Abjection, projection, introjection: notes toward a cyberpunk ecology 3.
The false dilemma that often conditions commentary on manga--form or content--does little to commend the complexity of the art form and less still to illuminate it. Better are those analyses that trace the dialectic of form and content--the shape, symptom, or cultural logic of its historical moment. Such analyses reveal the uncanny way ostensibly formal or aesthetic elements of the medium can anticipate and even trump their thematic articulation. The power of such elements in this respect often seems directly proportional to their apparent triviality or arbitrariness. "Postmodern" theories of visual- and character-design, for example, can occasionally seem blinkered on this score, failing to discern amidst the dazzling play of signs--whether conceived as bricolage or "database" (1)--the authorizing signature of a cultural anxiety or preoccupation. in fact, we might as well conclude that the postmodern insistence on the arbitrariness of the sign is really itself just a symptom, masking foreclosures of the sign in the guise of liberation. Put in more concrete terms, for my purposes here visual- and character-design elements are not jujubes but indices. They point up issues, at times indirectly or negatively, which manga often cannot address otherwise to same effect. None of this is, I think, terribly controversial, but bears repeating, particularly in light of prevailing theoretical emphasis on character-design as an adaptive, protean technology of interface between creator and consumer--"characters as configurable objects" in James Tobias' formulation (346). What can get lost in this paper-doll model of character, and the story of consumer empowerment implied, is, for one, the difference between options and choice. Ironically, the expansion of the former comes frequently at the expense of the latter; the notion of character-design as essentially wardrobe + accessories precludes or anyway retards the kinds of choice that make ethical and political meaning possible. Characters cannot exactly assume an allegorical function, for example, when they are only a reflection of the individual's taste at a particular moment, when they are less figures but figurines. Azuma Hiroki's term for this condition of semantic impoverishment is "animalization" (dobutsuka)--the demotion of cet obscur objet du desir to base physical needs.
In his manga series, Knights of Sidonia (Shidonia no kishi 2009-2015), Nihei Tsutomu seems to thematize precisely this animalized notion of character by making the antagonists, or gauna, themselves shapeless, protean, protoplasmic. (2) To the extent that they possess no particular qualities, but rather the potential for any particular quality, gauna represent an ultimate character-design: a character that is nothing, it would seem, but its design. To draw perhaps an impertinent parallel: Gilles Deleuze writes of a thoroughly odd passage from Dickens' Our Mutual Friend in which an otherwise disreputable character (Riderhood), believed drowned but clinging stubbornly to the merest flicker of life, strangely galvanizes the sympathies of those around him, precisely because, suspended between life and death, he represents not a fully-endowed subjective existence, but what Deleuze calls "A LIFE" (2001, 27)--an impersonal, pre-individual, purely immanent kind of existence; Riderhood is thus an exemplar of "Homo tantum" or mere man (28). Gauna in their essence are, I suppose, a kind of "creatura tantum" or mere creature, and their mode of immanence, A BODY.--Because gauna in Knights of Sidonia represent something more or other than a vital principle; theirs is a strange kind of life without metabolism--closer, certainly to the pulsation of slime molds than the machination of Martians. We see them pursue the hapless seed-ship Sidonia through space; we witness their relentless sorties; we marvel at the many and varied forms they assume--and yet at the same time, there is an eerie lack of malevolence. There are, apparently, long periods of indolence or even hibernation. Some gauna seem to "settle" in various biomes along the way--ocean planets, airless asteroids. Their war of attrition against humanity is sporadic at best, and it is only owing to diligent propaganda activities on the Sidonia that human antipathy toward gauna is even maintained. Factions of the human crew occasionally tire of the war and even accuse their human superiors of fabricating it. At moments like these, the reader becomes aware of a profound detachment between his or her own temporal intuitions and those of the Sidonia crew. (Otherwise, we wonder, how could the crew have forgotten about a gauna attack that, for us, occurred only a few chapters or even panels before?) We (that is, the reader and the crew) are living in different time scales. Time in Nihei's manga is often deranged, alternately dilated and contracted--a function of biotechnologies enhancing speed and longevity, a function of life adrift in space, time abstracted in the absence of a governing star, unregulated by orbit and rotation. As a consequence, for the decidedly human reader, the story often inexplicably leaps forward in time between panels without indication, producing extraordinary, precipitous katabases: crises are suddenly over; wounds healed; situations altered. It can seem at first clumsy or lazy narration, a record skip, but in fact I think it produces precisely the effect of disorientation Nihei intends. One must often infer how much time has passed from clues in dialogue or setting. (3) The narrative is keyed to Sidonia's time-scale, not ours.
