My Novel (Inspired by Girl's Last Tour)

Hi, everyone!

I wrote the first chapter of a novel. How did this happen? Well, looking back, the conception of my novel idea (double entendre intended) was not what you'd expect. It came to me completely by accident. I was having a conversation with my brother when I commented that all the great animes, visual novels and mangas seem to be centered around a rather eccentric idea that, while maybe a little odd at first, is precisely what makes the narrative interesting. For example, Katawa Shoujo. If it weren't for the disability part in "Disability Girls", it would more likely be just a boring, mediocre dating sim like any of the hundreds and hundreds of lesser-known datings sims in existence. It's because it has such an original idea that it's so compelling, it's because it's so different that its creators were able to make a game and a story that stands out for its quality and uniqueness.

This thought followed me like a stalker. Even days after our conversation had ended, I kept thinking about it over and over again. Then I saw a drawing of a pubescent-looking anime girl dressed as a WW1 soldier and, suddenly, an idea came to me: what if WW1 had been so brutal that basically the entire generation of young adults had died and teens were sent to the trenches in their place? I know, my brain is not quite normal, but wouldn't that make for an interesting narrative? I immediately began to unfold this idea into its plot possibilities and I concluded that, yes, a story could be written based on this premise, so I started it.

But it wasn't until I watched Girl's Last Tour that I realized that, not only a story could be written based on that premise, it could be made into something coherent with a defined conclusion. The aesthetic aspects of Girl's Last Tour were exactly what I was looking for in my story idea.

So I submit to your criticism the first chapter of my novel. Regardless of the response (if at all), I plan to work on it until the end because writing is just so much fun and I'm full of ideas.

Chapter 1

I have decided to write down my story so that others will know why I chose this path.

It all started back in 1919. The war had been going on for around 11 years - or was it more? I don't know, I don't remember. Few people do. It was a melancholic evening on the front line, the sun shone weakly behind thick clouds and an unusually long trail of smoke from something burning nearby. I was in the trenches and had my orders. I tried to inhale a bit of fresh air through my gas mask and then calmly said to myself:

 - I can do it.

I jumped out of the trench, threw my mask into it and ran to a nearby hill. There I waited for 4 hours until my target was finally in sight. I aimed my rifle, held my breath, and just as I was about to shoot, a sudden noise could be heard coming from somewhere above.

 - What the hell? - I thought to myself.

Then an explosion blew me some 2 meters away from where I was. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I wasn't where I had been before, but in a dream - or delirium,  hallucination or whatever. I was standing in the middle of nowhere, a faint light emanating in front of me at a distance of about 20 meters. Somehow I knew the light wasn't actually there, but I could see it nonetheless. However, the vision of the light was not like what I would call the product of normal eyesight. I felt like I was both seeing and not seeing the light, like there was something that I should be seeing in the light that wasn't there. It was as if I were seeing the light with only one eye, while both of my eyes remained open - that's the best way to put it. Then a voice inside my head said to me:

 - There's nothing wrong with your eyes.

 - Who are you? - I instinctively asked.

The voice was amused by my question. It said:

 - Isn't it obvious? I'm you, or, rather, there is no longer a you because you're hearing me, talking to me and I'm hearing you and talking to you. The individual becomes dividual. Really, every single person on Earth is, at heart, a set of dissonant voices, the synthesis created by this dialectic seems strong, everlasting: it promises the centuries of centuries and delivers only death, but, in a way, it's the unified spirit that perseveres through the great works of man. Look.

