Monogatari Series - Volume 8 - Chapter 1.01

Chapter Snug- Tsubasa Tiger

001

Though the tale of Tsubasa Hanekawa is my tale, it is not one that I can tell. That’s because I can’t even define the extent to which I am me. I believe there was once a great author who said he found it hard to believe that he was himself down to the tips of his outstretched toes, but I don’t even need to extend my legs. It’s uncertain whether my very heart is my own.

Am I me?

What am I?

Who am I?

Who─is me.

What─is me.

For example, could we really say that I am these thoughts that so closely consider this pointlessness? Maybe we could say that, if we’re only going to say it. These are only feelings, thoughts, and maybe even memories, but we might say that they’re nothing more than accumulated knowledge. If we’re saying that I am my experiences, does that mean we can also say a human with the exact same experiences as me would actually be me?

That there could be a me other than me that was still me?

In that case, if I were being unlike myself, would I no longer be me? What to think about that, how to feel?

To begin with, the name Tsubasa Hanekawa is already unstable.

My family name has changed a number of times.

So I can’t look for my identity in my name, not even a bit. I understand on quite a deep-rooted level the idea that names are nothing more than signifiers. We could even say I understand it on a bodily level.

In facing an aberration, nothing is more important than knowing its name─or at least, that’s supposed to be the first step in the process. So maybe the fact that I never recognized my name as my own was a major reason I haven’t been facing myself.

In that case, I need to begin by knowing my name.

I need to know Tsubasa Hanekawa as myself.

Then maybe I can define myself for the first time.

Of course, when I think about how Araragi most likely doesn’t worry himself into a standstill with these kinds of ideas, my self-imposed stalemate seems silly and absurd. He can become a vampire, lose his humanity, and be dragged into the other world by a host of different aberrations, but he always continues to be Koyomi Araragi, with his unshakable self, his unshakable ego, and I feel embarrassed when I think about that.

Maybe he doesn’t realize it.

It’s clear to anyone around him, as clear as day that he always continues to be himself no matter the place or time, but just maybe he doesn’t realize it.

He doesn’t have to realize it.

Koyomi Araragi can be Koyomi Araragi in confidence.

That’s probably why he can always tell his own tale.

That’s why I love him.

Tsubasa Hanekawa loves Koyomi Araragi.

In the end, any me I can speak about would have to begin there. Amusingly enough, that is the only certain thing in me. Like when I’m studying alone at a library desk and suddenly decide to write the name “Koyomi Araragi” in the corner of my notes and can’t help but smile.

That is all my tale needs to be.

Of all sixty stories about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, the famed detective created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, only two shorts exist that are narrated not by his assistant, Dr. Watson, but by Sherlock Holmes himself. These are controversial works among Sherlockians, even treated as apocryphal at times, but in one of them, “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier,” Mr. Holmes begins with these words:

“The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself rigidly to fact and figures. ‘Try it yourself, Holmes!’ he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader.”

Like most, I was fascinated by Sherlock Holmes’s near-superhuman abilities as I read about his exploits, which is why I was taken aback when he abruptly gave voice to these “true feelings.”

To be frank, I was disappointed.

Why would this man who had made one extraordinary display after another now choose to say such a human thing? I felt betrayed.

But now I understand. I understand his humanity, which could no longer bear the gap between him as the “superman” spoken of by Dr. Watson, and him as himself.

His feelings of wanting to make an excuse for himself.

Ultimately, those two stories are positioned as the outcome of a renowned detective’s assistant talking back to him: “Then why don’t you write it yourself!” Let me say here from the start that this tale is the same for me.

A tale to let you know that contrary to Araragi’s portrayals of me as some kind of historical saint or holy mother, I am but a human being.

To let you know that I am a cat, and that I am a tiger.

And that I am a person. A tale of betrayal made to let everyone down.

I don’t think I’ll be able to tell it well, the way Araragi can, but I’d like to play it by ear and try my best. I imagine that’s the way anyone would talk about his or her own life.

Now.

The time has come to wake from this nightmare.