EVERY REVELATION, STILL A SECRET

All we communicate to others is an orientation towards what is secret without ever being able to tell the secret objectively.-- Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

Here we run into a dilemma, for what is truth and what is illusion? John Briggs, paraphrasing Martin Heidegger, has described truth as "the freedom of letting things reveal themselves as they are-- but... when anything is revealed, other things are concealed."-- DREAMS OF ISIS (1995), Normandi Ellis, p. 266.

These two quotes both appeared in separate sections of the Ellis book, which is that author's personal account of her experiences with examining Egyptian concepts of spirituality and/or occultism. It's an interesting book, and I've read a considerable number of similar accounts from dubious biographies like the Don Juan chronicles and theoretical studies like those of Colin Wilson. While I've had occasion to believe in the reality of certain so-called "psychic" events, I hold no firm opinion one way or the other on subjects like soul transmigration or the existence of archaic gods, even on something akin to the "astral plane." I suspect that much of my interest in the occult stems from my desire to know, as much as any individual can, the outward limits of the imagination. I have a dim memory of a Percy Shelley reminiscence, in which he claimed that in his youthful years he read a lot of mystical literature because he was seeking "metaphors for poetry." However, I haven't troubled to look for that particular quote.

As for the quotes above, I knew Bachelard by reputation but have not yet read POETICS OF SPACE or any other work by him. I have read a little Heidegger, though not enough to have any notion as to what he may've said that author John Briggs paraphrased, or the context Briggs had in mind when he made the comment in his book FIRE IN THE CRUCIBLE. Still, Briggs' purported ideas on aesthetics might prove interesting to my ongoing project. Bachelard's evaluations of science might draw some intriguing comparisons with the works of Whitehead on that subject.

Though about thirty years separate the quotes of Bachelard and Briggs, they seem to complement each other not a little in speaking of the difficulties of communication. Reading both quotes out of context naturally means that I don't know what general argument either writer was making, but I can respond to what the quotes suggest in themselves.

Starting with Bachelard, it's fascinating that he asserts that all one can communicate is something subjective, something that is explicitly not objective in nature, and that, even that "subjective something" is not the actual secret of the person transmitting it, but an "orientation" toward that secret. The opposition bears a structural similarity with Plato's synopsized view of Art: a "shadow of a shadow," the originary shadow being the phenomenal world, which is itself "cast" by the Eternal Forms. But for Plato, the Forms were objective reality. Centuries later, materialist philosophers would regard all the phenomena associated with "the real world" as the only measure of objectivity, while all things subjective were at best epiphenomenal. I would guess that when Bachelard says that the implied "we" cannot "tell the secret objectively," he's at least partly agreeing with the materialist idea that subjectively speaking every man is an island, and that every such island harbors secrets that cannot be communicated as such to any others. Yet Bachelard is perhaps more hopeful than the materialists in saying that though subjective secrets of a private mind cannot be communicated-- possibly because they stem from so many intertwined, personal factors-- "we" can communicate orientations, as one presumes, for example, Socrates did to Plato. Last month I touched on similar limitations with regard to literary experience, under the heading of "intersubjectivity:"

But subjectivity doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and so we must speak of intersubjectivity as a way of understanding how persons from all walks of life can see reflections of themselves in the works of strangers, often strangers from other times and cultures. Thus, when we feel affection for the works of Shakespeare or of Bill Finger, what we “love” are shadows of our own tastes and personalities. -- THE CARE AND ESTEEMING OF LITTLE MYTHS, PART 1.

Of course, I don't know if Bachelard is using the word "secret" with any special connotation in mind, but for the present I view it as general subjectivity. "Orientation" would be the part of an individual's secret subjectivity that can be transmitted to others, though always with the likelihood of misprision of some kind, like, say, Plato recording those aspects of Socrates' philosophy that resonated best with Plato himself.

Now Briggs' quote sounds a little more pessimistic, a little more "one step forward, two steps back." Briggs doesn't confine himself to communications between human beings; for him, even "things" can reveal themselves-- and conceal themselves, too. I assume that "things" would include all phenomena, from human beings to all aspects of the environment in which humans live. Shamanistic accounts, such as those on which Carlos Castaneda probably based his books, would allow for human beings to receive communications from birds or insects or even stones. 

However, in the folklore we have on such subjects, such communicates reveal, but they don't also conceal. So I tend to think Briggs is, in the final analysis, still talking about human communication, just like Bachelard. 