And saying this, the voice presented me with a spectacle one could not conceive even in feverish dreams. Flying with the winds high above a meadow, a small cloud supported my feet, upon which I could see below me the complete condensation of war, from the first fistfights to the unrelenting tenacity of the machine gun, it all flashed in front of me with a speed that would make a Futurist overjoyed, to use a modern equiparation, and Mercury ashamed, for a more classical one. Armaments, armor, assassinations, formations, order and disorder, the wicked killers, the pitiful killed, in the brief moment of awareness itself they had evolved centuries, all with the dual purpose of ending another's life and preserving one's own. Like the continuous transformation of the stem into trunk, and of the trunk into leaf, the outdated became updated, and a club was naturally transmuted into a spear, and the spear into a rifle, and the rifle into the latest automatic firearms. New ways of killing were devised, places that were previously still and peaceful became grounds of hate and war, and the never-ending spill of blood seemed like a twisted offering to a perverted god. Finally, as the vision neared its end, I could see the current war, the war to end all wars, the mother of all wars, The Great War, as we came to call it. I could see with bliding clarity the disaster that befell us, and one that would continue to aflict us if nothing was done to stop it. Surely, the god of war, if there is one (and there must be one, otherwise there would be no purpose to this carnage), must be an intensely voracious deity, for it has consumed nearly the entire generation of our parents and about a third of our grandparents' in this hellish hecatomb. Ever since, we, the remaining teenagers and kids, together with the very few of our elders who are still fit to work, have taken up the duty of administering our state, our economy, our society, and of maintaining the war effort. Why do we fight? No one knows. Our parents started this war for reasons that only they knew, they took them with them to the grave and we, in turn, have found it's rather difficult to finish what they started, be it diplomatically or militarily. We fight for honor, I suppose, and because we want to be hailed amongst the victors. But the deaths, the millions of casualties, the destruction of entire cities, material and cultural losses, the incessant suffering...

- Is this truly the legacy that your parents whished upon you? - the voice asked - Every generation is like a layer of bricks built on top of another one, and the more there are layers, the closer one gets to the finalized structure, which is perfection for a culture, the consummation of an ideal human type. Yours is the first generation that, instead of adding a new layer to this already existing brickwork, took one down, and if things keep going this way more and more layers will be torn down until there's nothing left standing. Do you know what culture means, etimologically? It means to cultivate, to venerate, to take care of, building up on what already is. Is this really a culture? Can this... this state of affairs really be called a culture? or should it rather be considered an anticulture? What is it that you're cultivating and looking after, other than destruction itself and the means to bring it about? Does it seem logical to you to, say, reap the fruits of a tree by destroying it? Answer! Don't stay there all wrapped in yourself, this is nothing! This is but a fraction of what I can show you. Answer!

While the voice posed its questions, I could still see the flashes of war below, and at some point the increasing intensity and promptness of the events got to such a degree that I couldn't help but feel sick watching it. I felt an urge to vomit and curled in on myself slightly. Using my rifle for balance, I regained my composure and said:

- What about our honor, not necessarily as individuals but above all as a nation? Our fathers wouldn't want us to embrace defeat... No! We must hold on at least until conditions for a dignified peace exist, only then we can go back home.

- Is that really what you think? - the voice laughed - Then why don't you ask him yourself?

As it said this, I could see my father standing at a distance. Looking more closely, I noticed that he didn't wore his military attire or the grey overalls that became standard with the collapse of civilian industry, but the typical garb of a Rhineland winemaker, as if he were someone from before the war. I was shocked, but that didn't stop me from approaching him.

- Dad!

I waived at him and he waved back at me. My father and mother had been dead for 2 years, and my sister is missing in action. The feeling of finally being reunited was joyous, but I knew I couldn't let myself get carried away by the moment. It was a dream, nothing more, nothing less. I held him in my arms, giving in to his embrace, then he laid his hand on top of my head, caressing my long locks with his fingertips.

- You understand, don't you? - he asked - You must stop the war. It doesn't matter that you're just a single person, a sergeant, a subordinate... You have no choice. Can't you see? It's all just pointless! You understand, don't you? Deep down, I know that you do... Quick, we don't have much time, promise me you'll do your best to stop the war. Yes? Promise!

- But how could I possibly...

- It doesn't matter how, only that you will it. You must make a decision, you must promise me that you'll surrender yourself, body and soul, to the cause of peace, to the cause of justice, to our future. Will you do it?

- Yes... - I concurred.