The body itself is a biological clock, so it stands to reason that alterations of the body would result in alterations of time-sense. Among the human crew of Sidonia there are old and young, but it is unclear what precisely this means. One major character, Izana Shinatose, appears only a few years younger than his/her grandmother. (Izana belongs to a third, neutral gender, at least at first. S/he later falls in love with the protagonist and assumes a female form.) The ship's captain, part of the so-called Immortal Crew, is several hundred years old but youthful in appearance. Other Immortal Crew members, however, are depicted as wizened old men in hyperbaric chambers. Meanwhile, a group of clones, the 22 Honoka sisters, appear fully grown on account of accelerated growth, but are actually chronologically (and, to an extent, emotionally) five years old. What do physical signs of age actually signify in such a situation? The time is out of joint. If the human bodies of the crew no longer function (from our perspective) as reliable markers of time, the physical narratives of a life, then gauna bodies function even less so. The gauna body is, as I've said, A BODY--it can be joined with others, reconfigured, almost completely destroyed and regenerated: such A BODY cannot be the singular, identifying possession of the creature that we imagine our own bodies are to us. A BODY does not have an individual history, and even the few exceptional cases presented--gauna that are labeled or named by the crew--tend to enhance this sense of anonymous being. (4)
A BODY would seem to be a central figure of what I've been calling a "cyberpunk ecology." (5) Cyberpunk seems to me less about the ascendance of the virtual than the persistence of the material--the drag of living in meatspace. Knights of Sidonia is not a cyberpunk title on any appreciable level but is in this respect a translation of cyberpunk thematics into a space operatic narrative. In a world that continually offers the lure of disembodiment--technologies that can "upload" and transfer consciousness, that can transcend or transgress biological limits, that can alter the genetic code itself--the body itself becomes paradoxically accentuated, a site of personal inscription rather than one's unavoidable inheritance. Biotechnologies--even those that make the body essentially disposable or replaceable--if anything intensify the body as the site of human being. The plasticity of the body, in other words, does not erase it as the horizon of being. If this is true of the (post-)human crew of Sidonia, it can only be doubly true of gauna. A BODY is ageless, undifferentiated, genderless, and yet the same time, this emphasis on gauna embodiment, on spontaneous reproduction, on polymorphic organicity, codes them as feminine in the sense discussed variously by Susan Napier (6) and Elizabeth Grosz. (Not for nothing is their outer layer referred to as placenta (ena) by the human crew--a word that can also mean "afterbirth," suggesting among other things anxieties regarding the inside-outness of viviparous reproduction.) To the patriarchal mind that would transcend "mere" matter, as Grosz points out in Volatile Bodies, "Women are somehow more biological, more corporeal, and more natural than men" (1994, 14) and are thereby objects of suspicion, even enemies to thought. To the extent that gauna are similarly associated with absolute, fleshy materiality, with seemingly "mindless" biological drives, they reinscribe this age-old prejudice: they represent a "maternalized," embodied, non-hierarchical sodality, an anticulture. The same logic undergirds other categories of condescension (on grounds of race, disability, sexuality, or what have you), where again the status of the body--and an intensification of embodiment--is brought to the fore. The body, then, is a site of profound conceptual ambiguity and therefore a target of control whose discourse is biopolitics. Gauna emphasize this ambiguity--the question the body poses to political power--in several ways, which I will characterize as abjection, projection, and introjection.