How does one reveal and conceal at the same time? In OEDIPUS TYRANNUS the Delphic Oracle reveals what is destined to happen to Oedipus. But the Oracle conceals the relevant info that he is not related to the two people Oedipus thinks are his natural parents. Revealing that, of course, would spoil the story, which depends upon a reaction to limited knowledge.

 In the world of intersubjectivity, too, Reader A can feel that this or that work by Author B feels revelatory. But of course, Author B is only revealing what is important to him, and in communicating one thing he may conceal a hundred others, both from himself and from others. Percy Shelley's incantatory poetry reveals his superabundant talent for versification. But nothing in the poetry will reveal many other aspects of Shelley, aspects that might distract from his poetry. In a somewhat more intentional concealment, Karl Marx enthralled countless believers into a sincere belief in his myth of the proletariat, but he omitted anything that might hinder that revelation.  And often there's no intent to conceal. If one chooses to follow one philosophy, it will always remain concealed as to what another path might have revealed.

And possibly the greatest concealment is that I have found both quotes to have revelatory content, though since I haven't read them in context, I might be "concealing" some or all of their "real" meanings.

FINE-TUNING DURABILITY AND DURATION

 ...not all crossovers maintain the same levels of stature or charisma. For that reason, I find myself making a major distinction about whether or not the narrative icons within a crossover are HIGH in stature, LOW in stature, HIGH in charisma or LOW in charisma. One of the main determinants of a character's "high" scores in either stature or charisma is that of sheer *durability." Whether he's a character with just one narrative, like Ivanhoe, or with several, like Fu Manchu, the character may have greater stature or charisma due to his, her, or its role in popular culture. -- A CONVOCATION OF CROSSOVERS PT. 1.

Since typing the first part of this five-part essay series, I said very little about my use of the offhand term "durability." The other essays, however, generally imply that I judged the highness or lowness of icons' stature or charisma on the basis of quantitative escalation-- though I would only adapt that earlier term a few weeks later in December of 2021. For instance, in Part 2, I noted that the Golden Age character of Miss Victory had transferred her stature from a solo feature to that of the ensemble of the Bronze Age title FEMFORCE:

Thus the Golden Age character "Miss Victory," who lasted for about five years as a backup feature in an anthology comic, was "ret-conned" to stand alongside a bunch of newbie characters in the Americomics title FEMFORCE (which would later pursue many other similar public-domain revivals).

In contrast, in Part 3 I noted that The Blue Diamond was an example of a character who didn't accrue much stature, having had only two starring appearances. Also, the character of Magik, prior to joining the New Mutants ensemble, didn't get much stature by virtue of appearing in one four-issue mini-series.

In Part 4, I noted that I might not assign High Charisma to a villain-interaction between Joker and Catwoman, who'd only just been created, but that I definitely would in the first crossover of Joker and Penguin, who by the time of their meeting in 1944 had already logged in several appearances as Bat-foes.

And in Part 5, I gave examples of two narratives-- WHO FRAMED ROGER RABBIT and THE BOOKS OF MAGIC-- in which numerous Primes function as little more than background-characters to the featured Primes.

Now, all of the above examples depend on an idea of "duration," of how much narrative time a given icon has enjoyed as either a Prime or a Sub, either within a single narrative or in a series of linked narratives. 

Then, a week or two later, I wrote ESCALATION PROCLAMATION PT. 2, in which I formulated a term for the type of escalation depending on an icon's duration: Quantitative Escalation. But I also specified that another type of escalation could also take place with respect to a narrative assuming the nature of a cultural touchstone, as per the example of Walter Scott's IVANHOE, which was a single work with no additional installments. About a year and a half later, I would show in INDIVIDUAL AND COLLECTIVE STATURE PART 3 that qualitative vectors could also influence serial narratives: specifically, as to whether the characters of "Giant Man and the Wasp" were qualitatively more important in their AVENGERS appearances than in their solo feature.

So, though I did not see the distinction in 2021, the "durability" I was describing took two distinct forms:

Narrative Durability relates to how much time an icon occupies within a story, or series of stories.

Significant Durability relates to how much time an icon accrues in literary history, thanks to whatever the icon does or doesn't do that some sizable audience finds to have significance.

A further elaboration is that in some narratives, though a crossover between stature-icons may be relatively short within a story, that crossover can accrues greater significance because of its impact upon the audience. The crossover between Ivanhoe and the pre-existing icon of Robin Hood lasts only a few chapters in Scott's narrative. Yet even if the icons' time together has little Narrative Durability, their crossover possesses Significant Durability because Scott managed to relate his newly created hero to the ideals of the Lord of Sherwood, in such a way that many readers found that part of the story significant. 