The voice followed our dialogue quietly. As soon as I had assented, it remarked:

- Such a beautiful scene. It reminds me of words from long ago... What were they? Ah... "war is father of all, and king of all. He renders some gods, others men; he makes some slaves, others free"... Thus spoke Heraclitus a long, long time ago... but these are words eternal. War, polemos, is the basis of reality, a first principle. Don't you believe me? Then see.

With this, the winds became so turbulent and agitated, the motion of the clouds so swift, that it seemed like the skyes themselves were beginning to rupture and tear apart, rendering visible the inner workings of the heavens. I saw an incompreehensible series of machines nailed to the firmament like Christ to the cross, with pipes and pumps that drew in and spat strange fluids; in fact, upon close inspection, I realized that the machines were the very body and blood of the saviour, that they were God Himself turned into matter. Then they became various gods fighting for prominence and primacy - primus inter pares. For some reason this notion got an awkward laugh out of me, then the gods became matter once again, first the complete series of the periodic table, then the four elements, then the atomic and subatomic structures of water, and just as I was about to see the first element - the first element of all! - it all became so fast and hazy that I could no longer distinguish the image of what I was seeing from the medium through which it appeared. At some point it seemed like it all ended in an explosion and, effectively, I had just heard an explosion, it was a shell that had fallen somewhere close to the field hospital where I was, and then I found myself lying with bandages applied all over my body, the pain from the wounds so sharp I couldn't help but feel compelled to scream, and I screamed, I screamed...

...I screamed so much it attracted the attention of one of the doctors. It was an old man, too old to dodge bullets in the front lines but not old enough to be utterly useless to the war effort. His apron was covered in blood, but still cleaner than one would expect, given the circumstances. He was short, bulky and bald, his nose was somewhat elongated and his gaze, penetrating, his hands were rather large and chunky, and due to a certain mannerism with which he propelled them, I figured he might have been a piano player in the olden days. There was something noble about him, but this nobleness didn't seem to run too deeply, at least not at first glance. He approached me slowly and said:

- It'll feel better in a moment.

Indeed, after a minute or so, the pain had subsided enough. The effects of the delirium, though, still perturbed me. I didn't know what to make of it. Clearly, none of it was real, but this doesn't mean it was entirely devoid of meaning, either. I felt terrible. My will was to give it all up and resign myself to the whims of fate, as I had no strength left. This, however, did not appear to me as a caprice of the occasion but rather as a profound determination, which felt kind of contradictory. Nevertheless, the idea imposed itself on me with such an immediate urgency that I felt it was necessary to communicate it to someone else, so I told the doctor:

- I can't stand it anymore. I just can't. It's all so senseless, like a joke in bad taste... What have I got to lose? Nothing. Yet I have nothing to gain, either... I'm deserting, doctor. I don't care if I'm arrested, I don't care if I'm shot. I'm not doing this for myself. If I'm sent back to the front, I'll desert and I'm telling everyone about it because someone has to confront this madness! How can we live day after day having to withstand unspeakable burdens, always silently, always unquestioningly, without any hope of an end to our misfortune, without any hope for better days? Is the universe so evil that it would allow such a thing to happen without contracting a single one of its fibers in opposition and revolt? You know, these days I have increasingly allowed myself to be convinced by the belief that, yes, the universe is vile like that, and that maybe it would have been better not to have been born, after all.

The doctor stared quietly at the distance for a moment and said:

- Madness, you say? No, there is no madness. And there's a point to all we have endured just as well. You see that young man standing near that bench over there? He's my adjutant, and he lost his entire family to the war. I know that many people had to face similar losses, but, to him, that's the reason we're fighting. He couldn't possibly accept that these deaths were in vain. He'd probably go mad. This goes to show that this is a perfectly natural, normal and healthy response to the traumas we're all having to deal with, and it's one of the reasons why the war is still raging after so many years... It has become a kind of new normal, it's business as usual. Does this mean the universe is wicked, perverse? I don't think so. On the contrary, it's a testament to the endurance of life, its ability to evolve, to overcome impediments through struggle, to triumph. No, the creation is good, we're proof of it. The problem is that we're a blind species.

