Beautiful Analysis - Blog Posts

beast dazai is considered a tragic character for all the obvious reasons: carried the weight of the memories of his other selves and using that knowledge to save oda from his fate even if it meant dying/killing himself in the end. This sympathetic narrative allows you to ignore the utter selfishness and immaturity of beast dazai and how he runs away from grief and pain, and I mean this in the best way possible.

The real tragedy of beast is that unlike all the other dazais, beast dazai never got the chance to meet and know oda, thence allowing him a new perspective to grow. In The day I picked up Dazai , dazai shows personal growth by the end of the novel, hence why he respects oda a lot. He is treated as a human being who still doesn't know much, and that brings comfort to someone deemed a demon prodigy. In side b of the same novel, beast dazai makes an effort to not know or bond with oda; yes this is because he wanted to ensure his survival by steering him away from the port mafia, but that event is what fundamentally changed dazai- gave him a better understanding of his own humanity.

Despite having all that knowledge of his other selves, of how each universe's timeline will play out, beast dazai didn't seem to grasp that it is grief that allowed the other dazai to grow and be a better person. He didn't understand that in the end, it is the time he (the other dazai) spent with oda that made living worthwhile, not his life. His state of living, the state of perfection in beast dazai's eyes, will still cause him more suffering than the act of losing a good friend.

Because if he had only wanted him to live, then he wouldn't have been so shocked when oda refused to indulge in a friendly conversation, not when he clearly went out of his way to antagonize himself in oda's eyes in tdipud. It's because the realization hit him: he wanted his time with oda to not be cut short.

Having memories of another oda is clearly not enough, he needed his own intimate friendship with his own oda. But with this elaborate plan and his reaction to being rejected, it's clear that beast dazai was trying to avoid pain. He could not accept the grief and pain of loss that he's seen and felt in his other selves, ignoring what came after: growth and satisfaction of ever having oda in their lives at all.

Pain is inherently human and by ignoring and rejecting it, beast dazai rejects his own humanity. Or runs away from it, because it catches up to him regardless. He still ignores it throughout the rest of the story, especially in other characters.

Beast dazai, as we all know, eventually takes his own life. While there is a reason as to why he did it, but it was still part of his plan from the beginning. Meaning, he knew this near fruitless pursuit would still have him unable to handle grief. It's an inherently selfish goal with an inherently selfish way out under the guise of "leaving the rest in atsushi and akutagawa's hands"

(Note: I do not mean in any way that suicide is selfish, but rather the narrative and character of dazai in beast alludes to this. Both concepts can co-exist in a fictional setting)

Despite seemingly helping other characters, beast dazai also trampled on both akutagawa and atsushi's self worth. This made them easier to manipulate for his grand plan, but ignores the damage he's done to them and other characters after his death.

For akutagawa it is the loss of his sister and convincing him of his monstrosity due to Dazai's meddling. For atsushi, someone he conditioned into severe fear and dependency on him, was left alone watching the person he cared so much for fall from the building. And yes, he left him in mori's care afterwards, but dazai should know more than anyone the damage the death of a loved one has, unless it doesn't apply to him.

In the epilogue, mori openly mourns dazai's death along with atsushi. Due to being free of his rigid responsibility as the pm boss, he had the liberty of finally being the caretaker he's always wanted to be but at the cost of the person he considered his son (in comparing dazai to atsushi, who he then calls his son + all the other stances where mori treated dazai like a son etc)

The thing that beast dazai, or dazai in general, tends to not fully understand or accept, is that he is also loved, and his death will cause others pain as well. I am by no means saying he should've thought of others before dying, but it is the lives of others that dazai from the main manga also cherishes after oda's death. Beast dazai made it his entire life goal to essentially protect oda, realize its not the only thing he's wanted from him and gave his raison d'etre a flimsy excuse of meaning in life. It's inherently selfish.

Selfishness is a common theme in bsd, and beast dazai fits right in. Atsushi's selfish desire to save people to give himself a justification to be alive, Sigma's inherently selfish nature of self preservation and identity and so on.

I've probably ranted for much longer than anticipated, but the point is: beast dazai's purpose is a selfish desire to escape pain and loss when it's crucial to the human experience. Dazai in the main manga seems to grasp this much better than beast dazai, it's something the latter is "missing", refusing to grow out of his selfishness and it makes his character more of a cautionary tale.

team voltron and aspects of alienation

I've seen aspects of "not-belonging" in analyses of Lance and Keith's characters and I'd like to shed light on how it's a sentiment that's very well nestled in every member of Voltron.

Starting off with the alienation (ha, get it) that is most flesh out in canon, we have Keith. From the very beginning the show, Voltron is divided into three factions: the Alteans, the Garrison trio, and Keith and Shiro. Keith has trouble mingling with the trio due to Lance's harsh front towards him, and has slight trouble mingling with the alteans due to cultural divisions and difference in views. Then he finds out he's half-Galran and Shiro is removed from the equation, which removes him further from the team. He gains a sense of disconnect from the team due to his heritage, his lack of bonds, and his belief that he's a failure of a leader.