The same significance applies to works outside the sphere of canonical literature. In the 1918 book THE GOLDEN SCORPION, Sax Rohmer pits his established detective Gaston Max against a new villain, The Scorpion. Only on a few pages does Rohmer establish that the new villain belongs to Fu Manchu's Si-Fan, and on one of those pages a witness describes an encounter between The Scorpion and his master, though the latter is not explicitly named. Since the Scorpion never appears again, there is no crossover between villains, but the established figures of Gaston Max and Fu Manchu sustain the crossover-vibe between their universes, even though the two of them never meet. And Significant Durability applies solely because SCORPION was an important development in the history of the Fu Manchu character-- but not so in the case of Gaston Max, given that he faded from prominence and never, like Fu, became a cultural touchstone.

 

NEAR-MYTHS: DARK KNIGHTS OF STEEL (2021-2022)

I've not reviewed many of DC's "Elseworlds" projects-- which is what DARK KNIGHTS OF STEEL is, even though it does not use that tag-- because they tend to be no more than gaming-scenarios, where the creators move various characters into new positions for nothing but novelty's sake. An example of such an aesthetically nugatory work is 2015's DOOM THAT CAME TO GOTHAM. An awful lot of STEEL consists of just the usual aimless moving of franchise chess-pieces around for little effect, so in one sense there's not much that's special about this effort by writer Tom Taylor and artist Yasmine Putri (assisted by various artists drawing in her style).

The basic concept: Krypton still explodes, but this time Jor-El and his still pregnant wife Lara escape their doomed world and migrate to a "high-fantasy" version of DC-Earth. By "high fantasy" in this context, I mean that there's no necessary connection with anything in real-world history or with anything in regular DC-Earth, which theoretically is "our" Earth with superheroes and magical critters. The STEEL world is made up of assorted faux-medieval kingdoms inhabited by rough facsimiles of DC characters, and although magic is a regular presence, science is just barely getting started. 

Through assorted contrivances Jor-El and Lara ascend to the monarchy of one land after the deaths of the previous rulers, Thomas and Martha Wayne. In addition to Lara birthing Kal-El, she also births "Zala Jor-El," a.k.a. Supergirl, who seems to have been partly named for her "real" DC-Universe father "Zor-El." And then there's Bruce, who goes around in a Bat-helmet and is one of the few double-identity characters called by his superhero name. He's called a "bastard" in the genealogical sense, for reasons not revealed until halfway through the story, and the relationship of teenaged Bruce and teenaged Kal-El was the one or two elements that kept me curious about how the story would turn out.

The other thirty and forty characters are all spawned on the high-fantasy Earth and range from close approximations to the originals (John Constantine, "court jester" Harley Quinn, Princess Diana, Jefferson Pierce) to '"in-name only" congeners (The Metal Men, a bunch of knights who use the names of metals). We get two lesbian relationships, one more or less canonical (Harley and Poison Ivy) and one out of the blue (Diana and Zala), but they don't consume a lot of space. John Constantine gets the second longest arc, as he's responsible for a doomsday prophecy that seems to condemn the El Family. The prophecy appears to come true in such a way that three major kingdoms go to war, but Constantine eventually discovers that the menace behind the conflict is tied to a different flavor of DC-alien. I confess Taylor surprised me with his subterfuge here.

I said that the witty, lively relationship between Kal-El and Bruce was one of the things I esteemed about STEEL. The other is Putri's art. In a period when an awful lot of comic-book art is banal and ugly, Putri's designs possess a grandiose quality that reminds me of the strong fantasy-work of stellar figures like Richard Corben and Craig Russell, just to name two. Even when Taylor's just giving readers a jejune rehash of "How Oliver Met Dinah," Putri's art has an elevating quality foreign to most 21st-century comics art. I can see myself coming back to enjoy STEEL years from now, just to see how Putri gave the various DC heroes a "Brothers Hildebrandt" treatment.

CURIOSITIES #38: ["JON THE MAD SCIENTIST"] (1941)

 I was looking up the second appearance of the original Clayface in DETECTIVE COMICS #49 and happened across this Crimson Avenger story. The low quality of the story may indicate why the Crimson Avenger (who for some reason is only called "The Crimson" in the main story) was largely ignored by readers in favor of Batman, even though the red-clad hero had appeared seven issues before the Cowled Crusader.