Hearing these words, I felt nauseated. Here was an old man who was spared the horrors of the fighting and whose job was, at best, applying injections and, at worst, hacking off limbs. He was in no place to dictate what is good and bad and his musing struck me as pretentious.

- How can you say this? - I asked - What have you seen of the war other than a little bit of blood and some disemboweled entrails? Do you know how it feels when a grenade explodes 5 meters away from you? Do you know what it is like to be constantly woken up by bombs and weapons fire in the middle of the night? Have you actually seen your dying comrades lying in a damp trench, whispering their last words in your ear as their blood slowly cools down? What do you know about war? The worst you've seen are sawed-off limbs and dead strangers! That is nothing!

- You're right, I 've been spared the worst - he replied -, but that doesn't mean I haven't had to deal with my fair share of privations, too. Long ago, I had a rich social life. I used to be invited to all the big dinners and all the big banquets and parties of the bourgeoisie and aristocracy. I was an esteemed presence in all sorts of cultural events. I attented the opera houses and theaters nearly every weekend. Once I even had the honor of playing with Herr Strauss himself... What a genius! Now, all I do is saw off limbs and watch strangers die, like you said. Yet, that doesn't make me curse God or existence itself, whishing not to have been born. On the contrary, I'm even more thankful now for having had the opportunity to experience all of this than I was ever before. Do you know why? Because only now I can truly see how lucky I have been. Yes, I'm a very lucky man, even though circumstances could hardly get any worse for me...

I thought for a moment. There was logic in what he was saying.

- I'm sorry, I can see you're a sensible person. You didn't deserve the harsh words I threw at you.

- It's alright - he said. You have your reasons to react like that, just like everybody else. Perhaps someday you'll see the truth. I have my own philosophy regarding the value of existence... It can't hurt to say a few words. You see, the world was created for the recreation of men. Now, this doesn't mean that some god up there assembled the cosmos merely for our satisfaction, no, only that the universe is continuously created and recreated for our own enjoyment because it is we that create it. This might seem absurd at first, but you have to consider the position of the subject in all of this. Whoever knows something knows only that which can be known to them. This means that the entirety of what we can possibly know and do know - our universe - does not correspond exactly to the universe as it really is, as it is in itself. Such is why we live in a world that is, so to speak, a creation of our own, because we are beings of limits, and thus we can only know limitedly. And if the world is our own creation, then that means not only that we play a part in its creation process, but even that we can control this process, at least to some extent. Every morning, just as we wake up, the universe is created, and it is destroyed when we go to sleep only to be recreated again the next day. If the universe were evil, why would we do this every morning and every night? What type of force could possibly compel us to do this, as if trapping us just where we cannot be trapped? If we wake up from what would otherwise be an eternal sleep, it can only be because our bodies, our minds, our souls - we -, desire this world, this world of phenomena, this world of appearances so excellently desirable even when it seems hideous and repulsive to us. You see, it's hypocrisy to say that the world is not good, it's the supreme hypocrisy. Why would we - and you have to remember that we aren't just little ghosts inhabiting a body: we're mind, soul (in the sense of anima, movement, without which our bodies would be just inert matter), matter itself understood separately, inherited determinations, a small fraction of the universal, all-encompassing will etc. - why would we bother to go to such lengths if it weren't because the universe is good and cherished? Why would we know, why would we seek phenomena, why would we be phenomena, why would we be if it weren't for that reason? Even when we despise it, we still love to despise it, for we still live to despise it, which is tantamount to loving it because it's still to live in it. You see what I mean? It is futile to try to escape this conclusion, that is, that the world is a manifestly good thing.

- I'll try to remember that once I've abandoned my post and am at least 50 kilometers from any type of weapon or military equipment. Maybe it'll help me relax - I said jokingly.

At first I heard only a snap. Then the pain slowly crept in. I had been slapped in the face by the old man's adjutant, who was staring at me with a uniquely diabolical expression, one that hid, in fact, a certain saturnine trace. The doctor looked at the scene in shock and exclaimed:

- Are you insane? 

- Traitors like her should be shot on the spot! - he shouted - I lost my entire family to this war...