Abjection, Projection, Introjection
On the face of it, gauna are protoplasmic monstrosity, a Lovecraftian "species-of-no-species, the biological empty set" (Thacker 2011, 103). They would seem to be life reduced to its primordial form: more to the point, life as flesh, as undifferentiated, vital tissue. Several expository panels throughout the manga attempt, with unintentional humor, to lay out what is known of gauna biology, which is effectively nothing.--Not because humans are ignorant of gauna (though they are that too), but because there really isn't much to know, at least at the level of gross anatomy (Fig. 1). Everything that one might know of them is inscribed in their name itself, which might be rendered "weird minor-beings"--creatures not only strange but fundamentally so, a strangeness increasing in the measure to which it is probed; creatures that are subordinate, that are lesser or derivative (literally "children") of being itself. The cross-sections, one of an "individual" and one of a "cluster ship," reveal a creature-without-qualities, without organs or metabolic systems, without stable morphology, without any real structures of any kind save one: the core or "true body" (hontai). The sample individual bears a cosmetically humanoid head but otherwise resembles a squid or ginger root, something blurring the distinction between animal and vegetable. The sample collective displays their strange ability to bond to each other's placenta to form rigid structures. These structures include everything from armored bulkheads and "gun" batteries to propulsion systems and more. Most of the human crew view this malleability with disgust--and indeed gauna are often depicted as vermicular masses, faceless gorgons, psychoplasms of dread. (7) Because gauna have no particular qualities, but rather any quality required in the moment--we see them in all sorts of forms, from fungoid to planetoid, from crustacean to cetacean--they represent a kind of life that is at once infinite in possibility, but (humanly speaking) empty (Fig. 2).
In his own model of empty or "bare life," Giorgio Agamben stresses a mode of abjection activated by sovereign power; bare life is what is left-over after "proper," qualified life is violated; bare life is exposed, precarious, excluded. In the classical model, the integrity of the sovereign is achieved by the nomination and expulsion of bare life (i.e. "homo sacer"). By designating an offender as outside the law, the sovereign negatively defines the boundary of the law. The paradoxical figure of homo sacer is one who no longer "counts," juridically speaking, as human (or any other particular thing, for that matter): homo sacer cannot be sacrificed, because a sacrifice must have content or value to qualify as a sacrifice--and homo sacer is a no-thing; on the other hand, homo sacer may be killed with impunity since to kill no-thing is not murder. Modern sovereignty, Agamben claims, paradoxically incorporates bare life into itself, thereby creating permanent "states of exception," strange intramural zones (like Gitmo) at once inside and outside the law. Modern sovereignty, then, begins uncannily to resemble bare life itself, which is "a zone of indistinction and continuous transition between man and beast" (Agamben 1998, 109)--this indistinction becomes the "concealed ... nucleus [or dare we say "true body"?] of sovereign power" (ibid, 6).
What goes unremarked in Agamben, however, is made explicit in Nihei: the very blankness and muteness of bare life can amount to a kind of resistance and aggression. Beyond, before, or beneath the law, bare life need not answer to it. In his analysis of David Lynch's Lost Highway (1997), Slavoj Zizek suggests that the proper way to consider the so-called Mystery Man of that film is "to imagine somebody who doesn't want anything from us" (The Pervert's Guide to Cinema). This, he continues is "the true horror of the Mystery Man: not any evil, demoniac intentions and so on; just the fact that when he is in front of you, he, as it were, sees through you" (ibid). I would suggest that the horror of gauna functions in a similar way, and it is here precisely a horror activated, as it were, by abjection itself, by flesh-without-reason, denuded of qualities, flesh that insists, repulsively, on nothing but absorption and reproduction.