One thing I can't resist about this wonky story is that only once is the stereotypical mad scientist given a name-- that of "Jon." Really, Jack Lehti (or whoever wrote this)? If you wanted to save lettering-time-- which might be the reason for repeatedly calling the hero "The Crimson"-- why not use a stereotypically ghoulish name, like "Ool" or "Gor?"

Anyway, Jon shows his classical knowledge by naming his gargantuan killer robot "Echo," I guess meaning that the Frankensteinian automaton is the "echo" of his genius. I'll note that although the monster of Mary Shelley's book and of the Universal films is merely human-sized, some films intimate that the creature might be some sort of world-conquering menace-- a threat which is at least a little more credible with a robot about 20 stories tall. Robert Florey's unused script for the '31 FRANKENSTEIN ostensibly made the monster into a mindless killing machine.

By this time in the main character's history, the Avenger has shed most of his original "Green Hornet" attributes, taking on the general look of "union-suit" crimefighters. There's no mention of the hero's Asian sidekick here but he also donned a union-suit at some point. It's of minor interest that in this period the cops didn't automatically trust anyone in a superhero costume, and so this band of blue boys improbably blame "The Crimson" for the big robot.

The Avenger does still use his gas-gun, immobilizing Jon just after the latter calls his murder machine to kill the intruder. The hero deliberately leaves the scientist in the robot's path and then makes sure both entities are destroyed. A moderately cool moment of vigilante justice.

THE READING RHEUM: THE WINTER OFTHE WITCH (2019)

In my reviews of the first two books in Katherine Arden's fantasy-trilogy set in medieval Russia, I registered some minor complaints about the thoroughness of Arden's conception of her villains, in contrast to the rich detail she provided for main heroine Vasya Petrovna, her supporting characters, and the mysterious death-god Morozhko the Winter-King. While I maintain that Koschei, the main villain of the second book, could have used some improvement, the culminating book of the trilogy expands greatly on both "Medved the Bear," the evil spirit of the first book, and on his sibling-like relationship to Morozhko. I believe that Arden was doling out just enough information in the first book to establish that particular conflict, while the culminating novel provides greater context to the status of both deity-like beings, who seem to exist in a world in which gods spring forth from the beliefs of human beings.

A complaint I had about Book 2 was that I felt the character of Vasya's brother Sasha, who was given a detailed backstory in Book 1, was reduced to being a purely reactive presence when he once more encountered his sister. Since Sasha became a Christian monk at a young age while his sister allied herself to the pagan mysteries of her people, I thought Arden neglected to develop how each character represented different facets of the Russian experience of religion, with respect to both the early folkways and the more piety-based beliefs of Orthodox Christianity. Arden never does use Sasha and Vasya as opposed spokesmen for their belief-systems, though arguably another monk, the subordinate villain Konstantine, fills that role, at least partly. But in WINTER it's clear that though Arden wasn't interested in a philosophical comparison of belief-systems, forming a "detente" between the two conceptions may be the defining narrative trope of the entire trilogy. In fact, in Arden's "author note" at the end of WINTER, she makes clear that she grounds her theme in her interpretation of Russian culture.

There are some minor faults in WINTER as well: after raising the prospect that at some point the sorcerously-inclined Vasya may be obliged to induct her young niece into the mysteries of witchcraft, but this plot-point dwindles at novel's end because there's so much else going on. But Arden delivers on the more important plot-elements, not least the ambivalent romance between Vasya and the immortal, inhuman spirit called Father Frost. I confess I didn't foresee how Vasya would ultimately deal with her opponent Medved, and since I knew little about Russian history, I didn't anticipate that Arden was reworking certain real-world medieval events into a fantasy-tapestry. I don't know what if any reaction the trilogy may have received from actual Russian readers. But Arden's syncretic union of Russian history with famous myth-figures-- Father Frost, the Firebird, Baba Yaga-- might be viewed as parallel to J.R.R. Tolkien's desire to use magical fantasy to formulate a "myth of England."

MYTHCOMICS: "SWAN SONG OF THE LIVING DEAD DUCK" (HOWARD THE DUCK #10, 1977)

Prior to this essay, the only HOWARD THE DUCK issue I pegged as a mythcomic was issue #11, for the story "Quack-Up." In fact, I noted that the story was part of a longer arc, one that did not hold up as a mythcomic-narrative, which I still believe. I further asserted that I didn't think that HOWARD's superordinate creator Steve Gerber had emphasized the mythopoeic potentiality as much as the didactic and dramatic ones.