- Many of us have - and pointing to a nurse who was standing nearby -, take this man out of my ward, now!

He was quickly removed from the room, all the while still trying to maintain a semblance of dignity. When the immediate impact of what had happened passed, I felt immensely angry and almost got up to give back what I had received, but then I realized that, if I could have stood up to that, then I could take on anything. I could do anything, for I had the strength and inner resolve to do it.

- I can stop the war - I thought to myself.

Interlude

War is a strange thing. It has the ability to change us in unforeseeable ways. When I was discharged from hospital, I almost found myself wanting to return to the front lines. It's not like I actually missed the action, but I couldn't help feeling that something was wrong. I strolled around the half-ruined streets of Mannheim - where my father had an apartment - looking for something to occupy myself with, first visiting the few theaters and cafes still in operation, then, growing bored with the never-ending repetition of the same spectacles and the same items on the menus (because the war imposed an onerous austerity on the people, even the richest), I settled for the simple passivity of doing nothing at all, at least choosing pleasant places as the stage for my self-absorption, preferentially spots amidst a little bit of nature such as in parks and gardens, then eventually just plain, untimely, unabashed people watching. I spent a good deal of time seeking the trail of the most interesting characters in the wilderness of the colorless crowd, and when I say colorless crowd, I'm being quite literal: pigments are an expensive thing nowadays, with most clothing items generally coming in either various tones of gray, brown, black or white. As for the people themselves, most of the personalities you meet on the street are either orphans living on welfare, invalids, soldiers or old people, the latter being evidently the more affluent sector of society. At the balls, parties and theaters they rule supreme (most young people have no time for these frivolities of the past - products of an effeminate culture that we ought to forget, or so we're told), but, curiously, it's not the elderly that hold the largest share of political power in our society, and this is for a simple reason. Our country is a military dictatorship, it has been so ever since the uprising of 1918 was quelled and the military seized the power vaccum left by the overthrow of the aristocracy. One would figure it doesn't take a body in its prime to lead troops from a headquarters room, or to rise to the rank of general, but when you consider that the natural tendency for old people is to, well... die, and that there are more commanding posts than there are seasoned officers, the young and inexperienced naturally move in to fill the gaps.

The new regime established a complete ban on all political parties. Freedom of the press was also severely curtailed. I confess that for a time I played with the idea of joining one of such underground associations and militant groups, even going as far as to attend some of the meetings and discuss a few things with their leaders, but I quickly realized the cadre life wasn't for me. I could never return to the bottom of the pyramid, hierarchically speaking. Call it ego or whatever, it's just a fact. After risking my life in the military and bitterly rising through the ranks to become a sergeant, I could never accept going back to square one. What's more, I don't think I could work well under the constraints of any particular ideology. I do well in the army because, given the circumstances, it alligns (or at least did, for a time) practically and in a very straightfoward way with the succinct aim of fighting for a just cause, the fairest there is, in fact, without which there can be no other just causes, for without a country, without a people, without a state, there can be no real good, no real cause worth fighting for, which is something that brings me to another point, one that is the epitome of this thought, that is, that war is the supreme actualization of being, it is the supreme expression of being-in-the-world. What other type of militancy, what type of political or philanthropic activity could even begin to compare to this, which is the most potent way of making oneself recognized, of making oneself seen and heard, not just by other people but - dare I say - by the universe itself? Once you go to war, there's no going back, you can't just return to the way things were. War changes you completely. Back then, I couldn't muster the clarity of conscience to acknowledge and say this, but once I stopped to reflect on my fate, it all became so much clearer...