Part of the threat embodied by such flesh is the dim light it casts on human culture, which seems increasingly pathetic (in both the technical and colloquial senses): a massive squandering of bio-energy affording no perceptible advantages; a filigree; a shoring up of vanities against eventual ruins; a distraction from the business of survival--culture as a shirking or denial of our most basic biological priorities in the name of an altogether specious transcendence. Humans want to think of themselves as more than the sum of their biological requirements, as superior to other creatures precisely on account of aspirations beyond "mere" perpetuation of the species. Such definitions have long (and unflattering) associations with chauvinistic attitudes regarding the aspirational nature of men as opposed to the materialistic nature of women. And so once again, the antagonisms at the heart of Sidonia--human vs gauna; culture vs nature; mind vs body--seem legible in gendered terms as if that were their ineluctable conceptual horizon, even while gauna themselves, not to mention characters like Izana Shinatose, scramble or otherwise complicate the binaries in question. Not to put too fine a point on it, an outmoded conceptual model undergirds the antagonisms and is in fact nourished by the illusion of binarism. It therefore seeks, with ever greater desperation, to assert the fundamental difference of its terms, which are ever in danger of collapsing into one another. The series literalizes this prospect in the form of forbidden experiments (past and present) with human-gauna hybrids. But I'm suggesting it is already there in the weird blankness of gauna design, a kind of abjection that is itself a threat. The "preternatural" flesh of the gauna, the "placenta" enveloping and protecting their core is not, or not only, a nurturing membrane but a weaponized surface, a figurative and literal gender trouble. If the human subject must, according to Julia Kristeva, consolidate itself by rejecting the body of the mother, its fearful, mysterious plumbing, then the crew of the Sidonia must likewise reject gauna in order to consolidate their fragile identity as humans. (8) What is psychomachy in Kristeva is literal war in Nihei: like mothers, gauna see through us while remaining themselves opaque.
Because of their opacity, gauna in Nihei's work function as a screen onto which humans project their anxieties, their innermost fears regarding humanity itself. The science fictional context allows Nihei to amplify the precarity of human definition--Sidonia's crew reproduce asexually, through direct genetic manipulation (or cloning); they photosynthesize to preserve food stores; they experiment with radical prosthesis and life extension; at least one character, the aforementioned Izana Shinatose, belongs to a new gender; yet another character, Hiyama, has been transplanted into the body of a bear, which she "wears" as a sort of life support suit; and so on and so on. Taken together, these elements fall in line with traditional masculine fantasies of rational society, of "clean," controlled technological reproduction, from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein to Huxley's Brave New World and beyond--attempts to circumvent the mysterious plumbing and reinstitute the species on a new scientific footing. And yet, such fantasies are practically set up for subversion. Nihei increasingly stages not only the resistance of biology, but the insistence of the biological, as the gap between humans and gauna begins, uncannily, to close. The occasional anthropomorphization of gauna in effect plays up not only their utter alienness, but at the same time something inhuman at the heart of humanity itself (Fig. 3). In other words, given all of their radical genetic modifications, the difference between the crew of Sidonia and their gauna aggressors is really one of degree, rather than kind. The potential for human-gauna hybrids indicates, if nothing else, a fundamental compatibility shared by living things, as does human photosynthesis. If gauna are nightmarish, they also represent the residue of a very human dream, alternately utopian and febrile, of collapsing the Great Chain of Being, accordion-like, upon itself, of envisioning Nature as a single, uncannily multiform creature, as A BODY.
