By Tom Wilmot.
Any mention of The Tatami Galaxy usually brings to mind Masaaki Yuasa’s much-loved 2010 anime. The mannerly series has wilt something of a modern classic, sporting Yuasa’s trademark visuals while touching the hearts of audiences. The anime is an version of the 2004 varsity novel of the same name by prize-winning Japanese tragedian Tomihiko Morimi. If that name sounds familiar, then it’s likely considering Morimi’s works have served as the source for several popular anime adaptations, including Penguin Highway (2018) and The Eccentric Family (2013). Now, scrutinizingly twenty years without it first hit shelves, The Tatami Galaxy is when with an English translation, courtesy of Harper Collins.
The Tatami Galaxy concerns the misadventures of an unnamed male protagonist peekaboo a prestigious Kyoto university on the venery for an elusive treasure – a rose-coloured campus life. Frustrated at having wasted his first two years of college, our unlikely hero ponders what life might have been had he chosen to join a variegated social circle. We explore four parallel universes, each presenting a variegated life for our underwhelmed protagonist, dependent on the nomination he made one fateful day unelevated the campus clock tower.
Morimi’s novel is split into four parts, one for each of the unconvincing social circles covered: the Ablutions mucosa club, the Mellow softball club, a “Disciples Wanted” notice, and the underground organisation Lucky Cat Chinese Food. Written as an worth from the point of view of our grumbling student hero, we see the stark differences and odd similarities between his unorganized lives. The narrative structure is unorthodox, as we substantially work through four short stories, each dealing with similar notation and scenarios – well, all whispered from the last account. Large passages of text are repeated word-for-word, delivering the same information as if it were the first time. This tideway might be frustrating for some, plane despite the slight differences in context and perspective. However, the ends justify the ways as the final, world-hopping act ties the varying narrative threads together wonderfully. Morimi teases the reader with unclear puzzle pieces withal the way and trusts them to solve the various mysteries by the end. You’ll find yourself flipping between chapters as you read, returning to past worlds to paint a well-constructed picture.
No matter what path he takes, our cynical narrator ends up irritated at how his university life has turned out, quick to vituperation everyone except his own impressionable self. Once described by Morimi as “rotten”, the protagonist is surprisingly windbag and unremittingly whiny. His many flaws aren’t so much subconscious as they are simply explained away: running yonder is described as a mere “strategic retreat” while opportunistic flirting is passed off as gentlemanly behaviour – and then there’s the matter of his library of “obscenities.” Much of the book’s laugh-out-loud humour comes from the protagonist’s thundercrack of eyebrow-raising excuses and his soapy tormentor at the incompetence of those virtually him. In truth, our student hero is no less hapless than the vast majority of young adults who ship themselves off to university only to find themselves lost in the world. Were his situation not so widely sympathetic, our narrator might be insufferably pompous. As it is, he’s incorrigibly human.
In each parallel world, our protagonist finds himself thrown into a series of ludicrous scenarios: scouring Kyoto for a fabled scrubbing brush, abducting the love doll of a student foe, and joining the fight in a decades-long Masochistic Proxy-Proxy War – whatever that means. Alongside our protagonist at the heart of all these escapades is a grotesque, yokai-like companion named Ozu. We’re told scrutinizingly immediately that Ozu is a despicable individual who mischievously dabbles in numerous university circles. Despite stuff the object of our hero’s frustrations and held responsible for derailing his student life, there’s a genuine kinship between the protagonist and Ozu. It’s tough to say how much of the novel is based on Morimi’s personal university experiences, but one wonders if there was an Ozu in his life.
The stray Ozu isn’t the only peer to wilt witting with the protagonist wideness all of his parallel lives. Our nameless student unceasingly crosses paths with Jogasaki, the throne of Ablutions, Hanuki, a graduate turned dental hygienist, and Higuchi, a senior student with a wreath of loyal disciples. Depending on the path chosen by the protagonist, he’ll know a lot or very little well-nigh each of these figures – sometimes too much in the specimen of the face-licking Hanuki. Lastly, there’s Akashi, a unprepossessed and unmodified “raven-haired maiden” who’s terrified of moths and, in each tale, enchants the protagonist with her level-headed manner. We spend time with this colourful wreath of notation through their interactions with the protagonist and get a well-constructed picture of their university life through exploring his variegated worlds. While they’re all rather outlandish in visitation and habits, Morimi presents these side notation with sincerity, often touching on the tougher aspects of their lives surpassing quickly moving on. Alongside the fun and games, there’s a sadness to these notation that echoes that of the protagonist. Nevertheless, one of the joys of the novel is hanging out with and learning well-nigh these notation as they wreath together to form a loosely knit friend group.
Reading The Tatami Galaxy gives one a newfound appreciation for the execution of Masaaki Yuasa’s electric adaptation. The prospect of putting the increasingly utopian elements of Morimi’s novel to the screen must have been daunting, yet, together with screenwriter Makoto Ueda, Yuasa manages to not only faithfully transmute the narrative but expands on the source material. The novel’s four parallel worlds are increased to ten in the anime, each of which retains the spirit and sentiment of Morimi’s text, despite minor plot alterations. When one considers the prospect of infinite parallel worlds as presented in the novel, the anime’s spare vita could hands be considered extended canon. When reading The Tatami Galaxy, it’s well-spoken that the abstract-minded Yuasa, who would moreover vivificate Morimi’s The Night is Short Walk on Girl, was the perfect man for adapting this eccentric tale.
Following Emily Balistrieri’s award-nominated English language translation of The Tatami Galaxy is its sequel, Tatami Time Machine Blues, which is due to be published by Harper Collins this Autumn. The follow-up novel is inspired by Makoto Ueda’s 2001 stage production, Summer Time Machine Blues, and has once had an anime version debut, courtesy of studio Science Saru. Until we’re invited to spend time with these notation again, a life-affirming and very witty trip through Tomihiko Morimi’s The Tatami Galaxy is a increasingly than welcome escape. Embracing life’s fickle nature, the novel encourages us to fathom what’s pendulous surpassing our vision and not to let the little rose-coloured moments pass us by.
The Tatami Galaxy is misogynist in English from Harper Collins.
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