In the case of "Swan Song," the story immediately preceding "Quack-Up," I've given it a more sustained look for this essay. I've decided that though there is a lot of didactic content in "Song"  -- on the second page, the hapless mallard protagonist begins a rant about "socialization"-- there are also a fair number of myths in the mix as well. In this case, the two potentialities reinforce one another, as with the Silver Surfer tale I discussed in FORMAL AND INFORMAL EXCELLENCE PT. 2. 

So "Song"-- most of which is entirely in Howard's head after he suffers a traumatic mental breakdown-- begins with him emerging, fully adult (and unclothed except for his stogie) from an oversized egg. A giant hand tries to smash him, so he flees into a room and immediately begins discoursing about the socialization common to all societies, which Howard views as pure indoctrination. He takes refuge in an unfurnished room and encounters a bunch of miniature humans ("hairless apes," in Howard's parlance). The symbolism isn't that clear-- I guess the mini-humans are beings who have surrendered to indoctrination, and accepted a barren, confined existence.

But the next symbol could not be clearer: "Indoctrination in the Form of Monstrous Monetary Dominance," a.k.a. "Kong Lomerate," a.k.a. Gerber's publisher Marvel Comics-- though in 1977 we're a long way from that company being anything akin to a real conglomerate. Anyway, when Howard expresses surprise that a hairy ape could claim to be the owner of all these mini-humans, Kong voices the interesting sentiment, "It's because I'm not human that my word is law! I only exist on paper!" Of course, this is also true of Howard in 1977, and when Howard gives Kong backtalk, the gorilla-boss shows his authority by "cancelling" the abrasive drake. 

(Fun interstitial fact: HOWARD wasn't cancelled while Gerber was on the feature, but after he was fired from the company, neither the color comic, a subsequent black-and-white magazine, nor a comic strip lasted past 1981. Talk about killing the duck that laid the golden eggs.)

Howard's next dream-scene takes him to a mountain hut, seeking some motivating wisdom to carry him through his own cynical vision of existence. He meets another Gerber character, the short-lived superhero Omega, and they exchange a few inconclusive pleasantries. 

Another quick transition takes Howard to one of the main sources of his consternation: his maybe-girlfriend Beverly Switzler. But alas, it's not the Beverly he knows, but Surrealist Beverly, on loan from Rene Magritte perhaps. While Real Beverly only indirectly obliges Howard to act heroically, Surrealist Beverly exists to torment and humiliate him with her carefully contrived absurdity.

Then Howard thinks he wakes up, but no, it's as he says: "Welcome to my Nightmare Part 2." He meets "your friendly neighborhood Piano," almost surely selected as a precursor to the mallard's crisis of socially generated guiltiness. Spider-Piano suggests that Howard read a book-- the 1975 bestseller WHEN I SAY NO, I FEEL GUILTY-- but Howard, being something of a snob, refuses to accept counsel from pop psychology.

But Howard's a Marvel Comics character, so despite his estrangement from the heroic code of other characters, his nature keeps leading him back that way. First, he meets his own private "rogues' gallery." Then he meets another wisdom-dispensing acquaintance, Doctor Piano (who went by the name "Strange" when Howard met him in a DEFENDERS tale). But Howard rejects the doctor's advice re: altruism, and as if in reaction to Howard's pessimism, his counselor disappears. In his place appears yet another of Howard's adversaries, the Kidney Lady, who by no mean coincidence the duck will encounter in the real world of "Quack-Up." 

He also encounters LeBeaver, the goofball super-villain whom Howard refused to fight to defend Beverly. This time Howard tries to battle the evildoer, to perpetuate a "masculine stereotype"-- and as a result he ends up in a hell of his own creation, mocked by his old foes and Surrealist Beverly.   

Does Gerber's screed against socialization stand in terms of making a good didactic argument, a "formal proposition?" No, since I think Gerber posed questions and didn't answer them. But as an "informal proposition," which conjures with the chaos of random correlations, this particular song was one of Steve Gerber's strongest.

 

MYTHCOMICS: "SPLAT-OUKA" (THE SHIUNJI FAMILY CHILDREN, 2023)

Anyone who partakes of Japanese manga, particularly in the allied genres of romance and comedy, soon notices that the manga-authors work a lot of clansgression into the mix. I use the term "clansgression" here because it includes not only romantic combinations including literal incest, but all combinations that seem like "transgressions against proper clan-relationships." THE SHIUNJI FAMILY CHILDREN is a recent production of this kind, authored by Reiji Miyajima, who gained fame for the roller-coaster rom-com RENT-A-GIRLFRIEND.