At a more literal level, however, gauna represent an uncanny phenomenon of scale, of projection in time and space: not only do "individual" gauna dwarf humans, as a collective creature, they are massively distributed in space. Timothy Morton recently coined the term "hyperobjects" to designate things that, in scalar sublimity, beggar the imagination--like 80,000-year-old colonies of aspen trees in Utah or the Magellanic Clouds or, more abstractly, the sum of all raindrops to strike the earth in a given period. Brute contemplation of such hyperobjects is impossible for a number of reasons. They are, for example, "viscous," by which Morton means that they are woven integrally into the fabric of everything else; they are "non-local," meaning they cannot be apprehended at once in their totality, and so on and so on. (9) Whereas human life is confined to the Sidonia, gauna seem to be everywhere; destroyed, they disintegrate as foam or spores: even the mode of their destruction, if only at a visual level, suggests endless proliferation. The image of their disintegration is visually coupled to images of their generation: a recurring sequence throughout Knights of Sidonia involves an initial radar contact with a "mass union ship," followed by a rapid spawning of individual units, each designated with a tiny "ga"--the katakana indicating not only their foreignness (katakana being used primarily for loan words) and abstraction (why a character and not some sort of icon or pictograph? (10)), but the single syllable their abjection, diminution, or subordination. These sequences, interestingly, and much of the actual battles, are in fact mediated by radar screens, which I suppose only stands to reason for combat in deep space. The speed, the distances, the darkness--all of these render the human (or even posthuman) eye ineffectual. There is no other way to process the action apart from the screen. Many panels depict characters watching battles unfold on a bank of radar and computer screens, first of all driving home our sense of gaum, as a symbolic value--at some level an abstraction even for the crew of Sidonia--and of the panels themselves as (for us) metafictions in miniature, images of our own mediated interface with the action. Gauna thus become available as well to the reader as a surface of projection.
The hallucinatory logic that undergirds human relations to gauna, then, shades quickly from projection to introjection, particularly in the sense Maria Torok retrieves from the writings of Sandor Ferenczi. In the standard or Freudian model, introjection is more or less synonymous with incorporation, the mental swallowing up of others' traits or behaviors into one's own personality. In the context of a loss or absence, as when a child loses a parent, introjection is a defense mechanism. The child's egoic boundaries being somewhat porous anyway, the buffetings of trauma can lead to introjection as a way of compensating the ego for lost libidinal investments. The lost object (the parent, for example) survives at some level in the subject (the child, say) and can therefore "descend from the imaginal pedestal where the ego's need for nourishment has placed it" (Torok 1994, 116). The ego, remaining intact, can then "healthily" cast about for other objects of libidinal investment; it can "move on." But Torok, returning to Ferenczi, notes another, slightly different, sense of introjection, one in which the "unassimilated drives have congealed into an imago, forever reprojected onto some external object" (ibid). Because the introjection was incomplete, and the ego left wanting, the object cannot be released, but must be perpetually resurrected, even if the result is a perpetuation of the object-as-lost, a prolongation of pain: having unfinished psychic business, "the ego needs to keep alive at all costs that which causes its greatest suffering" (ibid).
Gauna as A BODY figure both senses of introjection--the first or Freudian sense in a literal way (i.e. scenes of actual absorption and incorporation of objects into gauna flesh); the second or Ferenczian sense in a subtler way. For Ferenczi, introjection involves multiple, interlocking elements: "extension of autoerotic interests"; "broadening of the ego through the removal of repression"; and, further, the extension of the ego to the external world (ibid, 112). So in addition to representing a horrific fantasy of introjection in the sense of literal incorporation, gauna also function as images of introjection in Ferenczi's more plasmic sense: the introjected object that remains external to the ego, an ego no longer solely housed in an individual body, but distributed across A BODY. The human crew's relation to Tsumugi Shiraui is an interesting case in point. Tsumugi is a human-gauna hybrid created by "impregnating" a captured sample of gauna placenta with a human embryo (Fig. 4). The sample in question actually possessed the more-or-less human shape of a squadmate, Hoshijiro Shizuka, who had been earlier killed in battle and literally introjected (i.e. consumed and then replicated). The crew tend to interact with Shiraui, for practical reasons of scale, via an extruded appendage capable of worming its way through Sidonia's vents and ducts (Fig. 5). Nagate's affections for Hoshijiro seem, in the wake of her death, to shift to Tsumugi (who does, after all, in an uncanny way preserve Hoshijiro) and a tender, if unlikely, romance begins to blossom. Scenes of Nagate appearing to masturbate in his sleep, supervised by Tsumugi (who may in fact be somehow generating the erotic content of the dreams), suggest that modes of sexual rapport are found through an "extension of autoerotic interests." Tsumugi, or anyway the appendage for interface, is "herself" a congeries of genitalia, visually speaking, a marvel of multipurpose biological design--at once oral, vaginal, anal, and phallic. Nagate's eventual marriage to Tsumugi and, more to the point, child by Tsumugi suggest a complete introjection: Nagate, and by extension the Sidonia crew, no longer tarries at the scene of trauma, whether the personal loss of the beloved or the collective loss of the home-planet. If there is a psychic detente in this sense, it is achieved through the intermediary of A BODY.