Lance's disassociation from the team is more subtle. It comes from his views of inferiority and the idea that he doesn't contribute to Voltron. Unlike Keith, his sense of alienation comes more from what he does rather than who he is. He doesn't believe himself to be skilled enough, and when he throws himself into gaining skill, he finds that he's not achieving enough. He finds himself becoming more and more irrelevant as time passes, as if he is blending into the background.

The divide between Allura and the team is a storyline that we were robbed of. It's so plainly laid out for the writers to pursue- the cultural differences between Alteans and humans, the unity the humans feel towards each other that they extend to her in friendship to no avail, as she doesn't understand it. The other paladins will not know the part of the war that she knows. They will not know the loss she knows.

Perhaps she finds comfort in Coran. But even the split between her and Coran may grow as she becomes a paladin and he remains support for Voltron. They're still close and they still care for each other, but the way you fight in a war, the things you see, they can define and shape you. War looks different from different angles. Coran has never been in a pilots seat. Hes never been in the mind meld. And he doesn't need to do these things to have a bond with the people he cares about, but he still may feel the distance in his mind.

Hunk's sense of isolation from the team was also something we were robbed of, but were were also robbed of everything when it comes to Hunk. There is a huge difference in drive and fight when it comes to Hunk versus the rest of the paladins. He is unable to throw himself so deeply into the fight it just- it scares him! And I'm sure it scares everyone else too, but can Hunk see that? He sees the way everyone else stands tall and fights and goes into battle and training every single day, and he doesn't feel made for that. He doesn't want to do that. And it makes him feel guilty for not having the "passion" everyone else does even though his heart is in his actions, but at the same time he constantly feels sick.

Shiro is someone who has been both physically and emotionally distanced from Voltron. His kidnappings have shaped and transformed him- but it's not only that he's changed, Voltron has changed while he's gone too. Shiro has left and come back to an entirely different team filled with people who have changed so much because that's what war does, it changes you. There are months of Pidge, Hunk, Lance, Allura, and Coran that he's missed and years of Keith that he's missed. And they'll welcome him with open arms, but it doesn't change the fact that he doesn't feel like he knows them as well as they know each other.

Lastly, there's Pidge. Pidge is a fundamental anchor of Voltron as she produces so much technology to aid the war effort. She throws herself into her work so much that it consumes her, and this ends up eating away at her connections a little bit. There's also the fact that the technological battle she's fighting to combat Galran interfaces and invention rates is a fight that the rest of the team aren't exactly a part of. They can support her, but ultimately it is only she that can do the work she does. This puts a lot of pressure on her and compels her to do even more. She spends so much time working that she misses so much with the others.

The point I'm trying to make is not that Voltron isn't close or that they aren't a family, but that they themselves might not feel close to the team they love. And it's not a sense of isolation felt by one or two members, but instead by all of them equally. I think that dreamworks could've really worked with this dynamic to show the fact that war can make people grow apart (opposite to how a lot of media shows war bringing people together; both are themes that can be explored). Dreamworks could've also taken this opportunity to let the characters grow as individuals and then come together as an even stronger team.

Nicely written 😊

My problem with Lily and James being seen as a super couple has nothing to do with Severus Snape but rather with the fact that when we look at the relationship between James and Lily through a feminist lens, it’s hard not to notice some pretty glaring issues that go beyond just whether or not they’re an “OTP” couple. Sure, on the surface it might seem like a story of two people finding love amid all the chaos, but scratch beneath the surface and you see a whole lot more about toxic masculinity, objectification, and the erasure of a woman’s agency. James is celebrated as this charming, rebellious “bad boy” with a roguish smile, while Lily gets stuck playing the role of the sacrificial, moral compass woman—someone who exists largely to balance out and even redeem the male narrative. And honestly, that’s a problem.

James is shown as this complex, active character who’s constantly surrounded by friends, enemies, and drama. His life is dynamic and full of choices—even if those choices sometimes involve manipulation and deceit. He’s the kind of guy who can easily slip out of confinement with his Invisibility Cloak, leaving Lily behind in a narrative that, over time, turns her into a background figure. This dynamic isn’t accidental; it’s reflective of how our culture often values male agency over female independence. Lily, on the other hand, is repeatedly reduced to her relationships with the men around her. Instead of being a person with her own dreams, opinions, and friendships, she becomes a symbol—a kind of emotional barometer for how “good” or “bad” a man is. Her character is used to validate the actions of others, which means her individuality gets smothered under the weight of a trope that’s all too common in literature: the idea that a woman’s worth is measured by her ability to tame or save a troubled man.

This isn’t just about a lack of depth in Lily’s character; it’s also about how her portrayal reinforces harmful gender norms. Lily is depicted as this kind of sacrificial mother figure—a person whose primary virtue is her selflessness, her willingness to suffer and sacrifice for the sake of others. While selflessness is often celebrated in women, it’s a double-edged sword when that selflessness is the only thing we see. Instead of having her own narrative, her role is defined by how much she gives up, not by what she contributes or the inner life she leads. And it’s not just a narrative oversight—it’s a reflection of a broader cultural pattern where women are expected to be nurturing, supportive, and ultimately secondary to the male characters who drive the action.