When I grew bored of the city itself (because eventually all things get boring, even entire cities), I decided I'd visit my childhood home near the banks of the Rhine. It was an old, half-ruined château of a more or less timid design, but one that proved to be quite spacious for a small family. It wasn't always a half-ruin, like it would appear to be if the reader cared to visit it today; once it was a living space bustling with the activities of family communion and a deep, thorough appreciation for life. My father had bought it and conceived it as a practical and spiritual retreat from the "malefic influences" of modern urban life, and it was his wish that my sister and I would spend our entire childhood there, not isolated from the rest of the world but observing a critical distance that would allow us to "rise above the mediocre conceptions of the busy city dweller" and see reality for what it truly is. Perhaps a somewhat pretentious intent, but one that succeeded in instilling in me a taste for philosophy and contemplation nonetheless. Before he took on winemaking, he used to be a professor of classical philology at the university of Jena, but his passion was for all of the humanities. He was a remarkable character. My mother, on the other hand, was a church singer who cared about little beyond music and my father. In a part of the house still half-covered by a piece of the roof, there was a portrait of the two that dated from around the time they first had met. It was one of the few things that remained, like an anchor holding a shipwreck forever in its final port. I thought there was something beautiful about it, about how it persisted in spite of the elements and the unyielding effects of time, so I had left it there.

I rented a hotel nearby with plans to maybe stay a week reliving the past, watching the ships on the Rhine, remembering old anecdotes and overall appreciating what had been. Thrice I returned to the house and pondered over what little was left: the old fireplace, a couple of doorways, some windows, bricks, a bit of the wooden floor... Contemplating the ruins, my thoughts naturally turned to meditating on the destruction brought about by the war, war itself, death, life and, ultimately, the value of life. It was then that I remembered the doctor's words and noticed they sounded very similar to something my father once told me. He too was an optimist greatly in love with life. He sat down near me and, holding a coffee mug in his hand, looked me in the eyes and said:

 - "Life is a good thing, Martha - he rested his eyelids for a moment. For centuries philosophers and clerics defamed it, saying it's not worth it, it would have been better not to have been born and that true life is what awaits us after death, the only one worth living. To prove this they pointed to the hardships of life, wishing to demonstrate that living is an endless sea of suffering and expiation. Of course, I don't mean to deny that life is full of difficulties, that it offers the individual very intense pain, and even that this pain can persist for long periods of time. However, life's pains, while they were presented in past philosophy as starting points for reasonings that concluded with contempt for life, were, in fact, so to speak, not the premise but the conclusion of a line of reasoning which the philosophers of old were not even aware of, that is, they mistook premise for conclusion. That's because pain can never be a first principle; it's always a conclusion, and if it's always a conclusion, it can always be investigated, it can always be questioned. And did it constitute a solid reasoning to conclude that life should be depreciated? Patently not. Many presuppositions were ignored, many facts were left aside. For example, the very fact that the body is always striving to live, even when perhaps this wouldn't be desirable, was understood by them to be proof that existence is evil, and in this they were supported by a petty and erroneous conception, which is the separation of body and soul. Now, if body and soul are truly distinct, then, yes, it is regrettable that our body would force that part of us which contains the core of our existence, the essence of our being, our soul - us, in what we are eternally and perennially -, to do things that we don't want to do, however that is not the case and the distinction between body and soul is nothing more than a convenient myth. The value of life, therefore, is a much broader concept that does not allow for quick and superficial judgments".

And after a brief pause for consideration and absorption:

- "One possible argument that could be raised against this optimism as it pertains to the value of existence is to say that celebrating life means fleeing from its difficulties - which are many -, cowardly hiding from them, that it's an attempt to ignore them. This may be true. Nonetheless, even if it were, one must recognize that life consists not only of yeses but also of nos, and that, paradoxically, saying no is the most supreme way of saying yes with regard to the value of life. Nietzsche says somewhere that it's desirable to say yes to things and that he wishes "looking away" was his only negation. Yet, wouldn't the yeses dissolve into nothingness without the nos? At the very least, to say yes to something is to say no to its diametric opposite. Omnis determinatio est negatio. That "looking away" is someone's only denial is, I suppose, good for them, but even that can be said to be a way of escaping and hiding from life's many nos. The best thing to do is to simply say "no" honestly and clearly"...

But it would be wrong to live in the past, so, instead of spending a whole week reminiscing about times long gone, as I had planned, I chose the course of action that took me straight to the future. I returned to the front lines, now wholly convalesced, both mentally and physically.