In all three of these modes--abjection, projection, and introjection--gauna present a challenge, not only to the crew of Sidonia, but to the reader as well. The uncanny ontological ramifications of gauna disrupt many of the conceptual categories that subtend human identity. They are, paradoxically, at once subhuman and superhuman (or more human than human), revealing how at a biopolitical level subhumanity and superhumanity are often superimposed. Writing of the 2011 "bath salts" hysteria and the police violence seemingly authorized thereby, Rei Terada points out how in biopolitical terms "superhumanity functions as subhumanity": "[I]t allows the nonhuman to be eliminated while releasing the perceiver from having to answer for seeing someone as nonhuman" (December 10, 2012). In other words, the "superhuman strength" reportedly exhibited by users (often homeless and/or black men) justified police force that would in any other context have been viewed as cruelly excessive. Knights of Sidonia presents a similar logic whereby the superhumanity of gauna justifies their eradication. The manga--and in particular gauna design--deserve in this respect serious consideration as an occluded form of speculative biopolitical inquiry. Nihei is perpetrating a kind of philosophy-by-other-means, resonating with recent trends across the humanities whereby we confront anew the question of the good life, one in which not only humans but all creatures great and small are enfranchised. These issues have assumed especial urgency in this, the Anthropocene--the age of humanity's technological ascendance and quite possible extinction. Speculative works like Knights of Sidonia may well prove the Enchiridion of such an age, helping us to think ahead of technical imperatives hustling us toward erasure.
KEITH LESLIE JOHNSON
(1) Azuma Hiroki's notion of "database" (the referent here) is in fairness more a theory of consumption than production. For Azuma, while "[m]odernity was ruled by the grand narrative"--meaning a unified social field conditioning the reception of literary and artistic concepts--postmodernity is defined by the disintegration of grand narratives in lieu of "databases," personalized collections of narrative elements to be freely mixed-and-matched (Azuma 2009, 28 et passim). Nonetheless, the growing prevalence of "database" consumption over other forms of narrative consumption--in other words, the consolidation of otaku culture as such, a bloc of magpie-consumers keyed less to overarching stories or subjectivities than to a set of visual fetishes--does over time bend back toward the production end of things as otaku exert pressure on the market and, over time, enter the industry as creators.
(2) For those unfamiliar with this series, it is essentially about a space ship of human survivors fleeing an apparently hostile alien species, the gauna. In many respects, Knights of Sidonia, is a fairly standard "mechacademy" narrative, but all the genre conventions in fact seem to be set-ups for Nihei's subversive sensibility.
(3) For example, the duration of the protagonist's convalescence in vol. 14 is apparent only when he returns home to find his roommates gone and the house itself covered in thick foliage.