The setup: seven teens, the two sons and five daughters of the titular Shiunji Family, have spent their lives together on their rich father's estate, his wife having passed away some time ago. In contrast to dramas in which full-blooded siblings fall in love with one another, such as ANGEL SANCTUARY, all of the siblings seem generally well-adjusted to one another. Youngest brother Shion doesn't interact with the sisters that much, since they seem to focus all of their teasing upon the oldest brother, Arata. From eldest to youngest, Banri, Seiha, Ouka, and Minami all give their handsome older brother-- who at age sixteen has never had a romantic relationship-- a hard time, accusing him, without justification, of looking at them lustfully. The one exception is the youngest sister, fourteen-year-old Kotono, who's too shy to tease anyone. Yet she also provides a sort of crack in their facade of normalcy, for her naivete causes her to profess a desire to marry Arata.

None of the siblings take Kotono seriously. Yet this transgressive feeling proves catching, thanks to a revelation by the teens' father on Kotono's 14th birthday. The siblings' supposed sire reveals that none of them are related to him or his late wife; all were adopted as infants or small children. Shion and Minami alone are siblings by blood, both adopted from the same source, and thus none of the sisters are related to Arata at all. After coping with their surprise, all of the adoptive Shiunjis, particularly Arata, strive to keep regarding one another as symbolic siblings. And yet, from the second episode on, all the females reflect on the fact that legally, any of them could legally marry Arata.

While the series is still too new to be sure if Miyajima has any deeper psychological myths he intends to plumb, there are some interesting indications. Older sisters Banri and Seiha seem content to tease Arata a bit more intensely, while the younger ones are more upset by the changed status quo. In the story "Twister Seiha," Seiha, a science-nerd type, talks Arata into participating in a game of Twister, while she lectures him on the human body's chemical makeup with respect to emotions of love and passion. Of particular interest is her emphasis upon "trust and other scientifically uncertain feelings." The sisters' trust in Arata in his capacity of "protective older brother" seems to be the gateway drug to considering him as a prospective mate.

"Splat-Ouka," the story immediately after "Twister Seiha," follows a similar pattern in using a game to expose possible true feelings. Middle sister Ouka, who at sixteen is the same age as Arata, has always deemed herself Arata's twin in a symbolic sense. She is also probably the most forceful of the sisters, for before agreeing to play, Arata reflects that in the past he would always win their competitions, and she would seek revenge by putting him in "a lock-hold." Being a well-bred Japanese boy, Arata would never fight back. Nevertheless, he agrees to play against her in the Nintendo video-game Splatoon, from which the story's title is derived.

This time, Ouka has upped her game, and she scores some victories in which her female icon bests his male icon. However, Arata finally decides to play to his utmost, and he begins winning. At this point Ouka reverts to her usual form, attacking him from behind with a headlock. He protests that she's hurting him, just as he did when he was younger, but Ouka won't back off. And then--

Arata finally exerts himself in this respect as well, throwing his smaller, lighter sister off and pinning her to the floor. He's subsequently aware that pinning down any female-- particularly one to whom he's not really related-- looks like he intends to have sex with her. He tries to normalize their encounter as just another "small fight" between siblings.

Ouka, however, expresses a very ambivalent sentiment, for she says that he's "a man now." Neither of them breaks down this sentiment, but it holds two likely implications. One is that Ouka pronounces Arata a mature male because he throws off the conditioning of politeness and uses his greater male strength to quit taking her abuse. The other is the context that a "man" is capable of initiating sex when given the go-ahead by the willing female. Ouka sexualizes his physical conquest of her in order to point out that the two of them could indeed have sex as could any unrelated male and female-- even though, as most readers will expect, nothing actually happens.

Ouka then disengages and goes her way, leaving Arata utterly perplexed. For the reader's benefit alone, she then utters a line that could be taken in a sexual manner or a neutral one: "Next time don't go easy on me." Given what the reader knows of Ouka, it seems unlikely that she wanted her ex-brother to ravish her, even using the definition of that word I specified in this essay. But what this fictional character may have "wanted," in line with her creator's intentions, was to test the waters of both Arata's feelings and her own. One may speculate that if he had lost control and ravished her, she might have accepted it without protest, because her assault on him held the strong possibility of provoking such a response. But since other stories emphasize that she fears the loss of her imagined sibling bond with Arata, it's possible that Ouka is playing mind-games with herself as much as with Arata, trying to figure out if she can replace one bond with another.