What’s even more frustrating is how Lily’s isolation is used to further the narrative of James’s redemption. Over time, we see Lily’s network of friends and her connections outside of James gradually disappear. It’s almost as if, once she falls in love, her entire world is meant to shrink around that relationship. And here’s where the feminist critique really kicks in: this isn’t a realistic depiction of a balanced, healthy relationship—it’s a story that subtly suggests that a woman’s fulfillment comes from being dependent on one man and his circle, rather than cultivating her own identity. Meanwhile, James continues to be portrayed as this larger-than-life figure who’s got a whole world beyond his romantic entanglement, a world filled with vibrant interactions, rivalries, and a legacy that extends beyond his relationship with Lily.

Another point worth mentioning is the way in which the narrative seems to excuse James’s less-than-stellar behavior. His manipulation, his lying, and his willingness to trick Lily into situations that serve his own interests are brushed off as quirks of a “bad boy” persona—a kind of charm that, in the end, makes him redeemable because Lily’s love is supposed to “tame” him. This kind of storytelling not only normalizes toxic masculinity but also puts an unfair burden on Lily. It’s like saying, “Look how amazing you are, you’re the only one who can fix him!” That’s a dangerous message because it implies that women are responsible for managing or even reforming male behavior, rather than holding men accountable for their own actions.

The imbalance in their character development is glaringly obvious when you compare how much more we learn about James versus how little we know about Lily. James is given room to be flawed, to grow, and to be complicated. His friendships, his rivalries, and even his mistakes are all part of what makes him a rounded character. Lily, however, is often just a name, a face in the background who exists mainly to serve as a counterpoint to James’s narrative. Her inner life, her ambitions, and her struggles are rarely explored in any meaningful way, leaving her as a one-dimensional character whose only real purpose is to highlight the moral journey of the man she loves.

It’s also important to recognize how this kind of narrative plays into broader cultural ideas about gender. When literature consistently portrays women as the quiet, isolated figures who are only valuable in relation to the men around them, it sends a message about what is expected of real-life women. It suggests that a woman’s worth is determined by how much she sacrifices or how well she can support a man, rather than by her own achievements or personality. This isn’t just a harmless trope—it contributes to a societal mindset that limits women’s potential and reinforces gender inequality. The way Lily is written reflects a kind of “tamed” femininity that’s supposed to be passive, supportive, and ultimately secondary to the active, adventurous masculinity that James represents.

At the heart of the issue is the lack of balance in their relationship as depicted in the texts. The idea that Lily “fell for” a man who was clearly not a paragon of virtue is problematic, but what’s even more problematic is how her role in the relationship is so narrowly defined. Rather than being seen as an independent character who makes choices and has her own voice, she is constantly portrayed as someone whose existence is meant to validate the male experience. Even when the texts mention that Lily had her own issues—like hating James at times or suffering because of the way their relationship unfolded—it’s always in a way that underlines her weakness compared to James’s dynamic, active presence.

Looking at the broader picture, it’s clear that this isn’t just about one fictional couple—it’s a reflection of how gender dynamics have long been skewed in literature. Male characters are given the freedom to be complex, flawed, and full of life, while female characters are often stuck in roles that don’t allow them to be fully realized. This isn’t to say that every story with a sacrificial female character is inherently bad, but it does mean that when a character like Lily is reduced to a mere symbol—a moral compass or a measure of male worth—it’s time to ask why and what that says about the society that produced that narrative.

So, what’s the way forward? For one, we need to start reimagining these relationships in a way that allows both partners to be fully fleshed out. Lily deserves to be more than just a side character or a moral benchmark; she should have her own narrative, her own dreams, and her own agency. And as much as it might be appealing to think of James as this redeemable rebel, it’s equally important to hold him accountable for the ways in which his behavior perpetuates harmful stereotypes about masculinity. A healthier narrative would be one in which both characters grow together, where mutual respect and equal agency are at the core of their relationship.

In the end, the story of James and Lily, as it stands, is a reminder of how deeply ingrained gender norms can shape the stories we tell. It’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of allowing toxic masculinity to go unchecked and of confining women to roles that don’t do justice to their full humanity. For anyone who’s ever felt frustrated by these imbalances, there’s hope in the idea of re-writing these narratives—of pushing for stories where both men and women are seen as complete, complex individuals. And really, that’s what literature should strive for: a reflection of the messy, beautiful, and often complicated reality of human relationships, where no one is just there to serve as a prop in someone else’s story.

Ultimately, if we can start imagining a world where characters like Lily aren’t just defined by their relationships to men, where their voices and stories are given as much weight as those of their male counterparts, then we can begin to chip away at the outdated tropes that have held us back for so long. It’s about time we celebrated the full spectrum of human experience—and that means giving women like Lily the space to shine on their own terms, without being constantly overshadowed by a “bad boy” narrative that has little to say about their true selves.