(4) Gauna are typically nominated solely by their order of appearance. Certain gauna, Gauna 493 for example, are highlighted or tracked because they present an especial risk, but are not exactly accorded the status of individuals. The one instance of a singular gauna, Gauna 490, designated "Crimson Hawk Moth" (Benisuzume [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]), resulted from fusion with a human mecha pilot, whose form was then "mimicked" by the gauna. Completing its uncanny replication, Gauna 490 was capable of parroting human speech, but was incapable of actual communication. In this sense the very form of individuality only serves to underscore the anonymity or interchangeability of gauna.
(5) See Johnson 2013 and 2014.
(6) See Napier 2005, chs. 5-6.
(7) David Cronenberg's The Brood (1979) features "psychoplasmics" as a hypothetical therapeutic technique, a parodic extrapolation of the Freudian "talking cure." Whereas psychoanalysis attempts to treat neurosis by "raising" its precipitating trauma to the level of consciousness, psychoplasmics attempts to manifest neurosis as a literal symptom of the flesh, from hives to cancerous tumors. The film's monsters, like gauna, are fleshy extrusions of fear and angst.
(8) Q.v. The Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, 3-15.
(9) See Hyperobjects, pt. 1.
(10) It is, I think, belaboring the point, but those unfamiliar with Japanese scripts might be interested to know that the katakana "ga"--the voiced variant of "ka" --derives originally from M (increase, add), whose radicals mean "power" and "mouth, orifice", respectively. The katakana character of course bears no lingering traces of the kanji--it is abstract, phonetic--but given my invocation of Maria Torok, it seemed appropriate to raise this cryponymic possibility. (See Abraham & Torok, The Wolf Man's Magic Word: A Cryptonymy.) I should note at the same time, that Sidonia is itself a loanword whose mecha "knights" are likewise registered on radar/computer screens with the katakana "shi". Their battles with gauna when depicted on radar are therefore "gashigashi" (rough, boisterously energetic).
Agamben, Giorgio. 1998. Homo sacer: sovereign power and bare life. Trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen. Stanford: Stanford Univerity Press.
Azuma, Hiroki. 2009 . Otaku: Japan's database animals. Trans. Jonathan E. Abel and Shion Kono. Minneapolis: Minneapolis Univ. Press.
Deleuze, Gilles. 2001. Pure immanence: essays on A Life. Trans. Anne Boyman. New York: Zone Books.
Grosz, Elizabeth. 1994. Volatile bodies: toward a corporeal feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Johnson, Keith Leslie. 2013. Nihei Tsutomu and the poetics of space: notes toward a cyberpunk ecology. SERAS 35: 190-203.
--. 2014. Manga in the Anthropocene: notes toward a cyberpunk ecology 2. SERAS 36: 111-122.
Kristeva, Julia. 1982. The powers of horror: an essay on abjection. Trans. Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press.
Morton, Timothy. 2013. Hyperobjects: philosophy and ecology after the end of the world. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Napier, Susan J. 2005. Anime from Akira to Howl's Moving Castle. New York: Palgrave.
The pervert's guide to cinema. 2006. DVD. Directed by Sophie Fiennes. San Francisco: Microcinema International.
Terada, Rei. 2012. Bartholomew Williams. Work without dread, December 10. http://workwithoutdread.blogspot.com./
Thacker, Eugene. 2011. In the dust of this planet: horror of philosophy, vol. 1. Winchester (UK): zero Books.
Tobias, James. 2012. Going native with Pandora's (tool) box: spiritual and technological conversions in James Cameron's Avatar. In Acting and performance in moving image culture: bodies, screens, renderings, ed. Jorn Sternagel, Deborah Levitt, and Dieter Mersch. Bielefeld: transcript Verlag. 339-62.
Torok, Maria. 1994 . The illness of mourning and the fantasy of the exquisite corpse. In Nicolas Abraham & Maria Torok The shell and the kernel: renewals of psychoanalysis. Trans. & Ed. Nicholas T. Rand. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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|Author:||Johnson, Keith Leslie|
|Publication:||Southeast Review of Asian Studies|
|Article Type:||Critical essay|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2015|
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