that something is still alive. Not the man himself, not the flesh that once filled the frame of his body. Something else: a ghost made to haunt him in death, so that he may never rest.
Maybe that’s what happens when the things we create escape us. They find new bodies, new meanings, new ways of existing. If the things that make us who we are can escape us, enter others, change, and keep developing beyond their original boundaries… Then what kind of worlds make the human in us still possible?
How far away does the skin begin to break?
That’s the kind of music that keeps me awake.
The creak of ghostly teeth, eating the dead.